No love lost

I hate the weather here.

Now, I know some of the people who peek at this blog are native Minnesotans, and they love this state with every cell in their bodies; they were born here, some of them got married here and had kids here and continue to happily, lovingly call it home. And that is okay with me. They are absolutely entitled; they can love it. And they can know that this is where we part ways, where we stop seeing eye-to-eye, that I simply do not share their fondness for this region. Perhaps I am not built for it, or I'm too wussy and soft, or I merely bitch way too much, or I am impatient or unrealistic or I give up too easily. Perhaps.



Whatever the case, I must vent. I am at the mercy of the weather here, and I hate it.

Hate it, hate it, hate it.

It's either somewhere below zero and the windows are frozen shut and it hurts to breathe or you're slogging through snow up to your kneecaps, or it's humid and your hair frizzes and your thighs rub and your chest feels clammy and the air begins buzzing with mosquitoes and then the skies open up with an amazing clap and rain dumps from the heavens at a breathtaking rate.



This is what happened this evening, just as (wouldn't you know) I left my apartment to catch the bus and get to where I needed to be by 6:30. Two blocks into it, my jeans were soaked to the knees and my Tevas were squishing water with each step. And so I said, fuck this, I'm going home. And so I turned on my squishy heel and went home and everything has been peeled off and is drying and my plans have fallen completely through and I'm pissed.

I don't have a car, which I mostly like, but sometimes, I admit, it can be very challenging. Sometimes. On days such as this, when I leave work early, rush around, clean the dishes, change and make my lunch for the next day, only to have my plans rudely aborted by the unpredictable Plains weather.



Bleh. I have never lived in rain this hard; yes, it rains on the west coast, but it tends to hang around and fill the air mistily or fall steadily, and one can (I feel) more easily cope; one doesn't come away after 2 traversed blocks soaked to the skin and looking like something the dog dragged in.

In many ways, this place has been very, very good to me, and good FOR me, perhaps more importantly. Indeed, there will be much to miss when I move, like my 12-step group, my church, my apartment, and the friends I've made.



But I can say with absolute certainty that never, not ever, not even once, not even briefly, will I miss the weather.

My Bad

Okay, so.

It appears I haven't posted anything since May 6th. And this is sort of a problem for me. Not because I'm into over-functioning; in fact, I enjoy a bit of leisurely foot-dragging from time to time and do truly appreciate the relaxing merits of the whole couch potato metaphor.

I just can't go that long without saying something about something.

I was out of town for a week, soaking in the delights of the Bay Area, where I was visiting my family and attending an Al-Anon 12-step retreat called "Let Go & Get a Grip" (more on the retreat later; it was an intense experience and worth the dedication of an entire post) so I wasn't in the mindset to ruminate and come up with anything.



I suppose I could've kept a sort of running commentary on the other day-to-day events with which I occupied my time in Berkeley--pedicure (I had one in Portland last summer with a friend which was WAYYY better; this particular place has gone way downhill, but you can't really tell that just by staring at my toes), great food (same Chinese restaurant 3 times, in fact, and may I just share the observation that prawns taste totally different 'out there' then here in the Midwest), a visit to A.R.F. (Tony LaRussa's Animal Rescue Foundation in Walnut Creek--I wanted to adopt about 10 cats and dogs), shopping (I splurged on a great outfit in my eye color at one of my favorite boutiques in North Berkeley called Bryn Walker), walking my sister's pug up the street, and basically just enjoying the company of my family, whom I have come to appreciate more and more as I (and they) get older, and since I have moved 1500 miles away.

Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

It was hard to leave (I cried--I ALWAYS cry when I leave the Bay Area, so I'm glad I decided to pay attention to that overt and repetitive emotional cue that I need to be back on the west coast, and I will be by October of this year; I'm so rooted there, to that whole west coast metaphor), but it was good to see my kitty again (who was a bit of a problem child in my absence, having been unflatteringly described as a "meth factory rat catcher" by my neighbor; I have since made amends with the offering of a home-made carrot cake with cream cheese frosting;

food cures all. Almost. And, for the record, tho a bit scratched, my neighbor is not at all ticked. It was all quite amusing, actually) and sort of get back into my day-to-day routines.

Like cooking. And walking.

And, yes, updating my blog.

No Words

I got up early--too early--Saturday to participate in the Humane Society pet Walk-a-Thon. I suspect it once started out solely as "Dog Walk-a-Thon," but many people bring other sorts of pets--lizards, cats (many of whom were being pushed in pet strollers or closely cuddled in kitty versions of human baby "Snuglis"), ferrets, even a rat in a tiny plastic cage with shavings in it, strapped to a Radio Flyer wagon as part of an ad-hoc circus train coterie of creatures, all of them apparently owned by one single family.



It's always a good-natured, whacked-out event; as I've mentioned in other posts, animal lovers can be quite eccentric. I count myself among that lot, though as I get older, my eccentricities and my mad love for my fat tabby are the least of my concerns.

I attended the walk with a friend, her mom and her Border Terrier (the "Benjie" dog), and had a fine time, even though we turned around about a quarter of the way through and left. All told, we spent about 3 hours there and patted the heads, sides and hindquarters of quite a canine assortment.

Lots of pugs. That's always good.

When I came back, my neighbors were chatting with a friend, and as their front door was wide open (and they are directly across the hall from me), they saw me approach and started chatting with me. She told me she'd had her first chemo treatment Thursday.
I wasn't sure how someone undergoing chemo should or would look. She looked....normal.
She was chatty and fairly animated and didn't look too tired. She showed me what others had done for her; there was a lovely hand-made quilt on her bed, a stack of carefully-knitted prayer shawls on her chest of drawers. A cluster of mylar balloons bobbed in the air.
And she had all her hair. For now.
"I get another round next week," she said. It would be a different, more potent combination of drugs. That, she said, is what would make her hair fall out.
"All of it?" I asked.
"Yep," she said. "Even my eyelashes."
Then she showed me the wig she'd picked out for herself. Close to her natural color and shorter, sort of wavy, but obviously a wig; there's a certain unnatural sort of doll-baby sheen specific to nylon hair.



She talked a little more, the cats alternately hissing and running back and forth between the open doors.
I asked her about her thoughts on buying a home, something she had mentioned only a few months earlier, prior to her diagnosis. I admit, it was my way of getting a sense of her future.
"It's not a plan any more," she said. "I have to let that go."
I stared at her. I wasn't sure what this meant, exactly, and I didn't really want to read too hard between the lines.

I am in recovery; I go to a weekly 12-step meeting for those of us that have issues with enmeshment and codependency. At those meetings, when I am listening and present, I often find I have something meaningful to share; it's kind of a goal, sharing something in a group setting from which others might benefit.
In this situation, watching my young neighbor begin her battle with a rare cancer, I felt utterly verbally inadequate.
I smiled weakly, and then said, "I really wish there was some combination of words, something pithy I could say to make you feel better......."
"What can you say," she replied. What can anyone say, is what she meant.

This morning, she knocked on my door to borrow my heavy-duty Acme juicer.
"There's a juice combination from my cancer cookbook," she said. "Kale & Pineapple."
I brought it over and set it up.



So no, maybe there aren't any words.
There are only hand-made quilts and prayer shawls and mylar balloons bearing simple sentiments. And there is juice.
Juice is good enough.
Juice will have to do.