You can now call me a Basket Weaver.
I wove a basket today.
Here’s the basket I wove:
Here`s me weaving the basket:
Here was the first sunset of 2020:
But the world is not the only thing starting a new year. Here we go . . . (sound of throat clearing) . . .
It’s my baby’s 5th birthday. I’ve decided to give it a present: an upgrade. For no other reason than to get rid of those crappy ads showing up in the middle of my (so carefully designed) posts. I bet you are seeing one right now. Probably one telling you that you can learn to speak a foreign language fluently in just five minutes. Or maybe it is that picture of ugly feet that keeps popping up.
I’m a bit nervous about how this will go – if and how my blog will change in content or appearance. Or something worse. If you happen to notice in the coming days that it has disappeared from your Reader (or the face of the Virtual Earth), well, then you will know that I messed it up.
Wish us luck!
It’s 12:30 on December 31st and – as tradition dictates – the table is set, the wine is aerating and Barbie stands ready to dance. The frat boys have straggled in one by one and taken their seats. As I type this, they are sampling the first of ten bottles. I have retired to my office to write the last post of 2019 – my 501st in all since starting this blog and my 1st on this new notebook. (A certain computer specialist informed me that one no longer uses the term “laptop”.)
Speaking of which, my transitioning has now entered Phase Five: transfer of photos and videos. (Un-?)fortunately, this required me to first finish up two long-on-the-list standing projects: a photo-book and a Year in Review slideshow for the school. From last year. That second one got done last night . . .
With the notebook taking the honorary place on my desk and the old laptop relegated to an extra table, I sat and listened to it huffing and puffing and wheezing and whining as it struggled to render the slideshow video with its 600+ photos, 8 music tracks and hundreds of transitions and motion effects . It was trying so hard that even the Devil Cat got concerned and went to comfort it. Finally, after three hours, the video was done, copied and secured. Old Laptop had successfully completed its final mission.
You’d think I would feel some relief being able to strike this point off my list of projects, but what I really felt was irritation that such a list exists at all.
It’s now 6:22 pm and the last of the frat boys have just left. As tradition dictates, I will spend the rest of this evening in the usual way, some chauffeuring, some washing out of wine glasses, packing away the Barbie for the next 364 days, later some panicky dog-sitting during the fireworks. In between, I am sending this message out into blogworld that I love my traditions and don’t want them to change.
No more To Do lists. No more resolutions.
I am resolved.
Of course it is partly my fault. Over the past year, I have allowed digital chaos to creep into my life. Thousands of school and work photos remained scattered over 5 different devices instead of being regularly uploaded in an orderly fashion onto my laptop. Work and private files were saved . . . oh, wherever. (I’ll clean it up later.) Blog posts – finished or not – were also saved willy-nilly in various dark corners of my hard drive. Backing up files was something that could be perennially put off till some later date. I’ll get to it during my next work break, I told myself . . .
I never did.
And then came the ominous news that Windows 7 would no longer be supported after January 14, 2020. A few days later I discovered that the 2/” button on my keyboard no longer worked (which might have had something to do with the water I spilled on it the previous day). I found a workaround using Insert and Symbol, but it was (and is) a pain in the asterisk. To make matters worse, I started noticing that it was taking longer and longer for my laptop to fire up in the mornings. Between the moment I turned it on and the moment it was ready to accept my password, there was plenty enough time to take the dog out for a quick walk. Between entering the password and it being ready to use, I could go take a shower. After clicking on Thunderbird, I could go make my morning coffee and still get back before the Inbox showed up on the screen . . .
I put “new laptop” on my Christmas wish list.
December 24th, 2019. 10:32 pm. My entire family has now gone to bed after our wonderful Christmas Eve. I plug my new super-duper laptop in and nervously push the power button. A screen appears and asks me if I want it to speak English or German. I choose English and a “Please wait . . .” message appears on the screen for a matter of seconds. Suddenly I hear a pleasant female voice.
“Hello,” she says. Out loud.
“I will be helping you through the process of setting up your laptop,” she continues. Then she asks me if I want to respond to her manually or by speaking back.
I am completely freaked out. And speechless. I just click my way through the rest of our “conversation”, feeling like a dork. I can tell she thinks I’m a loser.
Five minutes later I am immersed in the foreign-looking bowels of Windows 10 with offers of tips and random websites popping up on my screen, email notifications dinging one after another on my nearby cellphone. I am in over my head. I get the hell out of there.
Once she has gone dark, I lean back and my first thought is that my new laptop is female. In the future I’ll probably be referring to . . . her . . . as “she”. I’m pretty sure my old one was an “it”. My second realization is the horrendous amount of work ahead of me before I can make this transition. My third thought is that I should write Bill Gates a letter of complaint, asking him not only where he gets off gendering my machine like that, but also pointing out what should be obvious to him – the fact that a lot of older people also depend on computers and he’s putting us through some major stress. I’ll tell him it is his fault that the first half of my Christmas vacation is going to be spent carefully ordering all my files and readying them for the move from my old machine to my new bff. (Actually . . . more like “bf for 10” – or however many years she lasts till Bill decides to end her.) Then I will quickly thank him for all his good work in Africa and sign off with “Indignantly yours”.
Fortunately, the computer specialist in my husband’s school is willing to spend a few hours with me tomorrow, helping me find my way around this new terrain. He’ll show me how to install all the programs I need and to get rid of all the useless stuff that is already on there. I don’t suppose there is anything he can do about her being a girl.
It just occurred to me that I am surrounded by ghoulish pets (and ex-pets).
First there is the black cat in the basket next to my laptop who I have long known to be possessed by the devil. Then there is Dog Four at my feet, who just had a growth removed from her head and now looks a bit like Frankenstein.
To my left is my latest crochet project – a recreation of the deformed, quickly deceased chick I hatched in an incubator. His bulging right eye earned him the name Quasimodo. (I made this stuffed animal at the specific request of my sister, who will then give me back the evil bat I made in summer.)
And finally, just outside my office door are the three dead and dried out creatures we discovered while cleaning out our basement yesterday.
It also just occurred to me that it is October 31st and therefore a good day to share all of this with you.
As I have related over the past two years, my one-sidedly antagonistic relationship with a certain neighbor has been slowly warming. We now regularly have short and shallow chats as I pass her house on my daily dog walks. A while back she suggested that we allow our ducks to roam more freely. She wouldn’t mind at all if they waddled down to her yard to eat some slugs. Last week she offered me a peach.
Yesterday, however, she had a particular concern to discuss with me. A complaint, really . . When my husband came home later in the day, I told him about the conversation
‘She said we should kill our rooster and eat him.’
To backtrack a minute, we have discussing this exact topic for a while now. Whereas I was thinking along the lines of re-homing the rooster like we did last time, the husband was for a more final solution. I found that sort of sad. This rooster had once been part of a happy Band of Brothers and by sheer dumb luck became the sole survivor (two of his brothers have long since been digested, the third one landed in our freezer). Unfortunately, he made a fatal mistake when deciding to start his days of loud crowing at 4:30 am. Now his time was up.
I thought that by telling the husband about my conversation with Mean Neighbor Lady he might change his mind. He didn’t. In fact, it seemed to make him more determined. He told me later that he was going to do the deed himself. I asked him how and he explained. I asked him if he was going to use an axe and he said, no, probably the big butcher knife he had gotten from his brother.
We sat in silence for a time and I contemplated his burgeoning collection of knives and his predilection for reading grotesque psycho killer thrillers.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘they say one thing all mass murderers have in common is that they killed small animals in their youths.’
‘I killed mice when I was young,’ he responded. ‘Of course with traps.’
‘You didn’t enjoy it though . . . or . . . did you?’
He didn’t respond.
I thought about what we were going to do once the animal was dead. He had said earlier that he would probably just bury it because it was too old to cook. I sighed.
‘I guess we will have to eat him. Otherwise it is just murder.’
The husband is now sitting out on the porch in his farmer overalls and watching YouTube videos about how to properly slaughter and dress a chicken. And I have to go clean out and reorganize the freezer to make room for a second rooster. The whole time I will be muttering about Mean Neighbor Lady and how she is to blame for setting this whole unfortunate series of events in motion.
Yesterday, my life had only one old bird in need of thawing. Soon there will be four.
About thirty-two years ago I was contemplating getting married, so I consulted “the bible”, and in particular, Chapters 8 and 10. After that, I insisted on adapting our wedding vows to “I promise to love, honor, cherish, and occasionally play Scrabble with you for as long as we both shall live.”
It turned out that “occasionally” meant once every quarter of a century. So it was only five years ago that I discovered, to my horror, that my husband cheats at Scrabble. (Or do you think that “Jeanhose” and “Krux” are words?) Thank goodness I won the game anyway. Two points less and I could be divorcée right now.
As it is, it’s my 30th wedding anniversary today, and sort of like last year, I spent most of it chauffeuring kids around, obeying the commands of my cleaning lady, and doing load after load of laundry. It’s now about 7:00 pm and I am all alone for the evening – unless of course my adopted refugee son pops in for some food. Daughter 1 flitted in from her trip to Malta and took off two hours later to spend her first night in her new apartment in Graz. Daughter 2 is at a concert in Vienna, with friends and strict instructions to send me a text message every two or three hours.
And the husband is off fishing in Sweden again.
However . . .
Being the person he is, he made sure that a surprise appeared in the kitchen this morning. I might just be the only wife in the world who un-ironically thinks a bag of Cheetos is the best anniversary present ever! (The fountain pen was nice too.) But wait, there’s more! A half hour later my cell phone chimed.
Check out what my husband calls “our Weddingfish”:
I’m starting to think this guy might be a keeper.