A Road Less Travelled

PURGE, v.t. purj. [L. purgo.]
1. To cleanse or purify by separating and carrying off whatever is impure, heterogeneous,foreign or superfluous; as, to purge the body by evacuation; to purge the Augean stable. It is followed by away, of, or off. We say, to purge away or to purge off filth, and to purge a liquor of its scum.Webster’s 1828 Dictionary online

Purge is a good word. For one thing, it’s fun to say. It has a good solid beginning, flows smoothly along, and suddenly cuts off with a sharp ‘j’ as if to say, “We’re done now–let’s not add any superfluous sounds at the end.

For another thing, it carries the satisfaction of streamlining one’s superfluous stuff much better than just ‘getting rid of’. I’ve gotten rid of stuff before. It’s a continual process of realizing that I have odd bits of things hanging around that I really don’t need anymore. This week, however, I have systemically purged my dresser and closet of each redundant, unused, disliked or otherwise superfluous article of clothing. For instance, I realized for the first time that I owned five pairs of black pants and two pairs of gray pants. Even I find seven pairs of black or gray pants to be excessive, and therefore decisively purged… um, one pair… Yeah. Really, though, I’m working on narrowing it down.

Actually, most of the purging process has gone quite well, and I have removed numerous bags of stuff from my room, to be whisked away to go clutter someone else’s–er, that is to say, be donated to some worthy recipients. In the process of eliminating the superfluous, I have discovered how very female I really am when it comes to collecting clothing and accessories. I got rid of some shoes, but yes, there really are ten pairs I use fairly regularly. (Augh! I’m one of the shoe people!) And I won’t even go into the number of headcoverings I own. (Okay, so I’m a particularly conservative brand of girly female.)

Next thing you know, someone’s going to claim I’m good at Egyptian shopping games, and I’ll completely lose my reputation of being a logical and rational type female…

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I have just returned from having some, well, personal tests done. When I’ve had these tests done in the past the experience was uncomfortable both physically and socially. Plus, they found something I wasn’t all that thrilled about. So I am pleased to report that we didn’t find what I was expecting to find and that my inside bits are right where they are supposed to be.

If you need some uncomfortable and highly personal tests taken I recommend Peoria Imaging. They are quick, professional, pleasant and, my technician at least, very understanding that you are not in your ideal circumstances. The tech was awesome, in fact. We had such a pleasant babble that I forgot to be stressed and almost forgot to be uncomfortable. Plus, she told me a fun anecdote from her days of working in the cardiac department that I can add to my “Medical Tech is Freaky” tales. Seriously, for all your personal and uncomfortable testing needs, try Peoria Imaging!

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 So, I was buying these sheets on Overstock.com and I found a good deal on a high thread count with a long staple cotton, which is what Egyptian cotton was originally famous for, except then they started growing the short cotton in Egypt and not telling anyone, so it’s like Egyptian cotton, except not actually from Egypt, see? Except they only had the size I needed in celadon, which a really weird name for a color anyway, and wouldn’t have been my first choice, but then I decided that I liked it just fine so I went ahead and ordered it, and ordered some pillowcases too, even though I couldn’t find pillowcases that matched it, but I did find some in a higher thread count that were similar so I got those. Except I didn’t get them in celadon, which is a green color, I got them in ‘night’ which is really just dark blue.

But then I found out that Overstock told Facebook that I bought sheets and pillowcases, and put it on my profile, which is just weird because I didn’t say they could do that, and it’s awfully silly anyway because I don’t think people need to know every little detail of my life like that, so I told them to take it off my profile, because some things should just be private. Don’t you think so?

Disclaimer: It’s called irony. It was funny. Really, it was.

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 I heard a story once about a preschool that had a nicely fenced in play yard for the children. They had this brilliant idea that if they took down the fence it would encourage the children to explore and open their horizons. So they took down the fence, and instead of playing in the whole yard as they used to, the children all clumped together in the middle where it felt safer. As I recall they put the fence back up.

I’ve just realized that my budget is a lot like a fence. I’ve always assumed it was there to keep me in reasonable boundaries and prevent me from overspending. But, while this is a very useful function it does serve, there’s something else it does that might be even more useful for me. My budget gives me permission to spend money on things I’ve budgeted for.

I keep starting to freak out because I feel like I’ve spent a lot of money over the past few weeks. And between some good deals I found online recently, thrift-storing (yes, I just verbed ‘thrift store’–deal with it) to find some needed clothes for my summer wardrobe, and splurging on an fancy restaurant one evening with Gabrielle (which we’d planned beforehand and saved up for, and also probably deserves a write-up of it’s own, if only to review the restaurant), I suppose it’s true that I’ve spent a lot of money.

A part of my brain keeps spluttering at me that I’m spending far too much money, and no one cares if these are all good and reasonable purchases, the point is the final price tag! But then I look at my budget and all the money that’s been building up in various categories because I ‘didn’t want to spend too much money’. Am I still within budget? “Well, yes,” that part of my brain splutters, “but, but…”

“Good,” says the rest of my brain, “so shut up already.” Aren’t boundaries great?

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Here is the first series of vignettes based on Adiel’s suggested phrase “It was almost like a dream,” If you have no idea what I’m talking about just read the comments here. If you would like to suggest a phrase to help kickstart my creativity just leave a comment there.

It was almost like a dream. She had been focusing so hard on her hands in the rich garden dirt she hadn’t heard him bark until he was almost upon her. She turned at the last moment and threw her arms out wide as he tumbled into them. A laugh burst from her throat for the first time since he’d vanished last week. They wrestled in the sun, laughter mixing with joyous barking.

It was almost like a dream. The sun shone off of her golden hair as he walked through the meadow towards her. She was bent over a notebook, no doubt writing a letter to him. He tried to be quiet, but the clink of his medals betrayed him. Her head snapped up at the noise and then she was buried in his arms, the letter forgotten. He held her close, never noticing that they were ruining the perfect creases in his uniform. He didn’t plan on needing that uniform anymore.

It was almost like a dream. I came to the window when he yelled “Look at me, Mommy!” I saw him poised at the top of the slide, I saw the tricycle, I saw the rock at the bottom. A shout formed in my mouth, but time stopped as he pushed off. The pedals whirled as he and the tricycle plummeted down the slide. I shouted, “No!”, but it was far too late. He hit the rock at the bottom and the great trick ended in a tangle of metal frame and little boy. Time started again and I rushed to him. I unearthed my little boy and found him smiling at me. “Cool, huh?”

It was almost like a dream. I was driving down a lonely road when I saw the first one. I slammed my foot on the brakes when he stepped into the light of my headlights. We stared at each other, his brown, soulful eyes staring into my brown, startled eyes. He looked away first, glancing over his shoulder to summon the rest of his herd. They crossed the road behind him, calmly, orderly, silent in the night. When the last speckled body was across and had vanished into the trees he bowed his antlered head to me and rejoined his herd. I didn’t move for a long time.

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Theresa likes vintage stoves. I’m rather ambivalent myself, understanding the theory “old things look cooler”, but really feeling about stoves the same way I do about cars: it should work. Really, that’s about it. People talk about cool cars, and cars that are fun to drive, and I’m back at, “It runs right? Four wheels? Brakes? Maybe AC and and a CD player if it’s really snazzy.”

So, when we moved in here and started using Theresa’s vintage stove again, I found it slightly inconvenient, but not much worth noting. The oven ran hot enough to fire pottery and possibly incinerate evidence, but this was controllable by simply keeping it turned down to 70 degrees, at which setting it chugged along at about 350 degrees. Over time this stove developed a strong dislike for me, and decided to mix things up a little by occasionally refusing to cook hot enough, but only when I was cooking.

When we replaced it with a different vintage stove I was pleased to have escaped the stove that hated me. The ‘new’ stove still had a small oven, but this oven did not run hot enough to fire pottery. In fact, we soon discovered it didn’t really run hot enough to cook food. Oh, it worked fine if you remembered to preheat it two hours beforehand, and didn’t open the oven door at all while it was cooking, but this soon became tiresome. It turned out that the stove had come from the country and was set up to use propane, which comes out at a higher pressure than natural gas for city stoves. This also explained why half the burners didn’t get hot enough to boil water.

All this to explain why there was great excitement and rejoicing when James and Theresa bought a new stove. Yes, a new one! It’s pretty and shiny, and the burners get hot enough to boil water! And the oven not only heats up properly, but is full-sized! Wheee!!!

For those who share my excitement over this kind of thing, I provide pictures.

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I would really like to be able to write something nifty and witty. I would take the mallet of awesome words and bash through the wall of Writer’s Block. I would burst out the other side and stand triumphant before a crowd of the few and the faithful who care about my words. There would be a smattering of golf claps and then I would leap forward to accomplish another feat of wordsmithing worthy of remembering for minutes and minutes. Behind me the Wall of Writer’s Block would crumble in the sun. The dust from its crumblings would be scattered to the eight winds never to reform, never to trouble me again.

Instead I’m sitting in front of my computer trying, with a just a dab of panic, to find something nifty to write about. I started writing about the realization I had about myself last night because of Theresa talking about the book on home design she’s reading. I was going to write about how I realized that I like big, open spaces and why. I figured out why I’ve never felt comfortable at a certain house and that it wasn’t anything I was doing wrong. I even figured out why I was freaking over the seating arrangement I’d set up outside. But that’s not interesting enough to write about.

I started writing about the insane, crazy, psycho move I was involved in on Saturday. I was going to write about how I felt like I was standing on the line between the women of the group and the men. I was lifting boxes here and there, but then I stopped that to finish packing the old apartment. When I got to the new house I started helping unload, but I stopped to clean the new kitchen. And then I stood in the backyard drinking beer with the guys. It was a peculiar day. And I was going to write about it, but it’s too finicky to find the right words; I could easily be misunderstood. So I’m not going to write about that.

Which leaves me with writing about writer’s block. It’s not that I can’t think of anything to write about. It’s just that I can’t write about anything. I’ve even composed posts and ideas in my head. But apparently my head isn’t on speaking terms with my fingers so we’re stuck with nothing written.

I even had this nifty thought to write a series of vignettes all starting with the same phrase, but making that phrase mean something vastly different each time.

“He reached for her, but at the last minute she ducked out of his reach. His hands closed on air where her throat had been and he swore in frustration. He whirled just as she drew a gun and leveled it at his chest.”

“He reached for her, but just as his hand touched her pillow he remembered she was gone. He had laid her to rest in the ground and now she would never lie beside him again. He rested his hand against the empty pillow and cried long into the night.”

“He reached for her and caught her just as she jumped from the swing. The wind played with her curls as she cackled at her own cleverness. He tossed her up in air once, twice before setting her feet back on the ground. She ran toward the swing set to do it all again.”

See? It was going to be brilliant. But it’s just never going to happen at this point. I’m just going to be stuck with nothing interesting to write about. I guess the Great Block won again.

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Super Frog ran through the dining room today while I was folding laundry. His purple cape fluttered behind him as he dashed toward the breakfast room. Surely there is evil to be fought at that end of the house. He was soon followed by Super Frog the Second, Super Frog’s diminutive side-kick. His purple cape is about two sizes too big for him and it drapes dangerously low to the ground. Super Frog the Second doesn’t let this trouble him, though, as he follows Super Frog. The side-kick understands as well as the hero that there are important things to do in the back of the house. First, there is running to be done. Then, no doubt, there will be jumping. Super Frog’s responsibilities are many, but he doesn’t crack under the burden. He is strong and bouncy.

Super Frog is now busy explaining the rules of jumping to any and all who will listen. The rules are very clear- “You can only jump like a frog when you’re down. If you’re up like this,” here Super Frog demonstrates the position in question, “you can’t jump. Except for Super Frog the Second.” “Of course”, a bystander agrees, “Because he doesn’t understand.” And then Super Frog hops out of the room in the proper hopping position followed by his loyal side kick who hops however he feels like.

Farewell, Super Frog and Super Frog the Second. I feel safer just knowing they’re out there somewhere fighting the forces of evil and improper hopping posture.

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 Yes, I’m a little behind the times, but hey, everyone else was posting about their earthquake experiences, why shouldn’t I?

Unlike some people, who completely slept through the Great Illinois Quake of ‘08, I was awakened by the earthly vibrations. Well, that is, more or less awakened. Through a very sleepy fog I deduced that my bed was shaking, that this was very odd and had never happened before, and that it clearly had no rational explanation. And having no rational explanation there was clearly nothing I could do about it but pray something sleepily incoherent and figure God would sort it all out.

Still, I found it disturbing enough that I drifted further toward consciousness, and eventually decided that the whole experience was probably a dream and went back to sleep. The next morning I saw a small army of blogs and e-mails discussing an earthquake, and cleverly connected this to my ‘dream’ the night before. Personally, I still find the dream explanation to be far more rational than the idea of an earthquake in the middle of Illinois, however I am willing to accept the earthquake as reality in order to gain the title of an Earthquake Survivor.

Yay! I Survived the Earthquake of 2008! And I didn’t even (exactly) sleep through it!

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Allow me to tell you about my weekend. Seth and Crystal were going out of town to a small, indie game designer’s convention. It was a combination networking opportunity and birthday present for Crystal. She was looking forward to it, Seth was looking forward to it and I really didn’t mind the idea of babysitting the children. I mean, what’s two days, right? Then I got sick.

It was the sort of cold that tricks you right at first and makes you think it is merely a cold. Then, about a day after you have diagnosed the problem as “Common Cold”, the full degree of illness pounces on you from behind a potted plant, wrestles you to the ground and reveals itself as “The Truly Yucky Cold”. I think it laughs gleefully, too. It’s the sort of cold that requires you to inject your current “Get Out Of Bed And Start The Day” pep talk with a shot of espresso before you can stagger out of bed and into a hot, hot shower. The hot shower is necessary to rid your body of the effects of sleeping with a cold. ‘Shame on you,’ your cold seems to say, ‘You slept. Now I will punish you!’ You shower to purge your body of the punishment and then you must go lie down to recover from the shower.

After you’ve flopped on the sofa for a while you think maybe you could be in the mood for some food if someone would only bring it to you, cut it into bite sized pieces and feed you so you don’t have to do more that chew. If they could swallow for you too that would great because right now there is a knife in your throat and every time you swallow you stab yourself forcefully with it. Since you are against self-mutilation you decide not to swallow so you stay on the couch and wait for your official swallowers to come. Sadly, they never do. And your food never comes because while the children are proficient at preparing breakfast for themselves you are pretty sure that a bowl of cereal with rich, creamy milk is not what the doctor ordered. You think perhaps you could get up and make your own food, something less milky, if you could simply stop stabbing yourself in the throat with a knife and if whoever was sitting on your sinuses would get off.

A thought springs into your head. In the kitchen, a mere three thousand miles away, is a bottle of Ibuprofen. This bottle has the power to remove the knife that you keep sticking yourself with. You are so excited by this thought that you would dance with glee if you could manage to get up, but there is a catch. There is always a catch. Ibuprofen, you have been taught, is hard on the stomach and you must have food in your stomach before you can take it. But, you whimper, how am I supposed to make food before I have the Ibuprofen? Your plan was to bask in the Ibuprofen before you made your food and tried to force it past the knife in your throat, but the Cold knows this. It is canny and cunning and doubtless it is smarter than you. You would weep quietly in defeat, but you have no idea what that would do to the precariously balanced level of not-pain you have established there on the sofa.

And so the day goes. The children are lovely to you and only require the smallest bit of work and love from you. The church folk are lovely to you and ask what they can do to help and refuse to believe you when you say you’re not sure you need help other than a knife-removal surgery. The only thing not lovely to you is the Truly Yucky, Nasty, No-Good, Bad-Bad Cold which breaks down your defenses and invites his good friend Pink Eye over to play. The rest of your weekend proceeds apace, but with tea bags on your eyes.

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