like a duck...

...all serene and floating on the surface of the water
everything's just fine

while under the water

oh shit oh shit oh shit

it's total, churning chaos.

The university went all online for spring quarter early last week.

On Saturday, the high school went all online until mid-April. Fortunately in the latter case, we are in the group-project stage, and the groups can, in theory, collaborate on Google docs together. (Whether or not they do is not up to me. Online learning is bloody difficult, particularly if it is asynchronous).

The uni classes, though. Fuck me running. I had them built for face-to-face. Now I must rebuild and recast. I am not especially afraid of teaching with technology, and I can self-teach pretty quick (which is good, because besides two truly amazing colleagues, the university is largely expecting us to watch training videos and be autodidacts). But the conversion is time-consuming, and I had been rather counting on almost 2 weeks of break to revise the RORY manuscript coming out in October. Now I will be lucky to get one week of break.

(The manuscript is currently sitting in my word processor. I looked at it. I am having extreme anxiety actually doing anything with it, because I have half a class to finish converting (and two weeks to do it, which is FINE for fuckssake, because I converted four weeks of the course in two goddamned days already, except for pre-recorded videos, if I even do those). Anxiety is not rational. I should apply some donuts.)

So the conundrum is--synchronous teaching, which plays to my strengths, or asynchronous teaching, which is a lot more work on the front end but may free up some time later on?

And we had a leak in the bathroom wall this morning. Big old bulging drip in the paint, spreading like some bizarre D&D monster. Amazing how fast the weekend maintenance guys show up when you say "water leak." It was the upstair's neighbors' shower, and easily fixed. Evidently there's no drywall damage, so...good?

And in other positive news, today's Trader Joe's run (after yesterday's abortive attempt, which did net us donuts and cheese, not insignificant) yielded bacon, some sausages, eggs, and frozen peppers (no other frozen veg). I ordered another box from our CSA this week, too, partly b/c they can't do their usual farmers markets and partly because they have stuff in stock. So we're good on healthy stuff. We won't starve. We'll be fine. (The cats won't starve either. Or run out of litter.)

But there is good news. One of my students from fall quarter came dashing into the gap between my last two face-to-face classes this school year, damp from the downpour, to give me a stuffed bunny. She gives stuffed bunnies to her favorite teachers, but she thought I hated cute things (because my desk at work is populated with small rubber and stuffed lizards, frogs, snakes, an a small, plastic Godzilla), so she got me some lovely handlotion from Origins at the end of fall quarter. When she discovered that I do like cute fuzzy things, she promised me a bunny. And when they announced spring distance learning, she made sure to get the bunny to me so I would "have something cute on my desk."

("I did not get you a pink bunny, though, because I know you hate pink."
"I do not hate pink."
"...Oh. Well. I didn't get you a pink bunny anyway.")

And she did not. The bunny's name is Buttermilk, because that is what color she is, and she's currently on my desk at home, surrounded by the stuffed things (I have, among other critters, a krogan and Bill the Cat).

But here she is under my desk with The Patchwork Terror (formerly known as the Kaiju-kitten, but really, PT is more apt) because they both have little pink noses and are stupidly photogenic and maybe I'll just use them as my stunt doubles for live-streaming classes this spring.

Anyway, that bunny and that student were possibly the best thing that happened all year, y'all.

Stay healthy.

sew what?

My parents came out for a visit, and with them they brought antiques for which they no longer have room but we do, and so... I have this 1926 Singer treadle sewing machine now. My parents picked it up at an antique show and held onto it until I had room, because who doesn't want a treadle sewing machine in case of a zombie apocalypse? I am no seamstress on a good day, but that's fine. This is a beautiful thing. It came with an owner's manual for a different model of sewing machine. I discovered this when I went to start trying to figure out what parts were which and the first diagram identified things that simply are not on this machine. The internet is mighty, however, and I soon found and downloaded the correct owner's manual. Now I just need to get the belt on it--a leather belt, mind you--and order some needles and oil we're all set to... I have no idea. Sew the occasional seam, I guess, in quicker order than setting up the little crappy Kenmore electric I have. Dad says with the right needles, it can sew leather. I don't see myself making a bodice or anything, though.


But look at this thing. How pretty is that? The I-don't-even-know-what-that-part-is-called is decorated for no reason other than it can be, so why not? I wish we still did that. Decorated things for no reason. Why can't a utilitarian object also be beautiful? And also why can't it be made to last for a hundred years?

Dad also brought out this guy, which is the only toy truck I ever played with. I guess it's missing a couple of ladders, and this is not the original paint job, but whatever. The steering wheel works, y'all. The front wheels turn. And it has a bell, an actual bell. I recall in the dim and distant past it had, what, paracord or something wound up and playing the part of the hose? I'd unspool it, then rewind it again, repeat, repeat, repeat. I don't know why this truck fascinated me as a kid, but it did.

It's awesome. It's all metal parts and heavy...like the Kitchenaid of toy fire trucks.

I am thankful for boxes. And no boxes.

We are moved. We are (mostly) unpacked. The boxes, some of which have moved with us twice now, have been sent to the great recycling dumpster in the sky (really, the parking lot). Books are shelved, art is hung, and only two things broke. One of them, unfortunately, was a light bulb on a lethal collision with a bookshelf on the deep-pile* living room carpet.  I found out there was still glass in the carpet yesterday.

Ask me how I discovered this. I dare you.




*this is the carpet that comes with the place. I would have wood, if left to my own.

upheaval

Right, so remember when I said I was restless because I was between writing projects and waiting for notes on edits? Haha, yes, the universe heard! And the universe did deliver unto us (she says, shifting into Bible-speak) a campus apartment, which is bigger than this one and actually less expensive, but which we need to take possession of... today. Literally, keys in hand today, appliances (hopefully) delivered tomorrow. (We knew about this apartment two weeks ago. It's not like they sprang it on us overnight, but we had, like, 48 hours to accept and get the paperwork in motion.) The truck to move the heavy things comes in a week and a half (because we are too old to haul shit up and down flights of stairs anymore. I mean, we could, but good lord, why?) ...other than all the things we will hand-move, like guitars and framed art and fragile objects and the plants and the entirety of the kitchen. Plenty to carry, yes, let someone else carry the couch and chairs.

So for the near future, I am grateful to circumstances that I don't have a writing deadline, other than those student-related, because this apartment is transmuting into cardboard boxes and chaos.

And lest y'all think I pay no attention to politics, today I have guarded hope, although I am bitter as week-old grounds that we didn't flip CA 45 blue.

blue (balls) and fiber therapy

Grades are done (ish. Still to be submitted, after someone in admin fixes the fuck up so that I actually can submit them.) These fine blue balls are waiting for me. The amazing M, she who has so much fiber her husband does this little cheer when she gives it away to me (she's an indie-dyer, among her many talents, and she's always trying stuff out), gave them to me. Each of those balls is about 8 oz, or half a pound, and Arachne knows how much it'll spin out, but I bet it'll be enough to get me through season 3 Poldark for sure.  And then there's the 4-5 pairs of socks to be done by Christmas. So much knitting. But knitting is therapy. Knitting is "oh look, I am done with a thing, and the thing is objectively A Thing That Is Good."

Which is good, because oh, my various gods, this everything-since-January has sucked for so many reasons. A friend of mine, former officemate for years, died unexpectedly at the end of March. That was total toadshit. She'd just retired last year and while I missed her like hell at work, I knew she was out there being nona to her grandkids and adopting dogs and just, like, having fun and stuff.

Then, fuck you, April, we had two parental surgeries. First: Nous's dad, unexpected brain surgery (he fell. There was bleeding. They figured it out when he kept falling and having trouble walking). Second and third: My mom, knee surgery, the first for the actual fixing the joint, and second because it infected and they had to go back in and scrape things out. We didn't go back because, well, we're adjuncts and however good the benefits (we have them. That's something) and the union (until something crap comes from Janus, it's strong), we don't get actual sick time or vacation, so... anyway.  Nous's dad recovered nicely. He liked his time in rehab; he had a new audience for his jokes (he's the only extrovert in the family, poor guy). My mom is recovering, but her attitude is far wobblier.

The HS students give teacher awards. But I was provoked.

So...  I didn't have much left for students at the HS who were dealing with murdered friends and school shootings all over and general teenageriness. I had even less left for the ostensible adults in uni who sit in my office and explain that they just can't write this boring essay, they just don't do well on things they don't like, it's who they are. (While assuring me it's the class, not me, that they hate. I assured them back: I don't hate you either, okay? But your grade is sinking like a sinking thing, kid, so you better find it in yourself to adult and write the fucking essay. I didn't say fucking. That time.) There are moments when I feel like a crap teacher, which I know is, well, crap, because I'm good at this job and they have to meet me partway or it doesn't work. And there have been amazing students, too, just stellar. They are the reason I keep doing this job, right there.

And, and, I wanted to be done with the draft of the WIP by now, but HA. No. Even making wordcount on the days I scheduled for writing, no. I am at the stage where I am convinced it's totally awful, which, haha, is incidentally the place where I did trash a whole manuscript a couple years ago because it was total shit, so... this feeling is not without precedent or merit, though I don't think it will apply to WIP. I just have a much harder time dismissing feelings of failure with the writing than I do with the teaching.

So yeah. Looking forward to spinning my balls.

my murdercats are broken

Skugga started 2018 off by catching a hummingbird. He did this in the dark pre-dawn (cue early-bird jokes), when I am practicing yoga in the dark (lights, feh) and Skugga's doing his early patrol of the patio. The regular hummingbird at that hour is an asshole. It's buzzed me before. Evidently it buzzed him, too. I didn't see the deed. I heard this strangled chirp! and then Skugga came scuttling inside.

He saw me, I saw him, and he dashed into the bedroom and under the dresser. Hooray.

Got the bird back, somehow still alive and intact, and delivered it back outside. Did it survive? I don't know. It wasn't there an hour later, once the sun actually came up and we could see anything, but it was mad and intact enough to flutter out of my hands and hide in the bushes, so maybe. Point is: Skugga didn't kill it.

the murdercat fails at murder

Same day, later: Skugga caught a mouse. That time I got to the door in time to keep him outside. He sulked on the patio, occasionally tossing the mouse and pouncing. Eventually he watched it crawl under the laundry room door. I yelled. Skugga seemed confused.

Next morning, another mouse. The same? Maybe. It was trying to hide in a pair of empty, nested flower pots. Skugga patiently peeled the pots apart and pounced (alliteration, for the win). That mouse also escaped eventually, this time off the patio and into the bushes.

And then the third mouse, same day. This one, Skugga brought inside. This is a small apartment, and he was not about to take his treasure into a place I'd already pursued him, so he went into the bathroom. Aha! A door. Which we promptly shut.

But did Skugga kill the mouse? No, he did not. He tossed it. He chased it. And when it went catatonic from terror, he... sat down. Looked at it. Poked it with a paw ("Will you move? No?") and then tried a bite and got a mouthful of fur, ew! and let go.

Terrified mouse. Puzzled cat. I was feeling sorry for both of them.

But there is a second cat in this house, Louhi the Toothless, and I thought--well maybe she'll have a clue about mouse-killing. I did not hold out too much hope, fortunately. Louhi saw that mouse and started growling, stalking, creeeeeeping up on it. She made one of those long, loud, nostril-exhales that means "Oh what the actual fuck", and then repeated it, longer and more loudly, the closer she got to the mouse. She growled. It cowered. She tapped it with a paw. It cowered. She looked at me with utter disgust and stalked about of the bathroom.

I think she thought we'd gotten another pet.

"It's cute," said Nous.

Oh no. Oh no no.

The mouse continued to pray to the mouse gods, face in the corner, shivering. Skugga continued to look confused. I finally got a flower pot and piece of cardboard and scooped the mouse up, and Nous took it outside, far, far away, and let it go. It was entirely undamaged. No cuts. No blood. Just wet fur, from hanging out in Skugga's mouth for so long.

 Evidently Skugga is a catch-and-release mouser. At least the mice are staying off the patio and out of the laundry closet.

ratless

...because the clothes dryer caught fire on Monday. The rat sensibly decided to move out at that point.

It has been exactly that kind of week.

ants

We were invaded yesterday. Nous was making dinner and felt something crawling on his leg. When he checked, he discovered it was several somethings. I noticed this--interrupted the liberation of the Citadel, in fact--when he starting loudly brushing his legs (he can do that. It's a superpower) and announcing that We Have Ants.

And we did, indeed, have ants: a column of tiny little brown ants marching from the hinge-corner of the front door, past the welcome mat and around the shoe-rack, gentle bearing right at the shoe-rack, then a harder right into the kitchen just past the alter. And then they promptly disappeared under the dishwasher, with the occasional sideways step into an empty cat bowl. This was an organized, orderly procession, maybe 3 inches wide and, well, a good 15 feet long.

Not okay.

welcome in my house

Ants are a feature of SoCal, and by feature, I mean unfortunate inevitability. We had them in student housing in the bathroom; they came up through the gaps between pipes and plumbing fixtures. They're kind of everywhere. And while I have no special objection to bugs, the rule is Outside Unless You're A Spider, Motherfucker.

Spiders, however, have a tendency to die in this house, since Skugga is Enemy of All Things With Exoskeletons except ants, which he was more interested in observing. Clearly we would need to find another solution.

So here is how you stop ants from trafficking all over your apartment, without poison.

Murder.
Cinnamon.
Vinegar.

Kill a bunch of ants. Leave their little corpses where you smashed them. Their compatriots will find them by the trail of the distressed hormones. Put cinnamon (or garlic powder, or peppermint) along where they're getting in. I sprinkled cinnamon all over the carpet procession. There was immediate panic.

There was more panic in the kitchen, where Nous was gleefully smashing ants.

Then we removed the cat bowls from the fray and... left it. It's hard to step around ants in your kitchen, but patience is key. The ants cleaned up the majority of the corpses. Within an hour, they were gone. No more ants anywhere. I washed the floor, and then I sprayed some vinegar under the dishwasher, just in case. I left a pile of cinnamon at their initial entry point, so the front door area smells like autumn baking and not The Hell That Is Summer.

And that ends the story of the ants.

this is where my heart lives

So it rained most of the day. This was okay. The yellow orb of death is particularly pernicious at altitude, and there is not enough sunscreen in the world for me.

We got up stupid-early, though, to make it to the summit before the rains and predicted storms, because no one wants to be at 12000 feet in lightning.

This was the view about, oh, 8-9000 feet up. The forests are mostly spruce, some pine, some aspen. They're super dense, long skinny trunks close together, a canopy of needles, a carpet of little spruce all trying to grow up. The higher you get, the smaller the trees become, both in height and in the slenderness of their limbs. By 10,000 feet, the branches are like fingers.

Fog rolled over our position about two minutes after we took that shot.

Then we climbed into the clouds, quite literally. At treeline, we passed into a fog that rivals anything I've seen come off the Pacific. The temperatures kept dropping, too. We were in the low 40s by the time we cleared the fog and got mostly above it.

At the summit, or damn near (which is 12000 feet, the last 1000 or so of  which one must hike on foot), we had moments of snow. It didn't flake, exactly, and it didn't stick, but it blew around my face and it made me happy. It's my first snowfall in almost ten years.

This is a view from the summit, between passing clouds. The snow is leftover glacier. There were elk munching tundra grass nearby. (Nous got photos; he has a better camera, and more patience with taking pictures.) I just stood there and breathed the cold wind and soaked up as much of this place as I could.

This is where my heart lives.

mountains

I am sitting here in a little cabin in Estes Park, listening to the rain fall. It has been so long since I've heard rain in a chimney. Or smelled wet evergreens. Or been in Acts of God storms in the mountains. I have done all of those things in the past two days.

Tomorrow, I get to go hiking and spend a little time in the tundra above treeline, which is my favorite place in the whole world (at least until I see Iceland, at which point I may have to re-evaluate). We may get very wet. That is okay. We have a fireplace in the cabin. We may also see wildlife, which is great! Except bears. I don't need to see a bear up close, please and thank you.

It's a cold, wet July, which is also awesome. While I confess I'd like to see my beloved Flatirons as I drive through Boulder, I am happier with the temps hovering in the 60s than up in the 90s. I can layer. Life is good.

As long as we get to the top of Trail Ridge before the AoG storms start up again, because we don't mess with alpine lightning.

The Eddas tell the story of the jötun Thjazi,  who was killed in one of Loki's shenanigans gone bad. His daughter, Ska∂i, a creature of snow, mountains, and cold, comes looking for vengeance. She is offered a husband as compensation for her father's death from among the Aesir and the Vanir. She wants to pick the man with the best looking feet. (Do we believe that? Feet? I think it's a euphemism.) She chooses Njord, who makes his home by the sea. Ska∂i  is of course from the mountains. The marriage has some issues, because the couple cannot decide where to live. Ska∂i dislikes the sea and the crying gulls. Njord, on the other hand, cannot stand the cold winds and the howling of wolves.

I came to the sea for Nous (who came for grad school). It had nothing to do with feet or compensation or bloodfeud (though grad school does share some other elements in common with Icelandic sagas). But I have not made friends with the gulls or the ocean. The air is too thick. The winds are too tame. And there is no tundra anywhere.

Screw Njord. Bring on the wolves and the winds and the snow.

You're a good dog, Rita

Here I sit, reading "messy first drafts" on the patio. The weather is SoCal spring-time lovely. The hummingbirds in the fig tree are buzzing around on important hummingbird business. These little tiny finch-y shaped birds, yellow and brown, are hopping around the ripening figs.

And beside me, on the doormat, naps Idris, his plastic milk ring beside him. We have been playing fetch since 10:30, on and off. He naps, I get some work done. Then he wakes up, chirps, and brings the ring to me. I can ignore this, for a time. He will wait patiently, chirping at intervals. Then he will nibble my ankle, or bite my pants. He will bring the ring closer. Bat it around my feet. Hide it under the stool, or the desk, and attack it. Bring it out here, on the patio, and pursue it around the concrete.

So we play, in 15 minute bursts, until he needs to rest. Then I get work done. Repeat. And in between, he sprawls beside me, toy nearby. When I go inside, I will whistle, and he'll come galloping after me, expecting a treat.

Nous and I think we got a dog after all, trapped in a cat's body.

carrying the ghost

I note that my last post concerned Idris and the Detritus Balls. He recovered nicely, two nights in the hospital later, with no surgery.

Then, last Saturday, it happened again. The detritus balls seemed small this time. And as per usual, he tossed 'em and began galloping around, acting like he was just fine, thanks. We dutifully stuffed some Pepcid down his gullet, to deal with the nausea. He kept it down. We figured he'd be okay, since he was only showing signs of nausea, rather than turning into Sad Cat Loaf. He didn't eat dinner, but no shock there. Drank a lot of water, which is how we know our cats don't feel well; unless they puke, they don't drink from the dish. So that seemed fine.

Only this time, when we woke up on Sunday, he was way, way worse. I wanted to say--oh, it's electrolytes, he's weak. But no. He was panting, in obvious distress, trying to get as close to us as he could. This is a cat who does not whine or complain; but he looked up and made Distressed Kitten sound at me. So I knew, this was bad. Whatever it was, on this Sunday morning, when our regular vet is closed and the internet is no help at all.

And then he went into shock. Stretched out on his side, belly distended, and gasped. His feet were cold. And his muscles twitched, like he had a palsy. Spasms. A body full of charlie horses.

I scooped him into a towel, Nous grabbed the keys. I thought he'd die in my arms on the way to the emergency vet. I thought he'd die there. His kidneys, they said, were basically in shutdown. His belly was full of liquid and air. His guts were not moving at all. There was clearly Something in there, the x-rays were clear about that, but they couldn't do anything until his kidneys stabilized or he'd die on the table. They reckoned to keep him overnight, on fluids, drain his belly, see if they could transfer him to our regular vet in the morning (the e-vet and the regular vet are literally across the parking lot from each other).

So we left him there, and I came home and gathered up his toys and stacked them on the cat tree. We made much of Louhi, who was cheerful (there is no romance with that cat. No sentiment). And we prepared, because...well. Not a lot of romance here, either. Wishing something will not happen does not prevent its occurrence.

At 11:45, the vet called. His kidneys were better. They knew exactly where the blockage was. The vet said he would probably be stable for another 12 hours, if we wanted to wait; but if it were his cat, he'd operate. Do it, we said. But don't call back at 3 AM with the report. We'll call in the morning. We have to teach, no sick days, we have to be functional.

At 6 AM, I called. He lived through the surgery. The culprit appeared to be a chunk of 'something rubbery.' Oh yes. The piece of his puppy toy he chewed through a couple weeks ago, which we had hoped he had not swallowed, or if he had, that it had been in small slivers when it went down. Nope. They wanted to keep him for a few days, see if they could get the kidneys back to normal function, or if there'd been damage. And they wanted to keep him on IV for a while, to see if the guts would restart.

He did not do well as a patient. Nous reckons he'd been so out of it when we left he didn't remember it. So he wakes up in a strange place, with strange people, and dogs, and his guts all stitched up. He's a sweet cat. But there? There, he alligator rolled and swatted and bit and fought like a cornered panther. They kept him tripping most of the time, just to handle him. Then the vet said we could come, and we did. They brought in this growling bundle of rage, wrapped in a freakin' rug, rather than a mere blanket. When we said his name, his head snapped up. He became a different cat, our cat. Purring, staggering all over himself. The techs came in, pilled him. He purred at them. The vet came in. Stared. Examined him, first time she could, hands all over him. He purred.

I think she'd been concerned that we wouldn't be able to handle him at home. I think she thought he was a devil cat and we were the kind of people who would have a devil cat, either inexperienced or neglectful or something. I felt judged, anyway, until she saw him with us. Then I felt un-judged.

We took him home Wednesday. Had to. The credit card had taken all the damage it could. E-vets are not cheap on a good day, and this place is 24/7, state of the art. So home he came, firmly e-collared, shaved, stitched, with a pharmacy's worth of pills.

He's figured out the whole pill pocket thing. They're fine treats. But the pills have to go down with the pill-shooter, and Nous has to do it (I am better at holding him, prying his mouth open; smaller fingers). The pain meds make him loopy, but they also make him hungry. The guts are working again, more or less. The first 12 hours they worked, but not controllably, so things got messy. I said words I never predicted: Oh, it's just poop.

I have shared my pillow with an e-collar and the cat head inside it for a few days now. We have played milk ring, best he can. He has to reach waaay past the collar, grab the toy, hold it, and back his head up until he can scoop it up. But then he brings it to me, purring. Play, mama.

He's going to be fine. We're out of the proverbial woods. Our vet saw him yesterday, running more bloodwork (oh, those kidneys). Afterwards, Idris was so worked up he popped the knot off his stitches. But that's okay, the tech said; the skin's mended now. He's six days past surgery. He won't drop his guts out or anything.

So he's okay, on his way to fine (barring any stupidity about the kidney damage, and you know what? I can handle that.)

And I am more depressed now than I was on Monday. Riddle me that. Well, no need for riddles. I get it. It was a close thing. And I am not ready to lose a 17 month old cat, not the one who brought Kitten back into the house after Pooka died, and Louhi was so sad she could barely eat.

Idris is carrying more than himself. He's carrying Pooka's ghost, too. Easy task, plenty of room, no trouble, because Idris himself is so big.

I know--when you take an animal into your life, that it's temporary. You know that an adopted cat, from a rough start, may have issues, health problems, gods know what. It's a chance you take. And you know, even if the health gods are kind, they're going to die. But when they're old. When they're 16 and 17, after diseases and disorders that signaled, loud and clear, The End Is Extremely Fucking Nigh. You have time to prepare, when that happens. Time to think of a time Without That Personality. The dying still hurts, the grieving still happens (I still mourn my first dog, who died 21 years ago), but you're...ready, I guess. You see the monster coming. It doesn't jump out of the dark.

I guess I'm bruised. A little sore. A little suspicious that another monster's going to jump if I'm not vigilant, snapping my head up at every strange noise, every unexpected movement. If I'm not ready to fight, tooth and claw, when it comes.

woof

When I was little, I wanted a dog. A lot. More than anything. I wanted a dog so much and talked about one so incessantly that, when I was about five or so, my mother forbade me to use the word. Or spell it.

I had a stuffed dog, Lady (no relation to the Disney Lady; mine was a German Shepherd, not a spaniel), who had a real collar and leash (which I bought for her) who accompanied me everywhere it was appropriate to bring a dog (thus, the need for her leash). I took to pointing at her, saying, "What Lady Is," or "the same thing as Lady" when I wanted to talk about dogs during the interdiction. My mother is not as sarcastic as I am, and so did not pretend I was talking about stuffed animals.

I haven't had a dog for about 14 years now. I miss having one. We talked about getting one when the old cats died, for reasons of lease and for the old cats themselves. Pooka, once he went blind, couldn't've handled a dog (before that, he could and did. My last dog respected the hell out of him). Pix, after a year or so of trauma with the rescue chihuahuas in her household, did not have a high opinion of canines. So we knew we'd have to wait for them to go. They have gone. So.

Nous wants to wait until we know whether or not he's got any interviews for next year... which would, if he did, presumably necessitate waiting until we learned the outcome of those. It makes sense not to move with more animals than we have to. We did cross-country with two cats. It'd be easier, right, to do it with one? Right.

But still, you know, if a dog needed us... why, it's okay to have our names on the list with the rescue organizations. Shiba Inu rescue, in particular, which is fortunate to have very few dogs who need help and even fewer of those that are okay with cats. I've had a Shiba. I know what we're getting into. And it's a good sized dog for a small apartment. 101 reasons for a Shiba, but not a Shiba puppy. No puppies, of any kind. On that we're agreed.

But of course, if there are no available Shibas, then there's no harm in looking at similar breeds. Like...Jindos. They're only a little bigger. Or mixes of those breeds. I can resist (more or less) the dogs in rescue organizations, because they have homes and care. It's the sad little half-Shiba in the animal shelter some 1.5 hours north of here, in the Valley, that has my attention. There are 100 reasons why she could be a terrible choice, but I won't know about any of those if I don't call and ask...and if she is none of those deal-breaker things, then I have to make my appeals to a patient, logical, immune-to-appeals-to-pathos husband who is probably having a lot of sympathy for my mother's ban on the word dog at present. He is not good at saying no to me.

He could stop me at any time, of course, and agree to a kitten instead. Our local shelter, from whence came Louhi, has a dozen of them. Then we hit our pet-limit, and the lease constrains us from Cin's Dog Issues.

So it's his fault, right?

better to burn out

It just won't do to let October escape without a post. October's my favorite month, or rather, it used to be my favorite month when it actually heralded autumn, colder weather, and the possibility of snow. Out here, it's the Santa Ana month, which means the last week has been very dry and very hot, but it's that autumn hot. The air is like glass. Clear. Brittle. Temperature entirely dependent on sunlight.

Anyway, October is not my favorite month anymore, meteorologically, but it's still my favorite year-month. Halloween, people! Halloween is awesome. It's also the month in which we got married. (Ten years ago. Good and benevolent ancestors.) And it's the early part of the school year, so my energy is still high, and my optimism. There's potential in October. Yes yes, dying of the old year, I know, I'm down with that (yay, long dark nights and short bright days). But it's before elections (and so there is hope for the future), and the academic job market is still accepting applications, rather that sending rejections. That kind of potential.

Also, Trader Joe's has pumpkin ice cream. 

November, though. November could suck. We'll worry about that later. And there will still be pumpkin ice cream, at least through T-day.

The CSA box continues to delight, and by delight, I mean "force me to learn new ways to cope with vegetables." A bunch of radishes every week! One learns to cook radishes (roasted is quite tasty). And to make grilled pear and smoked salmon pizza. And make everything with kale, collard greens, or chard. I do not feel even a little bit anemic.

But it is the waning time.

Pixie's proven herself allergic to both kinds of thyroid meds, so she's off them. Her kidney disease will likely improve, with the hyperthyroidism. Her heart will not. She's feeling good for now. Happy. Her metabolism's acting like she's a kitten, even as it burns her out. I think that's really all you can ask for, you know? That on the way out, you're happy and convinced you're a lot younger than your years.

May we all be that fortunate.

l'été est arrivé

So I'm reading my Yoga Journal this afternoon, after having done a little yoga, waiting for the korma to do its thing in the slow cooker (customarily, we say that it's cooking), and I came across an article on the most yoga-friendly cities in the US. To my total non-shock, Boulder was on the list. There was a little article about the town, the yoga it offers, its general population. And there were pictures. And I recognized those places. I recognized Pearl Street and the new-to-me-but-old-now renovations, the rock-bridge going up the middle of the street.

And I surprised myself. Had a little  tears-prickling-behind my eyes feeling, and an acute pain in my chest. Embarrassing, gods, I don't cry; I have a little chip of ice where my heart should be, and it pushes slush through my veins. Ask my students. They know. But seriously. I was homesick. Still. After damn near 7 years here, I miss there.

I never reckoned, as a child of the Air Force's cruel whims, to get attached to a place. We never lived in one more than 3 years until I was 12. I spent high school in the same town, and my parents still live there; but my home, the place I chose to go and spend 13 years of my life, is Boulder. 20-odd square miles surrounded by reality. Oz. Berkeley with fewer Californians (but only barely). Expensive little town, with high taxes voted in by people with the money to preserve their open spaces and their zoning laws. Well. Expensive by Colorado standards; the OC has violently readjusted my notions of cost and value. Pedestrian and bike friendly. Working public transportation. Pine trees and oak and maple and the foothills and the canyons. And winter. Wind. Snow. Sometimes thunder while the snow falls. The air is dry and thin, although wetter than a lot of places along the front range. The sun is out most days, sometimes brittle and cold, sometimes too close and too hot. And the mountains--gods, the mountains. Right. There.

I planned to love SoCal. I did. I came out here determined to want to live here forever and mourn bitterly when we moved away. I planned to love the sea, the sand, the everything except the traffic and how bad could that really be, anyway? Hell, baking would be normal again! Water would boil at the right temperature! And no scraping the car in the winter.

Okay. That last thing is pretty cool. There are a lot of good things about living in greater Los Angeles. I can, on a good day, make a list. But it's not Boulder. And those things can't make up for what's missing.

One of the things I miss about LJ is the what's-playing-now feature, like the mood thingie, only cooler. My mood is generally evident from my prose. But my music! Not so much.

So in the vein of missing that feature, what's playing now is Amorphis, "My Kantele," the version off Magic and Mayhem. It's about how people who say the kantele (which is an instrument, kinda like a guitar and a dulcimer had a transporter accident) was made by the gods, fashioned out of the great pike's bones and guts, are liars. The kantele is sorrow. It is grief. It is wounds and suffering. It's a little more intense a sorrow than homesickness. But the point is--the kantele is a Finnish instrument, and the grimness of the song comes from a people shaped by a land with a thousand lakes, scraped out by glaciers; a place that sees a lot of winter, and long summer days. It's a song about the shape and stamp place leaves in a person's soul.

Gods, I want to go home.