The Urbane Homestead

Here I am

I know, I've been gone forever. The irony of it is, that I have an absolute ton of things to blog about. Let's just think of this little post as a toe in the water, with total immersion to come.

More about how busy I am, blah blah blah

I go through these periods where I get too busy to post anything. It's not that I don't have the time to write, or that nothing is happening worth writing about (because really, if I'm strictly honest, very little ever happens that's worth writing about). It's mostly that when I get really, really busy, I don't think about things that are interesting, or I don't think about them deeply enough to have anything to say.

I have a midterm this week, originally due tomorrow. Because work was very busy this week (we had our national two-day conference on Depression on College Campuses) and the professor indicated that he was open to extensions and rescheduling, I emailed a request to turn in my exam Sunday instead. "Extension granted," he replied. "You are a very busy lady this week." To which I thought, "Mah nishtanah ha leila ha this week," or, loosely translated, "And why should this week be different from any other?"

And yet, I'm not so busy that I don't enjoy things. I get to be home (such as it is; is a house without a dog really a home?) a lot and spend plenty of time with Joe and Henry. Spring is here and the yard is waiting. Knitting is getting done. I'm working on my shimsham step on the tapdancing board in the basement. It's just about right.

What I'm up to

A quick rundown of this week:
1. Operations Management class: two full days—dawn till dusk—of story problems. (Who could help but think of Gary Larson's Hell's Library, with nothing but books of story problems?) On the plus side I realised I only have about 6 more classes and then I'll be done with the MBA. I thought about turning it into a dual MBA/MIS but decided I'm a little tired of being graded.
2. Reading about Argentinian history and learning Spanish. I discovered a great two-birds-one-stone method: Wikipedia en Español. As you may know Henry sings in the choir at temple; two years ago the choir did an Eastern European tour that was a huge success (meaning that everyone had a great time), so this summer we're going to Argentina.
3. Practicing tap in the basement with Ginger.
4. "Cooking" with Joe.
5. Thinking about dogs.
6. Waiting for spring.
7. Oh, and working.

Ouch!

In the past few days I've broken two of my favorite pairs of glasses and sprained one ankle (mine). The glasses I broke by stepping on them. The ankle I sprained by, well, not stepping on it.

Henry was not home, and I had just put Joe to bed. When I'm home, I operate in two basic modes of activity: sitting on the sofa watching tv, drinking, and knitting; or running up and down our three flights of stairs (one day I counted 37 complete trips to all four floors before I gave up counting in disgust). You may already have divined that I was in the latter mode. After tucking Joe in on the second floor, I ran down to the first floor with some rabbit dishes for the dishwasher. Then I found some stuff in the kitchen that belonged in the basement. There I put another load in the washer and took the clothes from the dryer upstairs to fold. Then I ran up to the third floor to put some of the clean socks away (sorted by Joe, also known as the SockSorter 9000). Once up there, I remembered that I wanted to put a little brass hook in the side of the bathroom shelves to hang my hot water bottle from. That reminded me that I wanted to make myself a new hot water bottle cover, because the one it came with ten years ago has always been unsatisfyingly thin, both in substance and in charm. So I played with some of my yarn stash (from, appropriately, the "warm colors" bin) for a while. Then I thought it was about time to put the laundry in the dryer, so I ran downstairs, stopping on the second floor to hang up the green jacket I wore to work last Thursday. Once I got down to the basement, I forgot about the laundry, but remembered the little brass hook, and headed back up the stairs. Then I remembered the laundry so I turned back. Then I was flying through the air very quickly on a downward trajectory, with only just enough time to think "Uh-oh. This is really going to hurt," before I smacked into the ground in a crumpled heap.

It really did hurt, all over, but most of all in my right ankle, which was in pretty terrific pain. I wasn't sure if it was broken or not, but I was quite sure I couldn't walk on it. I was also pretty sure I was going to need help, and, since Walter is past his Lassie days, I called for Joe. After we spent a while in a "JOE!" "WHAT?" exchange, he finally came downstairs to see what I wanted. I knew he would be upset and worried, so I had tried to arrange myself in a less disorganized position, lying flat on the floor with my leg elevated on the stairs.

Joe was a bit scared, but when I explained that I was okay, but that my leg was hurt, he offered the (correct) opinion that it must just be sprained, because if it were broken I would be screaming. I said that it was important to put something cold, like ice, on it, and asked him to get me a bag of peas from the freezer. He returned a moment later with a cucumber. "How about this? It's nice and cool." I pointed out that there wouldn't be any way for me to hold the cucumber on my leg, and would he please get me the peas. He took the cucumber away and came back with half a bag of frozen artichoke tortellini.

After balancing the tortellini on my ankle, he sat down companionably on the step above my foot. After a few minutes, though, he huddled himself together and said he was cold. "Why don't you get your socks and your bathrobe?" I suggested. He said, for the first time ever in his entire life, "Well, actually, I'd rather just go back to bed," and added in a very reasonable tone, "I need my strength, you know."

I wondered if I should ask him to call Henry, who, on the one hand, was at a shiva which I wouldn't want to interrupt, but on the other hand, would want to be called home in case of emergency, and never having sprained or broken anything before (knock on wood), I truly had no idea how badly I was injured. On the third hand, I figured he would be home soon in any case. And at least it was clear that I had succeeded in not traumatizing Joe.

As Joe was heading up to his room, the front door opened, and I could hear Joe casually mention to Henry that he was on his way to bed and I was in the basement on the floor. A moment later Henry found me, and I finally got the attention and sympathy I felt I deserved: real ice, a bandage, help up the stairs, a pillow on the sofa. Time made it clear that the ankle was thankfully just sprained, as Joe had surmised, and not even that badly.

And as so often happens, it turns out that Mom was right. Soon after Joe was born, Mom stumbled on the side of a country road and twisted her leg. She insisted that it was just a sprain, and continued her walk for a quarter of a mile before having to admit that it was impossible to put any weight on her leg at all, which turned out to be broken. Okay, setting aside the fact that walking on a sprain is not really any smarter than walking on a broken bone, you have to admire her tenacity. But now I can see why—and Mom, I owe you an apology—it is really tedious! I am well and truly tired of the whole thing. From apple trees you don't get oranges. Camille I am not.

My plan is not to do this again.

Sum, ergo sum

I was reading an essay recently which described a figure in a painting as the artist's "altar ego." This prompted a whole series of emotions. First, I was sorry the editor hadn't done a better job of proofreading. It was an interesting essay, and the misspelling was jarring and obscured the essayist's point. Moreover, the essay was about the work of a very special childhood friend who is an extraordinary painter and musician, so I felt a little angry that the editor's shoddy work had detracted from the focus on my friend's work. And I felt a little relieved that I had noticed the typo in the first place, since I am a professional editor but a dreadfully lousy proofreader. Then it struck me—the heck with editing—an "altar ego" is exactly what I need to simplify my life.

She could be the me that has to do all the things I have to but don't want to.

She could go to work for me on the days when I have too many meetings and just want to stay home. She could go to parties for me where I know I'll feel out of place and awkward. She could go to the grocery store and the dry cleaners. She could clean up the cat barf and sort the laundry. Meanwhile, the other me, the nonsacrificial me, could do all the things I can't do because the things I have to do have sucked dry all my time and my stamina. That me could take up violin lessons again, paint the basement stairs a cheerful color, and start the vineyard I'm planning in the backyard. And, of course, she would write more often.

The fun never ends

I'm back. The last month has included: seven thousand deadlines, the high holidays, an office move, peak gardening season, another rabbit, and Joe's first visit from the tooth fairy (who should have gone to the bank for a stash of crisp one dollar bills at the first sign of a wiggly tooth, but instead waited until the tooth came out at 9:30 last night, and had to make do with a five dollar bill, which was so thrilling that the tooth fairy was awakened from a deep sleep at 3:00 a.m. for a high volume news update.) I've been careening from one thing to another like a billiard ball, but less smoothly. It's not just me; everyone in my office is operating on overdrive. I've decided on the perfect office move gift: I'm going to decorate brown paper lunch bags with the Depression Center logo, and pass them out (as it were) when people start to hyperventilate. But I feel much better now that I've had a chance to complain a little.

In other news, Joe is developing his sense of style. He dressed for bed last night in his pajamas that look like long underwear with a pirate motif; maps and ships and treasure chests and such. Over these, he donned a red t-shirt with a picture of a dragon, and sporty blue and green exercise shorts. He looked like a little bitty hockey player—and this morning, he had the missing tooth to complete the look. He's also planning to force his lovely curly hair to be straight by growing it long. Instead of growing down, like my bone-straight hair would, his hair in growing out, and then flopping over like a wilting wildflower. He looks like Einstein would, if Einstein were six years old and (in my, correct, opinion) adorable.

When to cry

My new job, while not itself of a medical nature, is currently situated within the University of Michigan Mott Children's Hospital. Most of my co-workers are centered up on the sixth floor, in a dedicated area, but I and a couple of others are on the third floor, in an odd little hallway that could very well be the inspiration for Being John Malkovitch. I have a nice set of windows in my office—that overlook part of the lobby. If I lean way, way over, I can almost see the feet of the giant plastic Big Bird down there.

The third floor, I discovered on my first day of work, is where Pediatric Surgery and the family waiting areas are located. There are tiny crib-shaped gurneys and little red wagons with pillows in them by the staff elevators, and great wide doors leading off into bright and stark hallways, and doctors and nurses in surgical garb hurrying back and forth. I don't have a lot of experience with hospitals or the medical world in general. I don't come from a family of health care providers; in fact, I come from several long lines of people who make a living by trying to talk other people in or out of things—lawyers, teachers, investment bankers. I don't consider myself squeamish, but I can't bear to think about people or animals suffering, and I hate gore, whether it's for entertainment or educational purposes. I confess I nearly fainted not once, but twice, watching childbirth films in Lamaze class.

Thus I was not prepared to be quite this close, on a daily basis, to children and families in pain. For the first two days, I wondered if I had made the right decision, coming here. I wondered if I might be able to find circuitous routes through the back halls of the hospital, so I could avoid catching sight of patients. I thought about trying to work at home.

But day by day, as I saw that the nurses and doctors who were hurrying about seemed to care about whatever task was at hand, and as I saw families talking earnestly with medical staff or clergy, and other families—with a tired-looking child in a little wheelchair—leaving the hospital, I figured out what everybody else already knows. These are the lucky ones. These children, however traumatic their experience here is, and however tragically sick they are, are in the very best place in the world they can be. If there is help for them, it is here. This is a place where hope is real.

Yesterday, as I was suited up in my tennis shoes and backpack, iPod in hand, heading out past the elevators for the trek home, I saw a woman sitting on a couch, alone. Next to her was a stack of little clothes—a tee shirt, jeans, socks, and superhero underwear—a special pillow, and a stuffed bear. She was crying, the way you cry when you are a good, strong person, but you are scared and exhausted and your heart just hurts. So I sat down next to her and gave her a hug and listened.

She told me all the things I know I would be thinking too in her place—how heartbreaking it was to see her seven-year-old being wheeled into surgery, how helpless she felt, how traumatized she feared he would be. I listened and my heart hurt, too, because I knew how inadequate I was, and that there must be a better way to listen than I know, and that if I only knew how I might be able to help her. But I didn't know those things, so I just listened, and heard how much she loved him, and I held her hand.

I do not know if prayer is useful, but I do know that it is something I can do.

Life is like a simile

I was in our local home and garden store (called, hmm, Downtown Home and Garden), and the clerk described a couple we both know as "happy as bees." Doesn't that make much more sense than "happy as a clam?" Clams just lie there, like rocks with blobby insides, but bees buzz around being busy and doing bee dances and making honey and pollinating flowers. They seem to find their little bee lives worthwhile. Plus, they're much cuter than clams, and their stinger gives them an appealing edginess. Clams do taste better (yes, I have eaten a bee, covered in chocolate. It tasted like a Rice Crispy.), but I can't see how that would contribute to one's happiness. I'm voting for beelike over clamlike.

A busy little bee, that's me

I wonder if you googled  "guilt" and "neglect" on Blog Search, how many entries you would pull up. A lot, I bet, because creating regular entries for a blog is a bit of a commitment, and not easy to keep up when the rest of your life gets complicated. I know whereof I speak. In the past week:

• I gave notice at work. It went very well; my current boss asked if he could make a counteroffer, and then said some very nice things about the work I've done. He sent a very complimentary email to the office about my departure. Since then, lots of other people have also said nice things to me, and some people have very pointedly said nothing.I'm working like a dog (if, in fact, a dog were to work very hard indeed) to try to wrap things up before I leave.

• The excavator guy, Craig, finally came and graded our yard. It's all flat and sandy now, except for a new little hill in the back which will have fruit trees, and the pond-like depression in the front which will be a rain garden. So far I have very little to plant, but I expect things to start arriving soon. In the meantime Joe is doing an excellent job of digging up holes and trenches all over the nice flat soil. The lawn will be a little lumpy, but how can you ask someone not to have that much fun? Paul, the mason, came back and redid the sidewalk, and put in a little sidewalk next to the street so people getting out of their cars won't have to walk on my plants and track mud into my house. I promise pictures.

I guess that's really all that's going on. Funny, I had the impression that there was so much happening that I couldn't find a place to start writing about it all. Maybe I have selective amnesia.

At least life seems more exciting than it is, rather than the other way around.

A surfeit of good news

The planets must be aligned, because odd things have been happening. To wit:

• A couple of weeks ago, I got a raise of about 5%. I was completely surprised: mid-year raises simply do not ever happen at the university, and the regular annual merit raises are  at most about 3% (the definition of "merit" being that you almost deserve to keep up with inflation).

• Two days later, I got a job offer, as the marketing/communications person for the new Depression Center. Apparently everyone who interviewed me picked me as their top choice.

• Two days after that, and I realize that only some of you will understand that this is just as great a stroke of luck as the other two things, I went bra shopping, and found three bras that fit.

Weird, huh?

I will be leaving Undergraduate Admissions and starting at the Depression Center in mid-May. I'm looking forward to new things, and also to being in a context that seems quite appropriate for me. But I'm really going to miss my friends in admissions.

And meanwhile I just have to wait for the other shoe to drop....