Spam(a lot) and eggs(tra anxiety)

Early this morning I walked down the hill and through the woods in my nightgown and robe so I could take a shower in my son's apartment. At our house the tub has been installed in the guest bathroom but the water hasn't been turned on, and the lovely new shower has been installed in our master bathroom but we can't use it for 24 hours while the silicon cures, whatever that means. Yesterday I made several visits to my son's apartment just to use his bathroom, because our guest bathroom doesn't have a toilet yet while the master bathroom was occupied by a working man armed with power tools and caulking guns. 

So far it's been an up-and-down kind of week. The bathroom project is on target to be finished by Friday and the master bathroom will be fully functional this afternoon, so progress is being made! But obstacles keep arising, at home and elsewhere.

That important report I need to submit by the end of the month? I finally received the information I need to finish the report. Where has that info been hiding all this time? Well I'm not naming names here, but the essential information has been sitting in a certain administrator's spam folder since the middle of June. Our campus email system deletes spam items after 90 days, so it's a good thing I nagged someone into looking for the data!

Am I the only one who regularly practices spam folder hygiene? My Inbox Zero obsession requires me to scroll through spam at least twice a week to rescue anything that doesn't belong there and delete the rest, but maybe that's just a symptom of my personal neurosis. Apparently plenty of people are able to stroll calmly through their lives without ever wondering what valuable messages might have been inappropriately relegated to spam. Call it Spam Blindness--the ability to ignore a bulging spam folder without any qualms whatsoever.

At home I sometimes see signs of Dirt Blindness or Clutter Blindness--the ability to walk blithely past a mess without the slightest urge to clean it up. Again, I'm not naming names, but I long ago gave up on saying "If you see something amiss, just clean it up" to people for whom "amiss" is a foreign concept. I'm not a clean freak and I can live comfortably with a modicum of clutter, but certain types of disorder ring alarm bells in my brain and make my whole body vibrate with anxiety. Another symptom of my personal neurosis, no doubt, but if that little pile of dirt at the edge of the hallway insists on interfering with my sleep, you'd better believe I'll nag the person who left it there--or clean it up myself.

Maybe the presence in my house of men with power tools has made me a little more anxious than usual this week. I'm delighted at the work they're doing (on time and under budget, so far) and I'll be even more delighted when it's done, but it's hard to concentrate on important tasks with strangers in the bathroom and tools shrieking at all hours of the day. And then when I need the bathroom, I have to find the keys, find my shoes, and trek down through the woods to a bathroom that's suffering from its own special form of neglect. Right now it feels as if everything is a little bit amiss, but I lack the ability to put it back to rights and no amount of nagging will make this project get done any faster, so I'm just biting my tongue, biding my time, and trying to live through the current disorder.

In praise of a project that's going well (knock wood)

I recall a time years ago when we tried to do a little home improvement project in the parsonage where we lived for a few years: removing wallpaper and repainting the walls in the room where I wrote my dissertation, although "room" is perhaps not the right word to describe a space barely wider than a hallway, its walls interrupted with five doors and two windows. It was impossible to furnish a room so wonky, so I put my computer desk in there and wrote diligently, promising myself that my reward for completing the dissertation would be tearing down that horrible wallpaper. 

I think about that wallpaper every time I teach Charlotte Perkins Gilman's story "The Yellow Wall-paper," where the offending decor is described as

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions....The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sun light. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

I recognize that wallpaper! The wallpaper that surrounded me while I wrote my dissertation surely merited charges of aesthetic harassment, but I never figured out whom to sue. I gritted my teeth and lived with that wallpaper for more than a year, and instead of going mad like the woman in Gilman's story, I got even. As soon as the dissertation was done, I started tearing down that malignant wallpaper. 

Big mistake. 

The wallpaper didn't come down easily, and we soon learned that it had been hiding a multitude of sins: insect infestations, wall cracks, a round hole in the wall large enough for a wood stove's chimney, and a piece of plywood loosely covering an opening for yet another door. All those surprises required work that we weren't equipped or inclined to do--especially in a house that wasn't even ours.

Lately I've been thinking about that little home improvement project that got too big to handle, as we are currently in the midst of a major home improvement project that seems to be going quite well (knock wood). True, we've reached an awkward stage: the guest bathroom has no toilet (yet) while the master bathroom is occupied by a worker diligently removing the tub. Kind of awkward to elbow a worker out of the way every time one needs to use the bathroom, and also he's bound to have turned off the water in there, which is why I'm staying away from the house and working on campus all day. 

We knew this kind of thing might happen, but the good news is that the master bathroom is a small job--remove tub and tub surround, install accessible shower stall and hardware--and it should be done today or tomorrow, as long as the worker doesn't discover anything surprising while removing the old tub.

The guest bathroom doesn't even look like the same space. So far they've taken it down to the studs, removed all traces of dark gray and purple (mauve?), and installed the new tub and drywall; today they start mudding the drywall before they can install the toilet, sink, hardware, and flooring. That formerly dim, cramped room already looks so bright and cheery that I get happy every time I walk by.

I hesitate to say this out loud lest I jinx the process, but so far everything has gone entirely according to plan. No surprises, no problems, no extra charges, and the contractor and his crew have been a real pleasure to work with. I feel a calm confidence in their ability to get it done on time and within budget.

But I can't let myself get too excited. Who knows what might pop up before it's all done? Maybe they'll pull out the tub and find Jimmy Hoffa buried underneath. Whatever happens, I've got to be grateful for two things: against all odds, we have sufficient resources to meet the challenge--and we don't have to do any of the work ourselves. 

 

New bath in the guest bathroom!

 

All in a day's work

Before

After

What I need is a self-demolishing bathroom

The purple bathroom is currently emitting sounds of demolition--pounding, tearing, drilling--and the old bathroom door just walked out of the house. Not of its own volition, of course, although what a great idea that would be--a self-demolishing bathroom. When the time comes to replace key elements, you just say Shoo and out the door walks that purple potty, wonky vanity, and tiny tired sink.

And the door, of course. One possible explanation for the sorry state of that old bathroom is that a previous owner regularly locked a dog in there, which would explain the deep scratches and tears in the baseboards, flooring, and door. That's gotta go we said when we first moved in here, and now, 21 years later, it's finally happening.

The work was supposed to be done more than a month ago, but an essential component was first stuck on backorder and then finally arrived damaged. I have no complaints about the contractor--he's doing his best. And if the worker who's willing to get on his hands and knees to wrench that old vanity off the wall wants to listen to a loud podcast about cryptocurrency while he does all the dirty, I can live with that. I have my own work to do! Which at the moment amounts to responding to emails while trying not to hear the hammering, yammering, screeching, whirring, wrenching sounds of bathroom demolition. 

Random access memory

Memory is a funny thing, online memory doubly so. This morning I struggled to remember the name of a course I'm teaching this fall but my computer had no trouble reminding me that 16 years ago today I was totally over the moon about my new car, the Volvo wagon my brother gave me after I was diagnosed with cancer the same week my ancient Kia died and I couldn't afford both chemotherapy and a car. The car had more than 200,000 miles on it at the time and I put another hundred thousand on it over the next four years, and when I finally sold the Volvo to my trusty mechanic for parts, I kept the license plate as a reminder of the way people can come through for us in a pinch. It's a remarkable story (read it here) and I really needed to be reminded today that hope lives on despite everything. So I guess it's a good thing my technology has a better memory than I do. Maybe I'll ask my computer to write that syllabus....

 

Brain the size of a planet and they've got me pushing piddling paperwork

I'm sitting in my campus office clickety-clicking on the keyboard while some primitive part of my brain cowers in fear on the floor of the starship Heart of Gold and a disembodied voice keeps saying, "We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem."

How can my body be back at work while my mind feels stuck in a Douglas Adams novel? I have a list as long as my arm of tasks I must complete pronto--don't panic!--but I lack the information needed to complete them. I'm looking at a grant application on which all the dates are off by a full year, but changing them would require me to complete a massive number of tasks after I've retired. I've been given a date for the New Faculty Orientation I'm supposed to plan but have thus far received no indication that we have hired any new faculty. I need to file a final report about a previous grant but cannot get access to the data required for filing the report. And I need to finish my syllabi but I'm still not clear on exactly what I'm supposed to be doing in the new version of the first-year seminar.

Stymied by these impossibilities, I instead devote time to a piddling bit of paperwork that doesn't matter in the least: writing my annual review, a document that will be read by exactly one person (my wonderful department chair). There is literally nothing at stake: No chance that I'll be fired without cause in my final year of teaching and no more rewards available for good work. But, unlike my other projects, I have access to all the information I need to complete my annual review and so that's what I'll do. Somewhere in my extensive list of the past year's accomplishments I'll tuck away the complaint of an iconic Douglas Adams character, Marvin the morose android: "Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and they ask me to pick up a piece of paper."

But at least the work I'll do today is mostly harmless. Not much else I can say about it.

Peace, quiet, and nothing to do

I was getting up close and personal with some Balkan Bears' Breeches (AKA Acanthus Mollis, and where have they been all my life?) when I heard a youthful voice nearby whining: "Isn't there anything to do here?"

The voice emerged from a large group of kiddos wearing matching T-shirts, and I suppose I can't blame them for being bored. I mean, we were surrounded by trees and flowers and birds and bugs and benches and bridges and ponds and lily pads and trails and canopy walks and frogs and rabbits and sculptures and all sorts of other lovelies, but if a kid on a group outing with a bunch of other kids in matching T-shirts doesn't find those things interesting, then no, I guess there isn't anything to do at the Holden Arboretum.

To be fair, I probably would have been bored at his age too. But at my age, walking around an arboretum for a couple of hours before the rain started was just my speed, especially after two weeks with the grandkids.

Last night the grandkids were in their front yard catching fireflies when their parents arrived home after their long trip back from Italy. My daughter had promised to bring me a big hug but what I really wanted was a sensory deprivation chamber. I mean, the kids were great, but after two weeks I've had more than my quota of noise and roughhousing and occasional unreason. All I wanted was a little peace and quiet.

At Holden Arboretum this morning I sat on a bench listening to the buzz of cicadas, the calls of birds, and the occasional plop of a frog jumping into the pond. A catbird and a common yellowthroat kept me company. Peace. Stillness. Not quite quiet, but close enough. 

I didn't even think too much about taking photos. Since I broke the telephoto lens on my Nikon last week, I've been making do with my smartphone camera. It's okay for closeups but I couldn't zoom in on the blue-grey gnatcatchers that buzzed in a crabapple tree or the butterflies and dragonflies flittering among the plantings. I think I've decided to order a reconditioned lens, but before I make any big decisions, I need to give my brain a rest.

Holden Arboretum was restful enough until the rain started falling. It's a big place and I don't move quickly in the best of circumstances, so I spent much of the afternoon sloshing around in wet shoes. I'm the one asking for peace and quiet but everywhere I went, I squeaked. But I'm dry now and enjoying the photos and looking forward spending a quiet night without being responsible for the health and safety of any other human being. Grandma Camp was fun, but today I'm savoring the fact that no strange kid's whiny little voice is even remotely my problem.

Balkan Bears' Breeches

Pondside view

I love this Dawn Redwood

All in a day's work

Not that anyone asked, but:

Q: How many weeds did the kiddos pull from the brick walkway in front of our house yesterday morning?
A: Uncounted, but enough to make it unnecessary to weed-whack the walkway.

Q: How many rocks did the kiddos pile up to build a set of dams across our creek?
A: More than I could count, some of them heavy enough to require cooperative lifting.

Q: How many kiddos were reading Calvin and Hobbes books on the sofa at the same time?
A: Three. By the end of the week, all the kids will have read all the books. 

Q: How many rivers did I cross with the kiddos yesterday?
A: Three: The Muskingum, by boat, twice; the Ohio, by car and sternwheel boat, multiple times; the Little Muskingum, by foot, once. 

Q: What was the kiddos' favorite part of the boat tour on the Valley Gem?
A: Standing in front of the turning sternwheel and getting thoroughly soaked by the spray.

Q: How many local historical/natural/cultural experiences did we manage to squeeze into our three spare hours in the Marietta area between the boat tour and the snake-related event?
A: Viewed the Start West monument carved in 1938 by Gutzon Borglum; visited three Indian mounds and climbed the tallest one; bought goat milk hand lotion sourced from local goats at a store owned by my former colleague; ate fast food at Wendy's; walked across the newly renovated Hills covered bridge over the Little Muskingum River; got a little lost driving through part of the Wayne National Forest; caught sight of a bald eagle perched on a tree next to the Ohio River near Newell's Run (but did not get good photos because I dropped my camera at The Wilds last week and destroyed my telephoto lens); hiked a short trail on Middle Island in the Ohio River.

Q: How many snakes did the kiddos pet at the All About Snakes event at the Ohio River Islands National Wildlife Refuge welcome center?
A: Three, multiple times. The event was so well attended that people were forced to park in inappropriate places and sit packed like sardines on sofas or criss-cross-applesauce on the floor, but those who were patient enough to wait for the crowd to thin out had the thrill of touching the three snakes over and over and over again and peering at a six-day-old milk snake.

Q: How exhausted was everyone after such a long, hot, and eventful day?
A: Sorry, what was the question? Just nodded off for a moment...