Back to Bragging

 

There will be some posts coming about our three weeks in the States and our day in Chicago, but for now only one story is relevant.

Two days before leaving, my daughter had an appointment in a hair salon to get extensions braided in professionally. She had found the salon on the internet and the pictures made it seem like quite a nice place. My sister and I drove her to the salon’s address, intending to get her started and then leave, returning 5 or 6 hours later to pick her up. But on reaching our destination, we found ourselves in front of an apartment building. It all seemed a bit dubious to us, as we entered the building on the off chance that a hair salon could be found inside. We saw the front office and its busy receptionist. (Do normal apartment buildings have receptionists?) We saw quite a few people with walkers and wheelchairs. We saw what looked like a gymnasium where two young women were studying at one of the card tables with folding chairs set up in there. On the back wall there were benches and a youngish man sat on one, directly under a large American flag, staring blankly ahead of him. A dashing elderly African American couple – she in her colorful head scarf and he in his royal blue suit with matching hat –  walked past us and left the building. They were in high spirits as if on their way to the speakeasy.

As the receptionist was clearly ignoring us, my daughter called the number of the salon again and reached the same woman she had talked to before. It seemed we were in the right place and we should go down to the end of the hall where she would meet us.

En route, my sister and I made it clear that if this was not a salon in a public area then we were all leaving. We weren’t going to simply leave my daughter in some stranger’s apartment.

A stairwell door opened and a middle-aged woman dressed in something reminiscent of pajamas appeared.  She ordered us to follow her up the stairs. An awkward conversation ensued. (Thanks again, sis, for doing all the work!) We left again and I dealt with a daughter who was relieved and disappointed in equal measures. It was too late to try and find another salon, so I said,

“Well I watched Lila braiding in your extensions last time, maybe I can just do it myself when we get back home.” That made my daughter happy again.

That statement also had unexpected consequences – one of which is that of the eight days we have been back home, I have spent the better part of four as a hairdresser.

With Daughter One I began with a sense of desperation and the feeling of having too many thumbs. I quickly wished I had paid better attention to Lila. A few YouTube videos and a lot of trial and error later, I started to find my groove. By the time we were done, I had gotten pretty good at it.

Daughter Two looked at the results and envied the way these braids stayed so straight. (She has so much hair, that I have been able to micro-braid it without any extra artificial hair – but her braids then coil up afterward.) We mused about the possibility of doing extensions on her hair too, just as a means of keeping it straight.

Those musings cost me the entirety of yesterday and 3/4ths of today.

BUT!! . . .

I can now show off my masterpiece.

              

Statistics:

Number of braids: One hundred and ten
Extension color match: 9.9 on a scale of 10
Partitioning noticeability: very low (and low is good!)
Time spent: 11 episodes of the Gilmore Girls
Average number of braids per episode: 10
Reward: three hugs, two kitchen cleanings, three volunteered dog walks, no more hairdressing sessions until November, bragging rights.

Goodbye, Tree

 

As many of you already know, I’m not exactly Nature Girl. I have an extremely limited vocabulary to describe the natural world, mostly due to  . . . let’s face it, not really caring. I divide the green stuff I see around me into the loose genres (is that the right word?) of “grassy”, “bushy”, “flowery”, “treelike”, and “snack”. Within these groups I can identify a handful of individual specimens. For instance, I know a rose when I see one. Also a dandelion.  I can correctly name a weeping willow, a maple tree (thanks to the Canadian flag) and staghorn sumac (gardenworld’s “Walking Dead”). In the “Snack” genre, I can recognize a cornstalk and several types of berries (assuming they are ripe and ready to pick). But that’s about it.

So I am at a loss to identify the tree in our garden that was destroyed in last week’s wildly raging storm. It was our biggest tree and a rare type – or so I was told by a visiting botanist about 15 years ago. I immediately forgot what he said the tree was and have been meaning to find out. It was very shapely and tall. It was very good at providing shade and privacy to my favorite spot on the screen porch. But half of its huge branches (– tree-sized themselves) were lying on the ground after the storm and the remaining half of the tree threatened to fall on our neighbor’s roof. It had to go.

Before After the Storm:                      After the Chainsaw:

               

I spent a good ten minutes today on the internet trying to identify the tree based on its leaf. The closest matches were “Norway Maple” and “Canadian Hawthorn” – both of which can’t be right. The tree has no flowers or nuts or four-inch, fatal-looking thorns. I was sort of hoping one of my many greenthumbed blog people could identify it. Thanks in advance! And while you are at your research, I will be out on the porch with my Kindle and glass of Coke, feeling ever-so-slightly more exposed.

Disrespected

Some of you readers will be familiar with a certain 40 year old ten speed bike, stored in my sister’s basement and dusted off every two years when I come to visit – it’s the one I affectionately refer to as “The Rejuvenator”. My brother-in-law has trouble remembering that name and calls it “The Youthinizer” – at least I hope that is how he spells it in his mind. “The Euthanizer” doesn’t sound so good.

He’s not the only one who has been mangling my bike’s name. Yesterday my husband wanted to ride to the tennis courts and asked me, “Is it okay if I take The Terminator?”

I said no.

That answer surprised him and he asked what was up.

“If you aren’t going to show him some respect, then you can’t ride him. It’s that simple.”

“I’m so sorry,” he replied, “is it okay if I take the Rejuicenator?”

 

He ended up taking my brother-in-law’s bike. The Euthanizer.

 

Morning in America

There are two soundtracks running in my head as I sip my hazelnut coffee and watch the sunrise on my first morning in Milwaukee and they couldn’t be more different. They compete with one another for my brain’s favor. First I envision the West Side Story dancers and hear:

I like to be in America!
O.K. by me in America!
Ev’rything free in America
(For a small fee in America!)

 

Suddenly there is a mental scratch of the needle on the record and the music changes to sultry sounds of Nina Simone  – or Muse – singing:

 It’s a new dawn, It’s a new day,

It’s a new life,

And I’m feeling good.

 

I think my brain cannot decide on the soundtrack for this day because it feels there is just a bit more waiting to do before this vacation can really begin. Just as it evades sensory input of people smoking around me, it refuses to accept the reality of our arrival here. So when we passed this view yesterday – one that had evoked the feeling of finally being home the previous 20+ times I saw it – there was no excitement (or at least none I allowed myself to feel.) And last night when we all sat together on my sister’s porch and reeled off a litany of possible activities for the next three weeks, I thought a lot of them sounded nice, but that it was too early to start planning . . .

And all of that is so, because my brain pushed the “Pause” button on receiving this message off my computer screen several weeks ago, along with the subsequent letter telling us to appear for our interviews on July 19th.

July 19th. That is tomorrow. (Wish us luck.)

 

Tomorrow, one of two things will happen.

EITHER . . .

my daughters will officially become certified citizens of the U.S. and this long, at times nightmarish, bureaucratic odyssey will be over,

OR . . .

the odyssey will continue and the vacation will be over (at least for me.)

On the bright side I will probably be able to finally decide on a soundtrack – will it be the lightly cynical but happy patriotism? or the moody and dark irony of a new day dawning?

 

Tuesdays with Dafi

During a small family gathering today at my mother-in-law’s house, I got . . . scolded . . . admonished . . . reprimanded . . . by my sister-in-law.  And by my younger sister-in-law, no less. (A younger s-i-l who should actually be just a little in awe of me, a bit less uppity in my presence . . . I mean, if we were in China, I could boss her around and she’d just have to stay silent and take it.) What she scolded me for was how little I have been writing in my blog lately. Now that is a sweet thing to hear for any blogger – especially one who worries that certain friends and relatives are only reading out of a sense of obligation. I used to think this about her.

Every Tuesday, I take the train to the university to teach my course there. Two years ago, I got a new (old) lecture hall that had only one saving grace – it was right next door to my sister-in-law’s office. Once I realized this, I called her from the train one day and said “Hey Dafi! I’ve got a half hour to kill. What are you up to?” (She never let me forget that formulation.) What followed were weekly short get-togethers in which she gave me free coffee and all the latest family news that my husband forgot to tell me about. I’m not quite sure what she got out of these talks. Not only am I a terrible source for juicy gossip, but, once when I arrived at her office, I noticed my blog on her computer screen. “Oh no!” I thought, “she’s cramming my blog for our coffee klatch!”

One wonderful thing about Dafi is that when you think a thing like that, you can feel free to just go ahead and say it out loud to her too.

“Oh, no!” I said, and then asked her, “Are you cramming my blog for our coffee klatch!?”

She laughed and said no. I didn’t completely believe her.

All the more reason that today’s scolding made me feel good. Even if it came from a younger sister-in-law who has no business scolding her elder.

So, here’s a post dedicated to Dafi and a promise to everyone I have been neglecting on the reading/commenting side that summer is here, time for catching up is upon me, and I will be back. As I have warned many of you at times before  – “watch out for incoming!!”  And once the bombardment starts, you can all say:

“Thanks, Dafi! Thanks a lot.” (How you intone this is your own choice.)

______________________________________

A Note on the Name “Dafi”:
  1. it is pronounced “dah-fee”
  2. it is spelled d-a-f-i by me, d-a-f-f-i by my husband, d-a-f-f-y by others
  3. for years I thought it had something to do with Daffy Duck
  4. according to the husband, it comes from the movie “Some Like It Hot” and Jack Lemmon (in drag) as Daphne. (Pronounced in German “dahf-na” which turned into “dahf-nee”, which lost its “n” and became “dah-fee”, which is where I came into the family and took up the nickname and to this day, 30+ years later, still use it, even though no one else does anymore.)

 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

 

. . . or the first day of it anyway . . .

 

 . . . but before I get to that, where can I get my hands on one of these T-shirts? It is perfect. All three of these crazes came to our school this year – much to the irritation of most of my colleagues. When it came to bottle flipping, I agreed – how is this an achievement?? However, I confess that I did the dabbing (aka “Usain Bolt”) gesture myself many a time and that fidget spinners also have a certain fascination for me. My colleagues were continually demanding that the students put them in their pockets or anywhere out of reach/sight. I never had to insist on that. When I came into the classroom, all the kids quickly disappeared their fidget spinners for fear that I would “borrow” it, start spinning myself, and not give it back. One of my students gave me one as a farewell gift and I blurted out “HOW COOL!!!” The sad thing is that I was honestly excited about it. Here it is (and notice the background!):

I got that gift on Friday morning – the last day of school filled with tearful farewells (but no tears from me, I’m not a wimp). The afternoon was spent carting daughters here and there, going last-minute-shopping for stuff they needed for their trip to the States, and finally at the Fair Trade Festival, where Mitzi’s new band had their incredibly successful premiere:

The night was long and moist for everyone except us designated drivers. I confiscated the husband’s car keys after he told the story of our kitchen renovations for the fifth time (a story, I might add, that he stole from me): “We wanted a new refrigerator. We are getting a new kitchen.”

Eventually, we made it home and fell into bed. We had made it. We had survived. Except that . . . (full disclosure) . . . the last day of school is not the last day of the school year. There was one more week of “Post-readying” to get through. And there were still “a few” things to do before our new kitchen could be installed starting Monday morning . . . i.e. 48 hours later . . .

 

Backtrack.

In the exhilarating process of planning and ordering our new kitchen months ago, we somehow found it feasible that the last week of work before summer vacation would be a good time for having the kitchen built. We didn’t really consider everything that would have to be done beforehand – the water lines, the electric cabling, the heating pipes, the subsequent plastering and mess. We didn’t consider the fact that my husband would be out of town for half of the last month of school and glued to it for the other half (mostly due to graduation exams) and that I would be feverishly working on the year-in-review slideshow for a week and then writing 28 farewell letters to my students the next. We also didn’t consider that our kids would be reeling from one year-end recital or party or performance to another while packing and preparing for their first solo flight to the States. Or that the hubby was taking part in a barbecuing competition that would keep him from home from noon Saturday to the wee hours. Or that we would have to leave for the airport in the middle of the night (2:00 am) to get them to the airport, driving for two hours there, two hours back, and then reporting for work at 9:00 am on Monday morning.

 

And because we hadn’t considered all of this, we woke up on Saturday morning in a bit of a panic. The fridge and dishwasher were still standing in the middle of the room which had to be emptied, cleaned and painted. But before that could be done, we had to go get the hubby’s car and Mitzi’s keyboard. And we had to tape up plastic everywhere to protect the windows and rest of the house. And the husband had to get everything ready for his barbecuing competition – that meant cleaning grills and finding all the equipment in our now disastrously chaotic household. We managed and he took off at noon. I walked into the kitchen and considered where to begin . . .

I decided on emptying the last load from the dishwasher and moving it. I opened it up and was greeted by some kind of new life-form. It seems we forgot to actually turn the machine on after that final loading five very warm days earlier.  I had to transport all those green and fuzzy dishes and glasses and cutlery to the bathroom and wash them by hand. It was truly one of the Top Five low points of my life.

Next task – moving the refrigerator. This required emptying it out completely and then sliding it into the living room and filling it back up again. Seems straightforward enough, but it took hours. And there was a lot of toting things to our one water source in the bathroom and back. More green fuzziness was also involved.

After that came vacuuming and mopping and daughter chauffeuring and mopping and unsuccessful attempts at online check-ins and mopping and then some more mopping. The kitchen had now gone from this:

to this:

 

And I went from this:

to this:

 

Sunday was painting day.

 

 

Monday.  We had left to take my daughters to the airport at 2:00 am and got back home around 7:00 o’clock in the morning. The workers arrived shortly thereafter and everything was hunky-dory as far as the kitchen project went. I drove off to school relieved and then had . . . the worst day of my entire six years there. (Details are unimportant here, but will probably be dealt with in some future post.) I can say I came home demoralized and ready to quit. I tracked the progress of my daughters and saw that their flight had been delayed. It was almost midnight before I got word that they had landed safely, gotten through the airport procedures, found the right bus, contacted my sister and were safely arrived. I went to bed.

On Tuesday morning, the workers arrived again and continued installing the kitchen. I drove off to school  . . . reluctantly . . . almost unwillingly.

I arrived and walked into the kitchen. My “boss” was crying and the other members of the teaching staff were in intense discussion with her. I realized that all of them had felt as deeply bad about the meeting as I had and that they were equally exhausted. We talked through all the crap from the preceding day and reaffirmed our solidarity with one another. The efforts to drive wedges between us had failed.  We even got a few things on our list done.

I went home and checked the progress of our kitchen. I recognized that it was going to be gorgeous. I checked the mail. The letters confirming my daughters’ citizenship interviews had arrived.

My husband suggested a shopping trip to pick out new dishes and pots and pans. It had been quite a few days since we had thrown money to the wind. In the store, we actually found dishes that we both really liked.

When we got home, we chatted with our daughters about their impending canoe trip and concert and civics lessons (to prepare for their interviews).

I hung up and felt that the world was a different place.  After a week, no, make that a month, no, make that a year of recurring anguish and frustration, things were just falling into line. The kitchen was taking shape. The citizenship process was becoming clear and comprehensible. The dimmed lights of my professional future had just brightened. The end of the tunnel was now . . . not quite in sight, but the lightness of the walls indicated that there was just one more curve ahead of me and then . . .

Sunshine.

And nothing.

But, sunshine.

 

PS.  A few days have gone by since I wrote the above. The school year is now officially over. The kitchen is now done. Have a look:

 

Places I Used to Inhabit

It is strange to be suddenly confronted with your own unconscious and habitual movements and behaviors. This happens when there is some major change in your accustomed physical environment. For instance, it has almost been three weeks since quitting smoking, yet when I’m writing and get temporarily stuck searching for the right formulation of words or thoughts, my body just stands up all on its own and walks out onto the screen porch.

Now when this happens, there is no ashtray out there. No matches. Nothing to light. So I stand there for a few seconds in a state of confusion wondering: why am I here?

And then there is the kitchen.

For the past two decades, my day began like this: I walked into the kitchen and took a sharp right. All in one place were the things I needed. The coffeemaker, the filters, the coffee, the water, and the compost bin (for yesterday’s grounds). The next ten movements I made were all so habitual that no conscious thought was necessary. And because I keep my thyroid medication on top of the coffee tin, I never forget to take it.

This morning I woke up, went down to the kitchen and took a right. I found myself standing back-to-back with a refrigerator, staring at a blank wall where my coffeemaker used to be, wondering: why am I here?

All that because . . . this is my kitchen now:

And this is my kitchen now:

And this, too,  is my kitchen now:

I forgot to take my thyroid medication for the first time in years this morning. This afternoon, I needed scissors. I walked into the kitchen and headed toward the empty wall where the scissors used to hang. Later I needed a plastic bag. I headed toward a drawer in front of the kitchen window. The frig was in my way. And of course that drawer is no longer there anyway – it is now in the bathroom. It is only a matter of time before I walk into the kitchen and simply drop my empty coffee cup, letting it smash on the floor right below where the sink used to be.

It is going to be like this for about three more weeks.

Once the new kitchen is here, I will have to learn a whole slew of new habitual movements. I have no idea yet where the coffeemaker is going to go in the new arrangement, but I am going to put A LOT of thought into it. Because this kitchen is probably going to be my last one. However it is arranged is going to determine where I go and what I do in the first five minutes of every day from now until . . . my institutionalization.

That is, assuming my institutionalization doesn’t happen sometime in the next three weeks.