Habitat for Humanity

where

Habitat = Midtown Lofts

and

Humanity = Me

The migration begins Friday morning, at the start of a holiday weekend, when everyone either has plans, is out of town, or blowing off their hands with firecrackers. I will be more than content to spend the weekend on my much-anticipated projects: cleaning, painting (every. square. inch), rearranging. If, in the spirit of service (and really, the spirit of America), you have an hour or two to paint a small square, wipe down a counter, or sit and talk to me while I do that, consider yourself invited. Just think, if all my loyal blog readers lent a hand, how long would it take me to paint the entire space? Yeah, a long time.

But seriously, so many of you have asked what you can do to help; here it is. If you'd like to hang out for a bit, and help with a project or three, I'd love to see you. I can promise only this: you won't have to lug boxes, and that when the place is all put together, we'll have a hell of a housewarming party. Shoot me an email (scott.rohr@gmail.com) if you'd like to come by, but know that you are welcome anytime over the coming weeks, and not just to work. I can't wait to welcome you to my home.

Skills test

As you know, I have been training to live independently for several months and have learned many new skills. A few of note:

1. I have learned how to stay up way past a normal human's bedtime. In the olden days, I would turn in around 10:30, maybe read until 11:00. Child's play. Now? The foster parents have taught me that life (or their version of it) doesn't really begin until 10:00, and the day really gets going about midnight. This makes the getting up at 6:15am to go for a walk kind of tough, but I've done it, almost every day. In other words, I'm seriously behind on sleep.

2. Thanks to Foster Mom's specific and unwavering instructions, I can now make perfect tea:

a. Bring cold water to a boil. For some kinds of tea, we let it sit for a minute after boiling.
b. Add six scoopies of the good loose tea (all measurements are for the big white pot; other measurements become necessary for the blue and red pots).
c. Pour the water over the loose tea; set the timer for four minutes (five if it's the tea that looks like dried eels).
d. Remove the tea holder thingy from the pot; add four sugar cubes and a quarter cup of 2% milk.
e. Stir with a large chopstick, and pour.

3. Alternatively, I have observed that Diet Coke is an appropriate beverage for any time of day or night or activity. I have declined to participate in this rite (and, by the by, completely gave up drinking soda three months ago).

4. I am powerless in the face of Rustica bittersweet chocolate cookies. While I had always suspected this, the valupacks that enter the group home are dangerous to me. The solution seems to be storing them in the foster parents' bedroom, which I don't enter unless invited so as not to stumble upon the redhotmonkeylovesex.

5. How Was Your Day is the most important activity a family can do together, and every family needs to follow the custom. Every day, no exceptions. The rules are easy: when all the inhabitants are in soft clothes at the end of the busy day, someone asks "How was your day?" And then someone else answers, and conversation ensues.

6. If you have a dirty dish that needs to go in the dishwasher, you should just leave it on the counter, because you'll likely put it in the dishwasher incorrectly. This is a rule I've understood for many years, and am unsure how to apply to an independent living situation.

7. Canadian design shows are far superior to Lower American design shows. In particular, Sarah's House is must-see TV.

8. Friends and neighbors dropping by to chat make life civilized and meaningful. So do good foster parents, and I've had the best.

A bundle of nerves

I took some time, as some of you have noted, to let my post about, and my memories of Viggo have some room to breathe. And during that time I have been grateful for your kind responses and the ways in which you have reached out to me. These past days have been less about blog as narrative arc and more about blog as community, and I am thankful for those who have surrounded me. Everyone should have that.

When we describe someone as "a bundle of nerves," we aren't being complimentary, are we? Because lordhavemercy that is me this week. My inability to sit still borders on the comical. I do some work, I play the piano, I walk, I run, I waste time on the computer, I daydream. Rinse and repeat. I am filled with equal parts excitement and dread, the upcoming move this weekend stirring in me thoughts about finality and change (thoughts that don't always manage to make sense to me, or represent any sort of cogent story). Even writing a short blog post feels like an impossible task: quick grab some random words out of the ether before they escape! Make sense of them later.

Breathe.

Is change always this rough? If you're a hyper-active guy with mild OCD and a fair amount of anxiety, I suppose. If you've imbued this weekend (or had it imbued for you by circumstance) by Much Portent and Meaning, then certainly. Stick with me: this too shall pass.

A Remembrance

It is not a joke, or at least not a funny one, when I say that on Sunday of That Week I started a new job, on Tuesday my relationship ended, and on Thursday my dog died. But I can't help but laugh nervously when I recount it, because it's so completely absurd. I have processed (ugh, aren't we so, so, so tired of that word) a lot since then, but I have held a bit at bay. And I know I will cry the entire time I'm writing this, because I already am. It's stupid, I suppose, to force myself to do this, but it's one of the things I told myself I had to accomplish before I could move back to Midtown Lofts. I can't make a new home there until I've said goodbye to what won't be there when I return.

This is Viggo. This is our baby, we'd say. We were a typical childless, indulgent, 21st-century couple when it came to our dog. We spoiled him and talked to him, and talked about him, and took pictures of him, and bought him toys we knew he'd destroy in minutes. We went on long walks and runs with him, and let him offleash to chase bunnies on the greenway and fish at the lake (he could catch neither). He was exuberant and exasperating. He would sit by the side of the bed, his whines turning to full-fledged cries until I would kick up the duvet with my leg and he would hop onto the mattress, curl up and spend the night under the covers, his nose sticking out the foot of the bed only if it was a really warm night. He had no interest in getting up in the morning, and after we took him outside and he ate his breakfast, he was ready to go back under the covers for a couple more hours. After that he was a holy terror for the rest of the day.

Viggo was a very good dog. And he could be a very bad dog (see Indulgent Owners). He was the most beautiful Vizsla anyone had ever seen. He sat absolutely still—like a statue—on the front porch while people walked by, almost all of them commenting on his regal bearing. He howled on the first Wednesday of every month, at 1pm, as the tornado sirens were tested. Because he wasn't much of a howler, his attempts often ended in a cough, and he'd stare at me like it was my fault. Eric enjoyed tying our kitchen towels under his chin like a kerchief, and Viggo became the Polish grandmother we never had. Viggo enjoyed this not at all.

These pictures of him are the first I've looked at since he died, and seeing them is still almost more than I can bear. It will be a while before I can look at the many dozens hundreds of others I have. I can't write about the last few days and weeks of his life, except to say that he was a stunningly active, healthy six-year-old dog and he should still be here with me. His chin should be resting on my arm while I'm typing, and he should be grunting in annoyance while I play with his ears.

As much as I adored Viggo, I won't have another dog for a long time. My heart isn't big enough for another dog, because I still love Viggo so. I sometimes wonder if he knew that life was about to get very complicated, and bowed out gracefully, sparing us the one division of property that would have been impossible. That, besides making me sob uncontrollably (aren't you glad this isn't a video blog?) is also crazy-dog-person talk.

I am grateful for the years I had with my little family, and I miss it more than you can know. Hug your partner, and hug your kids, and hug your dog. There is no cynicism here, nor a clever ending. There is only love.

Self-imposed blockage

Sometimes blog posts are kind of like sneezes: I can feel them coming on, and when they have to happen, out they come. On the other hand, because I compose a post almost entirely in my head before typing, I spend a lot of time with a particular post, sometimes a few days if it's going to be a particularly self-gazing-at-navel one. So I'm grateful both to Foster Mom and my recent trip to Chicago to taking some pressure off. I've got a big 'un brewing, and it's been tough to think about, much less write about, so I've been holding breath, forcing myself not to sneeze. Crazy, I know, because supposedly this blogging gig is voluntary, but I also know this has to happen so that I can Move On With Purpose and Hopefulness. In the meantime, go read Tom Rachman's The Imperfectionists, because it's a terrific summer read. I'll be back shortly, with what I hope is one last maudlin bit of treacle so we can all get on with our lives (oh, not to worry, I'll still be right here forever; we have a lot of going forty left to do, much of which I'm sure will be completely embarrassing to me, and therefore wildly entertaining to you).

Field Notes from the Group Home

I am grateful to Foster Mom for many things, but especially for this, a biography, as it were, of the last few months. With this missive I'd consider us all caught up, ready to move forward. Thanks, DF.

I used to be a sous-blogger, but I had to take a break from the unrelenting demands of that job. Now here I am, once again finding myself with some things to say.

I guess I should get that first week in February out of the way. It started so well on Sunday--the new job was a perfect fit and his debut was (the church version of) a triumph. But then Monday we spent a couple hours . . . hmm . . . discussing our ideas about emotional intelligence, affect regulation, and self-care. (Also timing just how long a person can sob before they have to stop to breathe. I guess I'm a scientist at heart.) Tuesday afternoon Phil moved huge armloads of mess out of our second bedroom, inflated an airbed, and made a little sleeping nest with nice cotton sheets and a pair of down comforters. Tuesday night Scott slept here. Wednesday Viggo was diagnosed with leukemia. Thursday Viggo died. It was so terrible. And so we began this experiment. 

*************

What should we call it? Maybe we're a commune. Or is it more like foster care? Roommates? Or maybe it's assisted living, and we've just installed a PCA to help the old people stay out of a nursing home. Or maybe we're a group home, and our focus is independent living skills. In the first couple weeks we had several "visitors." They all came by with the veneer of a polite social agenda, but I could tell by their clipboards and their questions that we were in the middle of a suitability home study. Electricity? Running water? Pleasing display of accessories in the public spaces? Enough ice cream in the freezer? Wireless access to the cable modem plus expanded channel package? Date of last piano tuning?

The bar is higher when the vulnerable newcomer knows how to use the phone and could call child protection on his own behalf.

*************

After a couple weeks we upgraded from the airbed to a real mattress. That meant moving lots and lots of stuff to make room for the bed. We were also watching the very inspirational "Hoarders" TV show at the time, and were completely motivated to get rid of stuff. We moved some furniture around and had a really full carload for Value Village. Mostly we got rid of books and clothes. We played several rounds of "Is This Cute?" and I tried to be ruthless about not hanging onto the Nos. I did have to do a little workshop for the foster child focused on specific features of black slacks, and how no two pairs meet exactly the same needs.

We learned very quickly that we're well-matched in our ideas about the importance of making your bed every day.

**************

The group home has only one bathroom. Our morning schedules are quite different. However, a naked post-shower sprint from the bathroom to the bedroom is completely visible in the other bedroom. All residents call out "Eyes Closed Time" as they traverse the pass, and "Eyes Open Time" once they're in their spot. Everyone seems quite motivated to participate with the letter and the spirit of this plan, and we've had no breech in protocol.

We've comingled our various products, and I'm completely accustomed now to the enormous cobalt blue container of shaving goo on the rim of the sink. I think it might be a lifetime supply.

***************

For the census, we were three, and discussed at length which category fit us best. I think we went with "unmarried adults living together."

**************

Scott has been warned for several years that he needed to have his freakishly large tonsils taken out. We had a family meeting and agreed that it was time to commit and get it done, (because his life was in such a shambles, he'd barely notice one more crappy thing) so he found a very cute ENT guy and went under the knife on April 7. The tonsils were even worse than the surgeon had anticipated, which seemed to make Scott very proud. Phil and Jacob went along as his next of kin. The official record for April 2010 will be written by me, because he has very little actual memory of that month. The intensity and relentlessness and grip of post-op pain is at least as bad as you've heard. For two weeks he mostly laid in bed and dribbled cherry-flavored liquid opiods down his throat every two hours. Early on he learned to set the timer on his phone and wake himself up for a scheduled dose, because trying to catch up with the pain is nothing but preventable suffering.

The first couple days he could only tolerate broth and apple juice in tiny amounts. He slept a lot, and we had to nudge him to stay hydrated. He was very interested in advancing to ice cream, but learned the hard way that he'd over-estimated his tolerance. He had a visit from a nice friend scheduled, so I left him alone for a few minutes. Two minutes before MK arrived he disgorged Roxicet-tinged Dairy Queen shake in a wide distribution throughout the upstairs. In retrospect, we should have spent more time getting him oriented to our "Commit to the Green Bowl" approach that has served us so well. MK found what she needed and had everything cleaned up by the time I got home a half hour later. How great is that? And for the sake of telling the whole truth, the trail from this bed to the bathroom benefitted from two passes of the Big Green Cleaning Machine a few days later. For a couple weeks we didn't leave him alone. Pink sherbet and real fruit popsicles were his main meal most days.

There were some other effluvial details that are still classified. We will evaluate transcript and photo requests on a need-to-know basis. He did gradually advance to pureed cauliflower soup, but declined almost all baby food. He lost 17# in three weeks, because that's what happens when even water hurts. He turned a corner at about one month post-op, and is almost normal now, though he says singing is still not a sure thing. I think there is a very slight difference in his speaking voice.

***************

He's away from home a lot, but quickly adapted to our ways. Coming home always means putting on soft clothes, and then we do How Was Your Day? We have sensible family dinners and have gotten him hooked on a couple favorite TV shows. We've instituted a rationing plan for Rustica bittersweet chocolate cookies, and some days we stick to it.

He's done quite a bit of gardening, and now it looks like someone lives here. We have a comprehensive anti-bunny program in place, because it didn't work for him to just sit on the front porch and give them the evil eye.

Scott is very attentive to letting us know when he's going to be returning home. At first I thought he just had nice roommate manners. But later I realized he believes that whenever he's gone, the foster parents jump into bed and have redhotmonkeylovesex. This is a source of permanent amusement, and indicates a significant deficit in his reality testing.

***************

A couple weeks ago he went out with a new friend and got home at 11:50, full of stories. The next night he was headed out again and I said, "See you at midnight!" (because what could be funnier than a fake curfew for a 42-year-old?). He objected and said he'd been home 10 minutes early, so he should get 10 extra minutes the next night. Because at that point I was just making shit up, I said, "No carryover minutes in this plan." And he was home before midnight.

****************

On several occasions we've had conversations that explore the differences in 

1.  feeling emotion and expressing it in a way that isn't harmful to self or others (good)

2.  denying or stuffing feelings, keeping secrets, telling lies (bad)

3.  wallowing (bad)

Though he may not exactly know that.

We've also been practicing neutral face. You could probably do very well playing poker against him, because he's got no poker face. None whatsoever.

***************

An hour after he left for Chicago last weekend we had this text message exchange:

Scott:   Hope your week isn't too boring. Do NOT have sex on my bed just to "change it up."

Me: Uh oh.

Scott: Get out of my room!!!!!!!

************

More than anything, it's been like living in the dorm. Easy and fun. And now it's winding down. I told somebody yesterday that he's leaving before I need him to, and isn't that a good way to start the next chapter?

Hello for real

I can't believe you allowed yesterday's indulgent post to sneak past. I'm fine, and apologize for the lazy blip.

Hello from Chicago, a city I'm quite certain I was meant to live in someday (not soon; worry not, locals). I am on retreat, not from life, but for work. After a whirlwind start at work a few months ago, I'm taking some time to plan ahead for the upcoming program year. It feels like a great luxury, and I'll be much better at my job as a result. That I've been accompanied here by another musician almost as talented as me is a great help and comfort.

What should you know? I'm chomping at the bit to try independent living, even as I mourn the loss of the comfort and security that the group home has provided (ugh, let's rewrite that sentence). I'm trying to extend runs enough that I finish the Minnesota Half Marathon in August with something resembling my dignity intact. Some of my planned travel has been pared down, both with and without my input, which makes me look forward to certain trips even more. Also, to all you venture capitalists, I have a great idea for a promising invention: the customer visualizes fabric in his mind, and your machine/doohickey/thingamajig spits it out exactly as imagined. Brilliant!

We'll resume some steps in the Glorious Ascent after my return. In the meantime, we enjoy Ms. Earth's first sputtering attempts at summer. She is evidently new at this, and doesn't quite understand how it works.

Relapse

Last time I stood at this spot, I was 34 and newly—madly—in love.
Today I'm 42 and newly single. Up, down, forward, backward, pause.
I see a sign for pie.

The Glorious Ascent: Mandate #5

In many ways the mandate marking the halfway point of the Ascent is more like a peak. Most of the other gentle suggestions are in service to:

Good Housekeeping.

Not the struggling-to-be-relevant-shelter-magazine-before-shelter-magazines-existed-fourteen-deep-on-the-newsstand kind of Housekeeping. No, I'm talking about home: finding one, making one, keeping one, sharing one, being content in one. Readers who have stuck with me for any time at all know that my obsession compulsion interest in where I live, where other people live, how we dwell in a space, and what we surround ourselves with in said space borders on the ridiculous. I'm sure the deep-seated psychological reasons for this will be revealed by some shrink stumbling on Going40, but I've had more than one partner/friend/concerned citizen roll his eyes as I recite Benjamin Moore's color deck like a rosary. Huh—I just reread that bit. That such a treasure is single is maybe not so surprising?

Anyhoo. Given the little events of the last few months and the attendant group home experience (the licensing for which, by the by, must be incredibly lax), figuring out where to live next (and for some version of forever) has been my overarching concern. I'll spare you the legal considerations and the market and economic implications (here's a clue: we bought high and now we live in the U.S. in 2010). Beyond that, it has taken some months to figure out what I even wanted to come next: could I just keep living forever with loving, generous friends (that will be its very own blog post someday); would I rent for awhile, retreating from real life for a bit, to regroup and prepare to land somewhere down the road; would I find a little house to make my own as I aged into the 80-year-old lady I seem destined to become? All three options have some most attractive components. And, I suppose, some downsides. A responsible bloggist would have put the options to his readership for a vote; instead, I changed my mind each day, spent a staggering amount of time scouring MLS listings online, and wondered to myself (Self? I asked) if a commute to a farm in southwest Minnesota was practical.

In the end, I've come full circle, and am surprised (and so, so, so terrified) to find that the best new home for me is one I never really wanted to leave. Later this summer I'll be making what was once ours, mine. I'm thrilled to contemplate living in a space I love, with friends I adore, in a part of town that is deeply home. Can I afford it? No (that's why we'll have Mandate #6). But I also can't afford not to (again, see U.S. Market Conditions, 2010). And I'm ready: to be on my own, to create a spot that is just so (and to learn when to let go of that little tic), to have a place to be with friends old and new. Duh: to keep a home.

And in answer to the inevitable queries: Gray Clouds, Modern Gray, Spalding Gray*, Lemongrass, and Glowing Firelight.

*It's true that I had no choice but to choose this color when I saw the name. Fortunately, it's my favorite of the bunch.

Sometimes

Sometimes you don't write/call/text/IM/stop by/say hi, because you've been busy—as foster mom would say—having a life. Sometimes you don't have much to say. Sometimes you're in a foul mood and don't want to bring it to anyone else. Sometimes you don't care about mandates and going forward at all. Sometimes you just want to stew in the present—and maybe a little in the past—to remind yourself that there is still some major suckage going on. Sometimes reading someone else's writing is way more gratifying than conjuring up your own (see Perry, Michael). Sometimes you have to think about the play you went to or the movie you saw or the novel you read and wonder why the bad behavior of others counts as entertainment. Sometimes you go for a walk and wonder when real life is going to begin, and then realize oh my god it already has and this is it. Sometimes you listen to sublime music and realize you can do that, too. Sometimes you look at someone and think, really? Sometimes the rainbow isn't enough, and besides, you're not a colored girl. Sometimes your hands are in the dirt and it's warm and moist in a good way. Sometimes the suburbs seem fine. Sometimes having something taken away helps you focus on more important things—like cheese. Sometimes getting there is less than half the fun.

The Glorious Ascent: Mandate #4

Hubris requires that I make up a word.

Tread Lightlier.

When I move into permanent housing on July 1 (again with the foreshadowing; can you believe what a fine writer I am? Mandate #5 can't come soon enough for you), I will be doing so without a car. While shared custody of Ingrid the Gas-Sucking Swede has gone just fine, I have long harbored a desire to live in a city and experience it without the crutch of a car. Now, make no mistake, we're not dealing with unbridled noblesse oblige here. I'm about to be stone cold broke, and not having a car is going to save me a lot of money I don't have. But also? I will be living in one of the densest parts of the city, working in another, both well served by public transportation, and for the coming months at least, an easy bike ride apart from each other. What's more, when I absolutely need a car, I'll be living a few blocks away from an Hour Car station: I can buy a lot of hours for the costs of car payments, gas, and insurance.

I often hear complaints that this city isn't dense enough to support life without a car, and maybe that will prove true for me, but I won't know until I try it. I believe that we can't make the city be what we want it to be without taking some steps to make it so. This is a shaky, baby step, by only one person, but maybe my pathetic little step will join other pathetic little steps and have an impact on sustainable urban development. If nothing else, I will be forced to make focused decisions about how and where I shop, where I spend entertainment dollars, and how I spend my time. I  will also get a lot of reading done on the bus (and to know me is to know that reading time is always in too-short supply). And maybe, just maybe, I'll never. have to go. to the suburbs. again.

We're in public, people

Bad bus ride: four people talking loudly on their cellphones, which is not okay. The guy closest to me chose to have this conversation, loudly, and glared at me every time I glanced his way.

Too Gay to Function: But you need to give me a reason!
Saint on other end: ____
TGTF: It's not enough to just tell me no, because I'll just keep asking.
SOOE: ____
TGTF: But I don't want to pressure you.
SOOE: ____
TGTF: But if I really want to do it and you just say you don't want to without giving me a reason that just makes me feel bad.
SOOE: ____
TGTF: I want to decide together, so this feels equal.
SOOE: ____
TGTF: Fine, but don't expect me to just do it the next time you want to.
Angry disconnect of iPhone. Another glare at Going40, who, mercifully, had only a block left of his ride.

Crossover appeal

If you're not interested in the cultural positioning of music in the twenty-first century, then this article won't interest you a whit. But since it does me, there's a fair amount to chew on in this seemingly light exchange. And this paragraph, especially as a person who really aims to play a wide variety of music for work, really stands out:

Sometimes when classical musicians, especially instrumentalists, play jazz or rock, the problem comes with their approach to rhythm. They mimic the jazzy swing style but lack the requisite quality of relaxation. When Duke Ellington and Art Tatum played, no matter how complex and driving the rhythm, they sounded relaxed. Not so Itzhak Perlman when he tries to swing.

If Scott the earnest musician were to receive a report card of his leadership at work yesterday, it would read something like: "Cantor Rohr was well prepared (especially for a holiday weekend right after a major festival Sunday), led a number of people and music styles ably, but lacks the requisite quality of relaxation."

The Glorious Ascent: Mandate #3

Not all our mandates can be esoteric, full of deep thoughts and hope for the world.

Exercise daily.

Since recovering from surgery, I can't seem to spend enough time outdoors. I prefer movement to sitting, sunshine to indoors, wellness to stupor. I'm no fitness machine, but morning hour-long walks have become a necessary way to start the day, I'm running several days a week, and I'm walking as a general part of life: to the store, to the bus (a tease for Mandate #4), on errands. I've also started tennis lessons, which at only once a week aren't going to change my life, but am planning to start match play through Tennis Minneapolis. I have plans for some hiking this summer, my workplace kickball team starts next week, and I'm going to buy a baseball mitt so that lesbians will play catch with me. Rudy the Big Red Bike is a steady companion, and a little gardening is part of the mix, too. When bad weather sets in, my punch card for rock climbing at Vertical Endeavors will come in handy.

Slovenly no more, I am, always and devotedly yours,

Going40

The Glorious Ascent: Mandate #2

Friends First.

My mother, upon learning of my breakup (sorry if I've never mentioned it before), said, "Think how lucky you are to have so many friends. I've never met anyone who has more good friends than you do." And how. I knew it all along, but the last few months have reminded me—in a concrete, overwhelming way—just how lucky I am. Yesterday I sat and talked with one of my favorite people on earth for about two hours, sitting outside Java Jack's enjoying the sunshine and coffee, and I could hardly believe my good fortune. And that's just one moment of many since the dark days of winter. In fact, I arranged all my friends' initials randomly (even though some repeat), and came up with this many letters: ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ.

I aim to spend the next years of my life trying to be as good a friend to all of you as you have been to me. I can't wait to have you over for dinner and drinks and conversation, often and forever, not simply to repay the many kindnesses you have shown me throughout my annus horribilis, but because my life is as fun as it is because of the smart, quirky, talented people I count as friends.

Aloha

The invitation for this afternoon's wedding rehearsal and dinner instructed us to dress for a luau. I am not a person of the Hawaiian shirt. I am, however, a person of the bespoke linen pocket square, hula dancer and all. Thanks to foster mom for the box pleat.

The Glorious Ascent: Mandate #1

First, let's acknowledge that this new series sounds a lot like North Korean propaganda. Which I love. Think of me as your very own gentle and supreme leader, but perhaps without the scary predilections of Kim Jong-il.

So, the first of nine Mandates (A dear reader suggested Prospects, which I quite like, but I need a firmer tone if I'm going to make it through this next chapter):

Be Present.

I promise I'm not getting all new age-y on you. It occurs to me, however, that it is quite easy for me (and maybe you?) to spend much time thinking about the last few months (and for that matter, the last eight years), analyzing what went wrong, what could have been different, blah, blah, blah. Similarly, I can spin my hamster cage wheel frenetically as I think about what's next: where I'll live, will I get a PhD, will I fall in love, will I be happy, can I make it as a single person. It's forward-thinking, but it's still anxiety-producing blah, blah, blah.

As I walked around the lake last night, under a perfect moon, with people laughing and talking, I remembered how many great things there are in my life right now. Besides the moon and the lake. Friends and family and books and cookies and textiles. I can't let the shadows of the past or the scariness of the future obscure the contentment I have within reach right here, right now. Neither can you. As we come upon a beautiful holiday weekend, doesn't it seem like a perfect time to revel in the now? I'll start.

Turning a corner

I've got my hands in the 10 and 2 positions, and I'm gripping the wheel tightly, but dang this is a curvy road. I don't dare let my focus wander enough to contemplate anything so frivolous as blogging.

Okay, enough with the driving metaphor. But, several people have mentioned that I seem to have turned a (the?) proverbial corner the last two or three weeks, and I would have to agree. My outlook is different, if subtly. I find myself more focused on the future than on the past. I am determined to have permanent housing this summer (more on that as developments warrant). I am setting goals—financial, personal, musical, professional—to live the kind of life I want to live, and that feels good and right and just to live. While I'm not going to start filling notebooks with my personal manifesto, stashing them in my log cabin until I go completely crazy, there are some basic values that I intend to guide my glorious ascent into middle age. Perhaps the last chapter in my life has been fair warning, or cautionary tale, but I intend to learn from it. And even worse for you, I intend to unpack it all for you right here, in a new occasional blog feature: Scott's Mandates for a Non-Sucky Life. To begin, let's come up with a better title.

What's up?

Not a damn thing. Except that I've gained three pounds this week, thanks to the generous people and the eating. Choir party tonight, then it's time to stuff a sock in it. Oh, and I signed up for a non-competitive tennis league, which basically means tennis if you're really bad. I'm hoping to play my first match this week.

Sometimes it's best just not to blog. Back to the humidity.

Added to the library

tinkers, by Paul Harding. Magers & Quinn finally received its shipment of this year's surprise Pulitzer winner. This is Harding's first novel, and the small Bellevue Literary Press was not prepared, inventory-wise, to have a Pulitzer winner on its hands.

Coop: A Family, a Farm, and the Pursuit of One Good Egg, by Michael Perry. I'm fairly certain this book was written just for me, and having read just a few pages on the ride home from work, I'm more convinced than ever that some of the best writing in America happens in Wisconsin.

I suppose I should back up a few weeks if I'm going to list additions to the library. Yay or nay? Books have always been an irresistible pull, and right now they have the added benefit of being both comfort and distraction, so the stack next to the bed continues to grow.

Transcending food

During one of my recent stops on Scott's Trail o' Tears, I had a little surgical procedure. A nip here, a tuck there, and voila, no more nasty gangrenous tonsils. During that time I pigged out on ice chips, broth, and baby food, losing several pounds. People kept asking if I was hungry, and really I wasn't. Partly because I felt so crappy, but also, and more importantly, because I had become one with the universe and had no need of the common things that mortals require to sustain them.

That time is past, and I am famished. All the time. I am determined to keep the weight off, and lose more besides, and have been exercising quite a bit in an effort to a) lower my cholesterol; b) increase my fitness and endurance; and c) not still be single when I'm 50 (which is a long way off, snarky mean people). Anyhoo.

The biggest problem (and what a problem to have) is all the nice people. I've had two fabulous dinners this week at friends' homes, a couple more coming up, lunch dates more days than not, all because my friends are generous and good and caring. It's been great fun, and I don't want it to stop. I just have to run like the wind. And walk. And bike. And play tennis. And climb. As exhausting as it is to know me? It's almost as exhausting to be me.

Itinerary

So it turns out I might have a little bit of a life. While details must still be finalized (like how the hell I'll afford it), I have the following trips in the hopper over the coming months:

• mid-June: Chicago, for a planning retreat with fellow extraordinary musician (he's extraordinary, I'm just a hanger-on)
• late June: North Shore, hiking with the Prof Ks
• July: Montana, to visit the parents, and some more of the hiking
• August: New York, for a college friend fiesta
• September: Amsterdam and Paris, reacquainting myself with two favorite cities and one favorite friend
• January: Sedona with the foster parents
• late winter: Cape Town, South Africa, to see the Prof Ks in exile

Home. Sick.

Reading  Dominique Brown's review in the Times of Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House, by Meghan Daum, I had no choice but to stew on (about? in?) the ridiculous bouts of homesickness I've experienced of late. Isn't it a strange feeling, seeing or hearing or even smelling some thing, seemingly innocuous, and having it set off an almost physical wave of longing? We can all recognize the feeling as homesickness, ineffable though it may be. Not a big surprise that the phenomenon has been a regular feature of my life the last few months. The surprise has been just what I've been homesick about and for (I couldn't do that without a preposition at the end, so I used two). The simple act of displacement, of a "new life" (whatever the hell that means) seems to have triggered all sorts of notions of domestic life, of memories both fond and not, that recall the umpteen homes of my life.

The obvious moments are for the home just past. Walking by the condo this morning to pick up my car (yes, we have joint custody of Ingrid, for now), I saw my porch, the table and chairs at which I have spent so many hours, chatting with neighbors and friends who have dropped by, the (too many) planters now empty, waiting for me, I guess. I was so unprepared for the physical sensation of that flood of memories I found myself sucking air to continue on to the parking garage.

Even more random: listening to a recording of the great Norwegian-Italian soprano Elizabeth Norberg-Schulz singing Mozart unaccountably led me back to the beautiful backyard gardens a previous (sigh) ex and I had worked so hard to create. A dozen years later, I wanted to be sitting on the back stoop, admiring the clematis laden with giant purple blooms trained along the fence.

Thinking about a trip this summer, to the scenes of my childhood in Montana, has me longing to hike, climbing through the pines to emerge on some rocky shelf, breathing in that crisp, thin air that can only mean one thing: I am home.

There is no going back; I know that. Home is what we make it now, and this temporary, unsettled state of mine will pass; I will be ensconced somewhere I am happy to call home. Books and friends and my piano and pots of flowers and good food and love will surround me. But I hope that I never lose those moments where I come face to memory with homes past, memories that have piled one on top of another, like a haphazard sheaf of papers stuck in too small a drawer. A teak drawer, in a mid-century Danish hutch, in a dining room looking out on the herb garden, with the dog wagging his tail to come in, and a pot of soup bubbling on the stove. Sorry to cut this short, but the doorbell just rang; my guests have arrived.

A writing discipline

I thought it might be an interesting, even noble, challenge to compose a blog post without using a single first-person pronoun, but.

In which the thoughts are random

Shall we?

• First off, I'm not thrilled that bulleted and numbered lists are my only option in dumb ol' blogger.
• I don't know about you, but after the recent rainy season (it's as if we've been living in a Jhumpa Lahiri short story), I feel like if I'm not outside all the time I'm somehow squandering my life. The path around Lake Harriet has become like a hamster cage: must. keep. moving. (Speaking of hamsters, I do have a little issue with this.
• As I was eating dinner tonight—essentially undoing the day's two and a half hours of exercise—I contemplated just how much I loathe 50th and ShoppeShop. So much collagen, so many capri pants.
• Let's talk about the couple across the aisle from me at moderately-expensive-for-what-it-is Italian convenience chain (yeah, d'Amico): he's in a mint green cotton sweater, and the kind of glasses that let you know he's a high-powered jerk but thinks the specs make him look hip to the secretaries he's banging. She's in black, and her lips are permanently pursed, and her lightweight lavender cashmere cardigan is neatly tied around her shoulders. They've been waiting for their food approximately three seconds. JerkMan: How long are we supposed to sit here and wait? Botoxia: What else do we have to do? JM: Not sit here. Such romance.
• Another pair, starboard. He's mid-thirties, kind of bland, but kind of hot. She's pushing 70, and needs to schedule an appointment for her roots, pronto. I think about how nice it is that he's taking mom out on a Saturday night. Then they lean in and kiss, and there's tongue. Not really, but I thought that would have been a great story.
• I have played for a lot of weddings. I have attended a lot of weddings. I'm 42. I can count on one hand the number of weddings I haven't found mostly heinous. Today it was fake white twigs with orchids glued to them, in giant silver urns, on plant stands covered in tulle. And this was an expensive wedding: the bride was in about seven thousand bucks' worth of of tight-fitting Monique Lhuillier. And yet she still wanted Canon in D. I made sure to do one round in d minor.
• If I'm reading an entertaining memoir for the masses, I want a few pictures. I want to see Pablo Casals playing four-hand piano with Queen Marîa Cristina (and I know that's the wrong mark on the i, but I don't remember all my key commands right now). Also, I don't want conjecture. I don't want to be told that "during the journey home, Bach's thoughts would have turned to his wife, Maria Barbara, and their four young children," just so the author can set up the tragedy of Bach showing up home after a month at the spa to find out that, oops, Maria died. 
• You know where white boards look really nice? That's right, nowhere. Least of all as part of an upscale shop's window display with a really tortured rhyme advertising a sale. I simply have to stay away from that intersection.

Turned-on Bach

Piano club—a monthly performance group that a half dozen of us have maintained for over eight years—met tonight. I'm working on Bach's C minor Partita, and played the Sinfonia from it this evening (not half badly). As I was playing tonight, I had a little blast from the past: one of my favorite albums of childhood. As a little Montana gay boy, I loooooved the Swingle Singers. There, I've said it. Combining the musical maturity of my present with the unbelievable nerdiness of my childhood, I give you the Swingle Singers performing my Bach Partita. Sublime, or something.

Some favorite things of late

Sorry to go all Julie Andrews on you, but a pleasant few days warrant a bit of reflection, don't you think? May my random list inspire you to waste time coming up with your own. To wit:

• Lucia's pan-roasted chicken, which I haven't had in eons, made even better with ricotta stuffed under the skin, sitting on a potato pancake and glazed carrots, and accompanied by butterscotch cake with white chocolate mousse and ginger caramel sauce. And brilliant company.
• 24 attempting to find its inner Bourne. Massive, albeit entertaining, fail.
• Putting down one satisfying book and immediately finding another. Goodbye, angsty Nazi Resistance fighters. Hello, entertaining history of the cello suites.
• Pleasantly sore muscles, indicating intense, satisfying exercise.
• Steady progress on a sleeve.
• Nailing the left hand trill in m. 5 of the Sinfonia of Bach's C minor Partita—an elusive but worthy goal.
• Walking shoes for walking, running shoes for running, both allowing movement on a suspiciously swollen and painful toe.
• Daydreaming about the little house that's—not yet, maybe someday, here's hoping—mine.

darkacre

Two literary posts in a row, when all you want to do is read about histrionics. So sorry (they might be fading). Last evening, at Common Good Books in St. Paul, I had the good fortune to hear excellent poet, English professor at Carleton and friend Greg Hewett read from his latest volume of poems. darkacre is not necessarily easy reading, but much of what I've read thus far is so well-structured and full of satisfying imagery that I'm easily lost in it. From a set of poems titled The Structure of Crisis, his poem about New Orleans, Consolation on Pipeline, resonates particularly today, given the gross horror we see oozing from the Gulf of Mexico's ripped-up floor. I can't share the entire work, and you can just go to a bookstore or here and buy the volume for yourself, but the opening is worth committing to memory:

Sometimes all you want to do is lean
your tired frame against the last post
still upright in the charred settlement
of your life, only the wood is mottled
red with embers and scraps of flame twist
at your feet. Hope zigzags off
to the bruised horizon
like it had been constructed
only to offer perspective.

Hewett, Greg. "Consolation on Pipeline." darkacre. Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 2010.

The assault

From the excellent (I just finished it, so I suppose I should reflect before judging it so) 1985 Dutch novel, The Assault, by Henry Mulisch:

And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . Time passes. "That, at least, is behind us," we say, "but what still lies ahead?" The way we word it, it's as if our backs were turned to the past as we look toward the future; and that is, in fact, how we actually think of it: the future in front, the past behind. To dynamic personalities, the present is a ship that drives its bow through the rough seas of the future. To more passive ones, it is rather like a raft drifting along with the tide. There is, of course, something wrong with both these images, for if time is movement, then it must be moving through another kind of time, and the secondary time through yet another; and thus time is endlessly multiplied. This is the kind of concept that does not please philosophers, but then, inventions of the heart have little to do with those of the intellect.

Now I'm taking my aching, over-exercised (only to me is it over-exercised, believe me) self to a reading in that other city. I shall report back if interest warrants.

Minnesota matters: From Russia with . . . oh, never mind

A highlight of my culture vulture weekend (to recap: Bernadette with the Minnesota Orchestra, Compline at Saint Paul's on the Hill, a Juicy Lucy at The Nook) was my first trip to The Museum of Russian Art. I've been wanting to visit since it opened, have no reason for not going before now, and am thrilled that I finally did; 'tis terrific. Julie Snow, arguably the city's best-known architect, conceived a beautiful space out of the limitation of building out an old church. Of the exhibits, the strongest is the Soviet-era realist paintings of northern Russia (the textiles looking a tad home-sewn, and lacquer boxes making me want to throw things, things like lacquer boxes).  I appreciate a museum with a focus small enough that I needn't spend days and days there to get a sense of it, yet ambitious enough to curate the work thoughtfully. The museum manages to do both, and has been added to my circuit of Cultural Gems Worth Visiting When It Would Be Just As Easy To Stay Home And Rent A Redbox. I commend it to you for consideration.

P.S. Never think my crooked, poorly-lit iPhone snapshots are the point of any of this. We all just need to hang tight until June, when Apple had better make good on its promise of a better camera.

Happiness is . . .

a day warm enough for brunch outdoors at Brit's.

How Bernadette Peters saved my life, or at the very least, my evening

Being a musician, you'd think I would understand how essentially music can move people. Truth is, I'd always been a bit uncomfortable with the notion that a single song can mean so much to one person. It seemed a bit trite, hackneyed, even weak. Until tonight.

I have tried to think of a way to describe to caring people who ask how I am, how I'm "doing with all this." This week it struck me that what I've been going through is a bit (and really only a bit; I don't want to diminish a very real and significant diagnosis) like PTSD. For the first couple months after life went to hell last summer, I simply went through the motions, giving care as best I could, trying to keep it together, to make sure someone I loved (X) would come through okay. I worried only about losing him. Then I spent a few months coming to the realization that I already had. And I interviewed for a new job, and I held my breath through the holidays and I started that new job and I screwed up the courage to leave what X and I both knew had to be left and our dog died and my home and my family and my life were gone and I had surgery and I was sick and I recovered. And last night I went out for an evening with a good friend, not on a date—though in another time or circumstance it might have been—and I sat down to enjoy the show and looked down the row and there was X arriving, not alone. And—melodramatic as this may seem to those of you snug in your ordered existences—life seemed unrepentantly cruel. And then Ms. Peters came out to wild applause and laughter and exclamations of "let me entertain you." Then it was just a piano, and a single spotlight, and she looked at me (out of all the hundreds of people in that packed hall) and she sang:



And I breathed.

Reading List

Do you have a few books on your nightstand? Yeah, me too. Problem is, I keep adding to the pile stack tower, and can't seem to stop, or catch up. Sitting around with some English teacher friends a few days ago I immediately suggested book recommendations, and added to the pile. An upcoming coffee date with a smart theater prof? Please come armed with book suggestions. And to you? Yes, I'd love to know what you're reading. Please add your suggestions to the comments. I'm confident I'll get to all these books eventually; I just don't have the perfect read for right now.

TU Dance at the Southern

Favorite troupe, great dance venue, best seat in the house. Thank you, Mr. C.

An app to call home

Forget the zombie games; here we have apps about plants and paint colors. I'm particularly excited to be able to take a photo of something and turn it into a paint color. Bless you Saint B. Moore. And if I'm reading the descriptions carefully, and I'm sure that I am, it says that that all I need to build the addition we've drawn for the little purple house is my iPhone! Contractors, this can't be good for you (not to worry, Jack, you can hold the iPhone).

This post is entirely for my own reference, so that I remember to download some of these apps. So sorry for the interruption. However, if you have your own favorite or useful app, feel free to comment.

Understanding Baking, Part I

Whenever I'm at your house for une petite soirée, the dessert table features an obligatory tray of lemon bars, as if the Minneapolis Park and Rec Board is going to come shut you down if you don't serve them at every. damn. party. As luck always seems to have it, I am standing at said table just as someone (usually an unhappily single woman wearing a tight dress too young for her) approaches, stops suddenly—as if seeing Jesus fresh from the tomb—and says coos squeals, "OhmygodIjustlovelemonbars!!!!!!" As you smile and say thank you, you catch me stage left rolling my eyes, which I deftly turn into a mini-stroke. Knowing what is now expected of me, I too take a lemon bar (which are not, by the way, all cut to the same size), close my eyes as if about to receive the wisdom of the ages, moan, "Mmmmm," and rub my tummy in a circular motion. As I wander off to find a plant to dump my plate into, I take a little bite and think to myself:

Why do your lemon bars suck?

The recipe is quite simple. That tender crumb crust? A little flour, some powdered sugar, a dash of salt (even if the recipe doesn't tell you to, just throw some in), and a whole lot of butter. You might make your first of several mistakes here. Perhaps you beat the ingredients within an inch of their lives, so that you've completely broken down all the molecules that need to make love during their time in the oven. Or maybe you press the mixture into the pan so hard that no air is left to form flaky layers as the butter melts out of the way. I don't know, but your crust is either tough and vaguely stale, or falling apart completely. And it usually tastes like flour.

The filling isn't much more difficult: beat a lot of sugar and eggs together until smooth. I'm beginning to understand that you have no idea what that means, and a good eight seconds of half-assed mixing seems adequate. But the eggs and sugar have to bind together, and they have to achieve some volume, and that takes some time, like over a minute (and that's with a KitchenAid stand mixer; I shudder to think of the results with your little gravy-encrusted hand mixer from the '70s). All you have left to do is carefully add the lemon juice, stir, sift some flour over the mixture and stir until incorporated. Even as I type, I know that "incorporated" has you throwing your hands in the air, dumping the mixture, flour globules and all, onto the crust (which you didn't bake long enough, by the way; it needs to turn golden brown on top or you're just going to have a rubbery membrane where the crust meets filling), and throw it all back in the oven. If I were a betting man, I'd guess you're on your third drink by now, and that the kitchen looks like hell.

Because you have no idea what "bake until filling is set" means, you do one of two things: you either take them out after exactly 30 minutes, regardless of the temperature of your particular oven, the elevation at which you live, the dew point, or the closing price of the Nikkei; or, just to make sure they're done, you let them bake until the top of the filling starts to turn brown (at which point you should simply pack your bags and request asylum in one of those countries that loves hosting deposed dictators).

All that's left to do is to sift powdered sugar on top of the bars, but you have to wait until they're cool, or you're left with an uneven mess of wet sugar. No one likes that.

The oven timer here at the group home has just beeped, so I need to go check on my lemon bars. I have never made them in my life, and really hope they turn out.

UPDATE: The lemon bars are fantastically good, and Foster Mom insisted on the bunnies.

Families moving forward

These days, to the question, "Where do you live?" I answer, "I don't know." Or, I'm staying with friends. Or, [throw up entire story here]. I have even called myself homeless. But I am not homeless, and I am ashamed that I have ever jokingly said that, because tonight I am staying with a dozen people who have no home at all. My life is easy. So is yours.

My workplace is a Families Moving Forward site twice each year. For a week, University Lutheran Church of Hope volunteers cook breakfast and dinner, and serve as evening and overnight hosts for several families, part of the organization's efforts to provide temporary emergency shelter. A new family joined the ranks tonight, a young mom and her three very young children. The kids' eyes lit up with disbelief that they each got their own bed for the night. Such pleasure, over an inflatable mattress on the floor.

Of course I'm impressed with the compassion and hard work so many in this congregation offer to make this happen. I'm one of two overnight hosts tonight, and my job is pretty easy: play with an occasional toddler who comes wandering down the hall to my office, toothbrush in hand (this has happened twice in the last fifteen minutes); try to find a radio for a bored teenager to use; blog. I have a mattress set up in my office, and will have a comfortable night, the same comfortable night our guests will have. But tomorrow I'll leave here and stop at a friend's for coffee, go home and go for a run, take a shower, enjoy the day. These folks will get on an early bus and spend the day wading through the intricacies of shelters and social service agencies, small children in tow. They'll come back here tomorrow night, to their spartan, temporary home. They'll do that until Sunday, and then they don't know where they'll be next week. I do; click here if you want to help these families know where home is, next week and every week.

I will not be a hoarder

Remember that time when you aimed to be terribly productive, but didn't really want to do anything important? Welcome to Tuesday evening. In my current little hovel, I have all that is most precious to me: books, yarn, skinny clothes that no one (least of all me) thought I'd ever wear again, and ten years' worth of Metropolitan Home. Uh huh. Some people would save a favorite pet, perhaps even a child from a burning building. Me? I'd evidently take shelter magazines. To prove to myself that I will not become a sad old woman living with her 42 cats (23 of them still alive), tonight I completed a little project. In preparation, I had spent several moments hours days going through each issue, remembering fondly where I was when I first fell in love with Shamir Shah, or that I could use live succulents to create a vertical wall garden, or how someday I'd have a very narrow, tall Japanese soaking tub. Good times.

But ruthlessness was called for. I put a little post-it note on each page I needed to keep, sometimes a single image, more often an entire article, as well as several recipes (remember homemade ketchup? MetHome, people). This might be a good time to mention that I got teary when I learned MetHome folded last winter. Tonight I culled, cut, and curated, and now have three folders of valuable inspiration and resources for a future home. Good for me. Bad for the producers of Hoarding: Buried Alive.

An iPhone Moment: Streetwalker Edition

I'm pleased that I was able to snap this photo without breaking stride. Just two neighbors meeting in the street to chat, one in her chenille robe, the other in saggy-ass flannel pajamas. Good morning! Howsabout we all go inside and get dressed before greeting our public?
P.S. I have a super cute outfit on today.

Family matters

I have been reflecting (ugh, it's all I do lately) the last couple days on families: who they are, how they interact, what they mean, especially for us in adulthood. My own familial relationships are complicated, but I'd guess yours are, too. The most intimate part of my family, my primary relationship, has gone away, and so the notion of what family is has to be recalibrated. Along with that absence is the absence of his family, who had become my family, too. Their absence now recalibrates the notion of family for me as well.

But other parts of my family have shot up like spring flowers to fill the void, to mask the bare spot. After a few weeks of spotty communication (surgery, busyness), I talked to my mother last night for an hour. She started the conversation with, "I just want to hear about you." Well, you don't need to ask me twice. After (of course, because this is all I can seem to do the last couple weeks) bursting into tears, we talked and talked, about the past and the future, and it felt great to have a mom to myself for an hour.

A couple weeks ago, at the tail end of my disgusting surgery recovery (maybe we can have a post just devoted to those charming days, or better yet, maybe Sous Blogger and Prof K of Ye Olden Days can fill you in; and does it drive you nuts, these long parentheticals I can't seem to stop with? I'm fairly certain I could never get a book published simply because an editor would need a flowchart to read the manuscript. Anyhoo.), my father came for a visit. He had been in Brookings, SD for a quilt show (which, by the by, is another post for another day). He extended his trip to come see me, and I was a bit apprehensive. If you know me at all you know that my father and I have had a tenuous relationship for many years. I have been grateful for the thaw over the last couple years, and this visit was pure joy to me. To have family come see me in about my sorriest state felt good, and I was reminded just how much he and I have in common (I'll get to that quilt post soon). We talked over a long lunch (mine was apple juice and a single scrambled egg), and my Foster Parents (next paragraph), had him over for dinner that night. We spent a fun evening poring over his six albums of the 250+ quilts he has made (yes, yes, the quilt post). I cried when he left, and was purely happy for like, an hour. 'Twas a good day.

My dear friends Deb and Phil, or, the Foster Parents, have been the truest definition of family to me in the last three months. At a crisis point they prepared a guest room for me in a matter of hours, and I have been here ever since. They have fed me and nurtured me and left me alone and let me sit on their bed and weep and let me be really, really angry (actually they've encouraged that). They nursed me back to health and when that was done they got out the steam cleaner for the rugs (again, a very. bad couple of weeks). We laugh and talk and watch Sarah's House on TV and go on outings; it has been easy and good to be here, and they are—in their own understated, casual way—making sure that someday I will be okay.

And many friends, so many of you, have been family, not just during Boring Scott in Crisis Year, but for so long, in so many ways. What fun it is, as adults, to get to be family to each other: I think it is one of the best parts of being a grownup. I was reminded of that clearly today, thanks to our pal, Facebook. My first cousin, Eric, and I chatted for over an hour today while we both should have been working. Eric and I last saw each other as kids, and over the last few months, sporadically, timidly, we've gotten to know each other a bit, and find that we are insanely alike. That little bit of genetics in common is a fun jumping-off point, a boost to a nascent friendship, but the most fun part of today was to write to each other about real stuff, to relate to each other as adults with a bit of shared history but a lot of mutual respect and goodwill. The lucky bastard lives near California wine country, and when we talked about me visiting someday, I said that I'd happily stay in a B&B (he and his wife have one and a half babies), to which he replied, "No you won't, you'll stay here! You're family!" And I am.

And also? Cousin Eric maybe didn't use so many exclamation points; he's a writer, after all, and you can—and should—buy his novel here.