I took my cat, Pup, to the vet today to have Pup’s wonky eye examined. The vet determined that it is most likely a viral infection and so now I have to drip eye-drops into the cat’s eye four times a day. That will be fun in a sort of scratch your skin off sort of way.

I woke up with a sore throat and a cough which is remarkable only because I just recovered from an ear and sinus infection (and horribly sore throat) last week after a ten-day course of antibiotics. WHY AM I SICK AGAIN?

Let’s go back in time. (To my birthday in January when I had a cold? No. To the end of March when I had a cold? No.) Let’s go back in time to April 22 when I flew to San Diego on a jet plane.

I flew to San Diego on April 22 to meet my daughter and attend my son’s senior recital at San Diego State University. I used miles to get a cheap(er) flight on Alaska Airlines and thus, I had a layover in Seattle. I didn’t mind the thought of two hours in an airport because I like airports. I like to read and watch people and I enjoy forced idleness.

When I disembarked from the plane, I noted that the airport seemed very busy. I located the gate for my outgoing flight and again, wondered at the crowds. There were people lining up at customer service desks and so I quickly searched the Internet and learned that President Biden had been in Seattle and due to some kind of security issue, his flight from Sea-Tac was delayed for two hours earlier in the afternoon and consequently, hundreds of flights were delayed–and cancelled. Thousands of people milled about, like a Disneyland queue without the magic.

Soon, the airport walkways were crowded with people and every seat was full. People were sprawled on the floors and we were all in each other’s personal spaces, unable to avoid hearing every conversation and breathing everybody’s air.

Fortunately, my flight was only delayed and not canceled (as was my daughter’s flight from Portland to San Diego) and we met up at the baggage claim in San Diego at 10:45 PM. By the time we rented a car and arrived at our friend’s home, it was 12:15 AM.

The senior recital was the next day. My son did an amazing job.

The next day, Sunday, I woke up with scratchy throat which I initially blamed on dehydration. But I was ill.

My daughter and I meandered up the the freeway, then the coastline, to Anaheim where we checked into our hotel and returned the rental car to the nearby airport. We took a taxi back to Downtown Disney, then wandered around before going back to our hotel.

Monday we conquered California Adventure, walking 25,000 steps and absorbing all the theme park goodness. We walked back to our hotel so I could nap and then returned to the park until it closed.

Tuesday was devoted to Disneyland. We walked 28,000 steps and had the best time, despite my having a cold and a sore throat. I kind of ignored it.

Wednesday, we Uber-ed to the airport and flew to Portland. My ears became totally blocked and my throat was so sore I could barely swallow. I advised my mom and sister of my illness because I had planned to visit them but they said to come anyway, so Thursday, we drove to the beach to see my mom and sister.

I felt so sick. Such a terribly sore throat and a really bad headache. That night, I began to wonder if I had COVID (again), so we left early the next afternoon and I got tested at a pharmacy but it was negative.

I flew home Sunday, still as sick as can be and Tuesday, managed to see a doctor who diagnosed me with a sinus infection and ear infection (my first ever). I just finished the course of antibiotics on Saturday and now . . . sick again.

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In other news, the grass has finally turned green here in Minnesota and the leaves are beginning to grow. It was a very long and cold winter. Last week, we had crazy weather and I had to hide in a classroom at work with all the customers when the tornado sirens blared. That same night found me in my basement when the sirens went off again.

Rivers are flooded and the lake levels are high because we’ve had so much rain.

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Now, I’m off to my own eye appointment and then to work.

The end.

Yesterday at work, a woman asked me if we had any variegated floss suitable for crocheting butterfly magnets. I showed her what we had, but she wanted only two colors involved, not several. Then she told me how she once took a whole year to crochet a golden Barbie-doll dress, using metallic thread and beads. I said I hoped someone appreciated all that work and she said, “No, I have no daughters or grand-daughters! And I hate dolls!”

My boss walked by about that time, then stood aside a ways, waiting for me to finish with the customer so he could talk to me. But the customer wasn’t finished. No! She opened her smart-phone and scrolled until she finally found a photo of the doll in its golden dress.

Then before I knew it, she was showing me a photo of a someone’s bloody skull stapled together, explaining that her husband fell on black ice at work on his first week at the job. (He is 75 years old, she told me.) Then she smiled, displaying her way-too-white teeth and finally, I was able to scoot away. I do like to think that I provided excellent customer service to that lady, though.

People are funny, aren’t they?

Earlier in the day, I heard a chattering child coming near, so I turned in time to see her walking alongside the cart being pushed by her mother. A baby sat in the cart’s seat. A small boy was holding onto the cart near the wheels, being dragged along along on his stomach. Oh, those days, I remember them well. You’re just trying to browse in a store but you literally have to drag your kids along with you.

Twenty-four years ago today, an Amish woman forced me into her assistant’s boxy van for a ride on snowy country roads. I was clad in my purple plaid flannel nightgown with a coat hastily thrown over it.. At one point, a sheriff pulled the van over, inquiring why it was doddering along the county highway at low speed. The details were lost to me in the midst of a contraction, for the van ride had its desired effect. My labor kick-started into gear. Who needs pitocin anyway?

I begged to go home, desperate to climb back into the hot birthing tub set up in my bedroom. (Not that the baby came right away after that ride, but the midwives were assured that he was indeed, on the way.)

I labored for a solid forty-three hours, most of it slow and steady. My Amish midwife was six months pregnant herself, a petite woman with strong hands and a quiet manner. Her assistant, the “English” (non-Amish) midwife with a long braid down her back, brought along her own three month old baby and one of her teenagers to help watch the baby. My baby was in no hurry but finally, he appeared at almost eleven that night, twenty-four years ago.

Strange how a birthday really belongs to two people–the one who gave birth and the one who was born. So today, on our shared day, I cobbled together a little celebration. I bought balloons and my husband bought birthday cards. I wrapped a gift and trekked into town to buy the requested ice cream cake. I stopped by Red Lobster to ask how long the wait would be at 6 PM since they don’t take reservations. And then the manager made a reservation for me, telling me, “Shhh, don’t tell.” (Last year we had to wait over an hour.) I blew up balloons and now we wait for the birthday boy to return from work so we can have celebratory cheddar biscuits and seafood.

Not long ago, I was thinking that my daughter has only known me as a woman older than thirty-eight. By the time she verbal enough to sass me, I was already forty-one years old. As I realized during the wild years, it’s all fun and games to have a baby when you are thirty-eight, but having a fifteen year old when you are fifty-three years old is a calamity. (If you have a certain type of fifteen year old.)

(My son was not that type of fifteen year old. He was a delight his whole life–and still is–and I mean that wholeheartedly.)

Anyway, what I was thinking a few weeks back is that I will quite likely not know my younger children as fifty-seven year olds. (I am fifty-seven now. I am stunned by this turn of events. Am I old?)

When my youngest son is fifty-seven, I will be ninety.

When my daughter is fifty-seven, I will be ninety-five.

I hope I’m alive to see what kind of fifty-seven year olds they will be. How will their lives have turned out? Will I be a grandmother?

Will they do the math and realize that when I was fifty-seven, they thought I was both old and immortal? I never gave a second thought to my parents’ mortality until my dad had the gall to die when he was only forty-seven.

I was twenty-four then.

And so it goes. Turn around and find yourself back where you began.

I slept in this morning and then drove to St. Cloud on streets that were mostly dry and clear. The temperature when I got into my car hovered around minus twenty degrees (Fahrenheit, that’s about minus 29 degrees Celsius). I was on a quest to buy ground beef from Costco so we could have hamburgers for lunch but Costco failed me for there was no ground beef at all.

Instead, I bought stuff for sandwiches and even went the extra mile and (oven)-fried bacon for them.

The rest of my day has been devoted a little decluttering (“do I need this book? how about these shoes?”) and organizing and laundry. My daughter flew home to Portland yesterday by way of Salt Lake City and then Seattle. She was originally scheduled to go on Thursday, January 30, but the flight was canceled due to weather (?) and COVID (?) and who knows what else.

While here, she slept in my office as usual but it’s such a narrow room that the queen-size air mattress filled the entire floor and I hadn’t had enough time to really spiff up the room before she came (it’s my office and tends to collect flotsam and jetsam as the tides of life come and go). Anyway, it was kind of a disaster with her enormous suitcase barely fitting into the room with the air mattress.

Normally, she uses a twin size mattress but the one we had would gradually lose air so I purchased a new one that, alas, had no built-in inflator. We discovered that the first night she was here, so queen-size mattress in a twin–size room it was.

Anyway, she’s gone and it was time to reclaim my space. I took the opportunity to eliminate a few books and shoes and then cleared some surfaces. Why does that always take so long?

That’s about all for now. I am going to go do nothing for the rest of the day.

Well, nothing along with some more laundry. (I bet I have talked about laundry more than any single topic on this blog. Ha ha.)

Happy New Year!

I drove home last night in the snow at 10 PM after a 14-hour shift. The freeway was almost deserted–I saw one vehicle way behind me in my rear-view mirror but it took miles and miles to catch up with me. In the meantime, I drove alone on the snow-covered road with no idea where the lines were. The reflectors on each side of the road gave me some idea that I was on the right track. The snow came down steadily. It wasn’t even that deep but deep enough to obscure the roadway.

When the vehicle finally passed me, it left me in a cloud of snow, blind.

A few minutes later, a semi-truck barreled up behind me and passed me, blowing an even bigger cloud of snow. I was just exiting and slowed to a crawl because I could not tell for sure where the road was.

So, that was fun. (Today after church, I came home and immediately started shoveling the driveway. I mean, do I know how to have fun or what?)

I spent my afternoon today sitting on my office floor wrapping Christmas gifts. It would have been easier to stand at the kitchen island, but I needed privacy. Plus, I didn’t want to move my operation to another room. So, the floor it was.

I’m not exactly ready for Christmas, but I’m on my way. I have to be strategic and careful because I’m working so many hours. (Sixty-eight next week? Or was that last week? Or both? I’m not sure but I’m doing little else these days besides working.)

It looks like we’ll have a white Christmas after all. I was starting to wonder.

To those three of you still reading after all these years (!), hope you’re enjoying the holiday season.

Four years ago today, I was laid off from a job I’d held for eleven years, give or take a few weeks. Long before Zoom meetings became popular and working from home became a curse/blessing to countless families, I worked from home. Back then, few of us had the luxury of logging onto our computers while wearing pajamas and starting our day’s tasks.

Anyway, those were the good old days, the ones in which I could keep up with my laundry and start a dinner every night while at “work.”

Then, the dream job came to an end and I scrambled to find another job. I settled on becoming a police dispatcher and after a five month process, secured the job. It was very exciting to go to work out of my house after working from home most of my adult life. Three months later, it was less exciting to be told that while they all liked me, they thought I would be better suited to working in Police Records. (Yes, it hurt my feelings and it was humiliating.)

Listen. Working in Police Records sounds less fancy and true, it pays a lot less, but as it turns out, I really liked the job. I dare say I excelled in working in Police Records, as a matter of fact. I found it terribly interesting (reading crime reports, for instance) and occasionally boring (processing traffic citations). Working with actual other human beings in an office environment was a nice change, too.

And since I never became a trained dispatcher, I never had to work overnights, so there’s that.

But I only worked at the police department for a little more than two years because life has a way of shaking up even the most carefully planned life.

I thought of a snow globe when I pictured what happened to our lives but really, a snow globe is the wrong illustration because in the snow globe, the people stay cemented in place while the snow swirls around them. We did stay in place while the storm swirled around us but eventually, the cement failed us and we shook loose and floated and generally looked at each other in surprise while we waited to land.

Four years. In those four years, I lost a job, started a new job (I’d hope it would be a career), then my husband lost a job and started a new job, so he moved to Minnesota almost a year before I did (along with two of our kids–that’s right, we also emptied half our nest) . . . my dog died, my mom moved out of our home to a new place in Oregon, so I helped her pack and move and unpack, we sold a house, bought a house, moved (I personally packed every box and unpacked every box) . . . and then, when I finally got here, I dropped a ten pound weight on my foot. We waited twenty-six days for the moving truck to get here and then, I got a new job and started working the week after our stuff got here. I am currently working 65 hours a week during the holiday season.

[Oh, also, there was a world-wide pandemic that affected everyone everywhere, but did not cause me to miss a single day of work because I was an “essential” employee. So, no lounging around at home while collecting sweet, sweet unemployment checks with added federal benefits.]

I’m just saying, a lot can happen in four years.

Looking back causes me to shake my head in disbelief. If you told 2017 Mel that her life would be shaken (not stirred) in such a vicious manner, she would have 1) denied the possibility; 2) worried and; 3) cried. Maybe she would have run. Who knows?

But I had no idea at the time, so I just took it one day after the next.

I’m grateful that I can’t see four years into the future because all I want now is for things to just simmer down and stay the same for awhile. (Forever? Let’s not tempt fate.)

Happy Four Year Job Loss Anniversary to me!

Well, what do you know? It’s autumn in Minnesota. The few remaining leaves are hidden under a thin frosting of snow. My neighbors are extraordinarily diligent about raking and mowing up the leaves, so last weekend the neighborhood was alive with the sound of mowers and chainsaws. I did my part toiling with a new rake in my front yard, scraping up the horse chestnuts that are so glossy and beautiful but such a mess to clean up. If you don’t remove them, they’ll sprout into new trees as I discovered last spring.

I’ve been promoted at work and that means this Saturday will be my last Saturday off until January. I’ll be working six days a week, upwards of 50 hours. (I don’t think we’re permitted to work more than 55 hours a week.) Anyway, it’s been an absolute madhouse there. Someone told me I ought to look for a different job, but the truth is that I like the frantic pace and the sequence of the work itself. Sure, I’d like to have more time at home to putter around and create but this season of life is about squirreling provisions for the future and staying physically active.

And it turns out that I really do like this line of work. I thought I did–I had a short-term job in retail a million years about but the pay was terrible then–and I was right.

I fondly think of the days gone by when I was writing every day. Will I ever get to those days again? Will my life loop back around to a familiar landscape?

Time will tell.

But in the meantime, it’s time to get to work.

Stearns County has issued an excessive heat warning for today with heat index values from 105 to 110. From my office window, I see grey skies and tree limbs in constant motion from the wind. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was sweatshirt weather. But that’s my air conditioned cold toes talking.

We moved a year ago, give or take a day.

The past three or four years have included so much change and so much loss. I’ve had three job changes, just for starters. Two of my children are now living on their own. I left behind the ocean waves in San Diego for the mosquitoes in Minnesota. My beloved dog died. My mother left our home to live in Oregon. We sold one house and bought another. I’ve had COVID (twice, I believe–once before it was popular and then again beginning on Halloween, just for funsies). I injured my Achilles tendon–and it took a whole year to heal. I dropped a 10-pound weight on my other foot and that poor toe still hurts from time to time.

I still don’t know what I own. Did I ditch it in a panic or in a fit of generosity?

I miss my backyard fountain. I miss my backyard! I miss the beach. I miss my kids. I miss succulents and cacti. I miss the trail system by my house. I miss my dog. I miss my job and I miss most of my co-workers. I miss my piano. I miss my giant bathtub. I miss Rubio’s fish tacos. I miss my old routine.

But it’s not all nostalgia. I don’t miss traffic and homeless encampments and crowded parking lots and lengthy lines. I don’t miss heat and the cost of living and wildfires. I have no regrets at all about this move. I wanted to move to Minnesota. This place is a good place for us at this stage of our lives. The people have been beautiful and generous and kind. Our smaller house is cute. (I have to clean out the garage once and for all.)

I just have to get through this last month of dumb summer. I told my husband last night that I’m not a summer person, but then I realized I was a Pacific Northwest Summer Person because the summers there are so amazing.

But heat, humidity and mosquitoes? No, thanks.

Happy One-Year Leaving Everything Behind Anniversary! You survived!

I have a few minutes before work and wanted to offer my future self a little information about what’s happening right now.

My son the opera singer student is here now for a couple of weeks. He and his twin brother are mostly hanging out in the basement doing whatever grown up brothers do for fun. I think it mostly involves the internet and video games and discussion that sound like arguments but are really just passionate (pointless) conversation.

When my husband picked him up on Thursday night, things went awry. I answered my phone from the bathtub where I was sweating in a hot bath. He told me that the car wouldn’t start and I thought for a split second it was a joke but then it turned out to be a terrible truth. I jumped from the tub to investigate a shuttle from the airport but as it turned out, there is no current shuttle. Though I wasn’t even at the airport, this turn of events ruined my night.

My beloved drives a 2008 Buick, quite proud of his thrift, and so he took that car the 90 minute drive to the airport and while parked in elite parking, it died. This tragedy was overcome by AAA and an Uber. The tow-truck delivered the car to a local mechanic where it still sits, waiting to be fixed. (Please, God, let it not cost an arm and a leg.) The Uber ride code $140.00.

Tomorrow night, I’ll drive my reliable SUV to pick up my daughter. She’ll be here for one week and has hope and dreams of enjoying the lake. I bought a couple of floats so we can . . . well, float.

It will be good to have all four kids under one roof. You can never take these things for granted.