September 14, 2006

11:47 p.m.

A Little Breathing Room

("MM-mmmmmmmmmmmm... [inhale] OOOhhhhhmmmmmmmmm...")

Perhaps it was providential that I had to go on Prednisone this week, or I may not have gotten everything done that I needed to do. And interesting how things get done, stop breaking, flow finally. The printer no longer is jamming. I pulled it out from the wall a ways in case it was getting hot, and somehow its little fusion rollers got happy again. Got a new toner cartridge -- down to 2% capacity now on the old one. Finished printing out everything for the Big E, boxed it up, got it to the shop just in time today for someone else to take it up to the fairgrounds. In the process I came up with a couple of very nice displays, Talking River Books and Talking River Music, plus a little basket of 3" mini-CDs with three songs each, from each of my four albums. Three songs for three bucks -- "What has Ikea taught you?" James asks, like a second grade teacher. Impulse purchases!! The cheap bauble, the affordable fling! Don't want to fork over $15 for a CD you haven't heard? Take a sample! Come back later! Go to the website. And the dream journal is gorgeous, not to mention affordable too. I've been writing in one this week and am surprised at how many dreams I'm recording, even for me. I read them to James tonight and there was one I totally didn't remember writing down at all. It was very silly. Nothing hugely profound this week, but fun.

And two evenings spent helping Rose unpack and get organized. Tonight we had extra help to get her bed frame from Ikea put together. She brought the cats over for the first time. Two managed nicely, exploring closets and levels, but Arthur, who is traumatized by travel and change in general, made a beeline for the fireplace and tried to climb up the flu. It took two of us to get him out, sooty and yowling. He took refuge in Lucy-the-dog's crate, which is big enough to be a cave (unlike the cat carrier which is just a prison) and stayed there all through our supper, until he had to be given a sink bath because he was getting soot on everything. What indignity and sorrow! He'd never had a wet bath before. Fortunately my sister is so good with animals, and her friend who was there is a veterinary assistant, so they got it done in good time, towelled Arthur off and let him be miserable again at his liesure. He did manage to creep about the condo finally, and visited the litter box downstairs, returning with clumps of clay on his hind feet. Sigh. Some days you should just stay in the clothes hamper.

I did get the laundry done, though I have not run all week now. I think the weekend is supposed to be nice, so I'm hopeful. Unfortunately it looks like James probably won't be able to come up, as there has been all this continuing drama with his daughter and the addict boyfriend. Much hysteria, though tonight there might have been a little breakthrough. He's become divorced, his oldest daughter has just moved across the country, his parents are having all sorts of health issues (as is his doggie) and he just helped them move, HE just moved... and he finally realized this was all freaking him out more than usual because he's alone now, in ways he hasn't been before. It'd freak anyone out. He said, "What I like about you is that you don't try to tell me what my kids are like and how I should manage them!" And I replied, "That's because I have no idea and no advice to offer you!" But I hear him. Some of his circle can't resist the urge to muscle in and run the show for him. I feel completely without wisdom and can only offer an ear, a heart, and a voice on the phone. Maybe that has a place, too.

I think he's doing a wonderful job, though, figuring it out on the fly, taking every turn and facet of the unfolding crisis as it comes, being tough when he has to be, but compassionate and clear about loving at the same time. He and his ex-wife work actively together with the kids, so she's very involved, too. Thank goodness. And the older daughter is on the phone from Oregon with the younger one, supporting, remonstrating, trying to drum some sense. Eighteen is far too young to be addicted to trying to save someone who is hell bent on his own destruction, and hers.

Blah blah blah. He's so apologetic that this is going down now, assuring me it isn't always like this at his house, that he's not always like this. It doesn't bother me. I know there will be times (I hope there will be times; I hope we have the longevity for there to be times) when he'll have to uphold me. It all evens out in the end.

Meanwhile he may spontaneously come up on Saturday if things fall into place, but probably not; and that's okay, too. I can get a lot of stuff done this weekend and I won't mind a little down time after these last few, incredibly packed, days. I don't think I've been so busy in months, just one thing to another and still not getting through the list. Tomorrow I may catch up with it.

And I hope I sell some product at the Big E. What a timely windfall that would be. Please, so mote it be.

And now, Pred or no Pred, I must attempt to go to bed.