The Visible Woman...April 8, 2003

duty

Dad wakes me up. I should be up. It's 7:45. He wants someone to fix one of his sprinkler heads that's broken off. I tell FFP. He's in the bathroom. I think he's been to work out, eaten, all of that. Later, I find out he didn't work out. On Sunday a wasp bit him on the hand. It was lying in wait on the handle of the poopy scoop when he was going to clean up after Chalow...who had left some evidence on the path. His hand hurt so he didn't go. Rather, he soaked his hand or something. He picks up the phone and calls the yard man's number from memory about the sprinkler.

I have coffee, sit down for a little e-mailing. I get a call from my club...they have found someone to play the weekend tennis event with me. That's good but then I have to call this stranger named Misty and that's bad. I don't like phoning. We exchange some voice mail and finally talk and we agree to meet tonight and maybe she will get some other players if I get a court at Westwood.

Finally I get off to do my duty to my body. I like Tuesdays and Thursdays on this program. I just do 45 minutes on the exercise bike and then some ab and back work. No other weights. I hate ab and back stuff so it must be good for me. But it doesn't take too long. I almost finish Self-Help by Lorrie Moore and will finish it at stoplights. I call the pro shop and reserve a court for tonight. I wish I liked meeting new people more. I freeze and forget their names and even their faces. I'm not good with new people. FFP is. In my working life, of course, I had to try and try to overcome this but it didn't make me feel any better about it.

After the workout I call my dad. I tell him I have to shower but then I'm coming over. I'm hoping to hear from someone about the weaving and spinning stuff. I want to dig around and see if we can locate additional accessories and books and stuff to offer them. Assuming I get someone to look at it. We might also pack up some miniatures. We've been collecting boxes for this.

I pick up Dad and we first go eat lunch at Antonio's. I have chipolte sauce on cheese enchiladas with rice and barracho beans and I eat a lot of chips and drink a huge glass of water. I've forgotten to drink and it is catching up with me. I sweat a lot when I work out.

Back home, we look at the weaving and spinning stuff on the screen porch and then we start going through stuff in the spare room in a closet. There are more weaving accessories. There is yarn. There are unfinished projects...miniature kits, bits of cloth, drawings, a dress pattern and material and buttons. These things have lost their meaning without Mom in so many ways. We pick out things to take to my sister, my niece, friends. We pile up a huge stack of weaving books, layouts and monographs. Mom started to feel poorly only about a year after making the effort to move this stuff. I know she hoped to get through all of it, finish things, discard things, make things. But here it is. Lost stuff without an owner.

The dust in the closet makes me sneeze. Dad gives me some more water. It tastes vaguely sour like the ice from ice makers sometimes does. I drink several more glasses. The yard man comes and fixes the sprinkler. It's always something.

I've had enough when Dad says, "I'm tired. Let's quit for today." We have stuff strewn about. I have a small sack of material scraps in my car for my friend the quilter. Dad has a pile to take to a friend's granddaughter, some piles of yarn for friends and a pile for my niece. He doesn't want me to put things back in the closet. He wants to deal with it. Just not right this minute. Me, too.

At home, I have a soda (Cherry Coke) and change to tennis clothes and do some computer tasks and look at the mail and talk to Forrest. Then it's time to go to the club and wait for my tennis date. I wish I liked meeting new people more. I wish I was better at it. I wish I wasn't worried that my tennis skills would desert me. (Skills? You have tennis skills?)

It turns out Misty is really Misti. But she is super nice. A young gal that just loves tennis. Not pretentious. A team she is associated with has a member in our club and they have several courts doing a rain make-up. She's cheering them on. She sells Medical kits to business and, in fact, stocks the kits and de-fib units for the club. (It's comforting to know we have them. Lots of old folks about.) She is a pretty good player but about right as a partner for me. I'm particularly bad this evening. I haven't played in a while. I think that my joints will be better for all the effort in the gym but, in fact, I feel a tug in one knee when I make a quick (well, for me) start. More weight needs to come off and more work needs to be done on joint health. Still, I think I'll get through the three matches this weekend and a workshop tomorrow. Doubles is less court coverage after all.

I watch with Misti some of her team play and then go home. I'm beat. Between workout, digging through Mom's closets and tennis, I've had enough activity. I read the paper and doze and finally get a shower and take the latest Wired magazine to bed. I don't read much, though.

South Congress window amusement

"No matter how much you love: nothing, no one, lasts."

Lorrie Moore, Amahl and the Night Visitors in the short story collection Self-Help

JUST TYPING
Yellowed material.
A silverfish.
Yellowed paper.
Incomplete projects.
Worthwhile stuff, no doubt.
To someone.
But no longer to my mother.
One thing you don't take with you, for sure.
Unfinished projects.

			duty Dad wakes me up. I should be up. It's 7:45. He wants someone to fix one of his sprinkler heads that's broken off. I tell FFP. He's in the bathroom. I think he's been to work out, eaten, all of that. Later, I find out he didn't work out. On Sunday a wasp bit him on the hand. It was lying in wait on the handle of the poopy scoop when he was going to clean up after Chalow...who had left some evidence on the path. His hand hurt so he didn't go. Rather, he soaked his hand or something. He picks up the phone and calls the yard man's number from memory about the sprinkler. I have coffee, sit down for a little e-mailing. I get a call from my club...they have found someone to play the weekend tennis event with me. That's good but then I have to call this stranger named Misty and that's bad. I don't like phoning. We exchange some voice mail and finally talk and we agree to meet tonight and maybe she will get some other players if I get a court at Westwood. Finally I get off to do my duty to my body. I like Tuesdays and Thursdays on this program. I just do 45 minutes on the exercise bike and then some ab and back work. No other weights. I hate ab and back stuff so it must be good for me. But it doesn't take too long. I almost finish Self-Help by Lorrie Moore and will finish it at stoplights. I call the pro shop and reserve a court for tonight. I wish I liked meeting new people more. I freeze and forget their names and even their faces. I'm not good with new people. FFP is. In my working life, of course, I had to try and try to overcome this but it didn't make me feel any better about it. After the workout I call my dad. I tell him I have to shower but then I'm coming over. I'm hoping to hear from someone about the weaving and spinning stuff. I want to dig around and see if we can locate additional accessories and books and stuff to offer them. Assuming I get someone to look at it. We might also pack up some miniatures. We've been collecting boxes for this. I pick up Dad and we first go eat lunch at Antonio's. I have chipolte sauce on cheese enchiladas with rice and barracho beans and I eat a lot of chips and drink a huge glass of water. I've forgotten to drink and it is catching up with me. I sweat a lot when I work out. Back home, we look at the weaving and spinning stuff on the screen porch and then we start going through stuff in the spare room in a closet. There are more weaving accessories. There is yarn. There are unfinished projects...miniature kits, bits of cloth, drawings, a dress pattern and material and buttons. These things have lost their meaning without Mom in so many ways. We pick out things to take to my sister, my niece, friends. We pile up a huge stack of weaving books, layouts and monographs. Mom started to feel poorly only about a year after making the effort to move this stuff. I know she hoped to get through all of it, finish things, discard things, make things. But here it is. Lost stuff without an owner. The dust in the closet makes me sneeze. Dad gives me some more water. It tastes vaguely sour like the ice from ice makers sometimes does. I drink several more glasses. The yard man comes and fixes the sprinkler. It's always something. I've had enough when Dad says, "I'm tired. Let's quit for today." We have stuff strewn about. I have a small sack of material scraps in my car for my friend the quilter. Dad has a pile to take to a friend's granddaughter, some piles of yarn for friends and a pile for my niece. He doesn't want me to put things back in the closet. He wants to deal with it. Just not right this minute. Me, too. At home, I have a soda (Cherry Coke) and change to tennis clothes and do some computer tasks and look at the mail and talk to Forrest. Then it's time to go to the club and wait for my tennis date. I wish I liked meeting new people more. I wish I was better at it. I wish I wasn't worried that my tennis skills would desert me. (Skills? You have tennis skills?) It turns out Misty is really Misti. But she is super nice. A young gal that just loves tennis. Not pretentious. A team she is associated with has a member in our club and they have several courts doing a rain make-up. She's cheering them on. She sells Medical kits to business and, in fact, stocks the kits and de-fib units for the club. (It's comforting to know we have them. Lots of old folks about.) She is a pretty good player but about right as a partner for me. I'm particularly bad this evening. I haven't played in a while. I think that my joints will be better for all the effort in the gym but, in fact, I feel a tug in one knee when I make a quick (well, for me) start. More weight needs to come off and more work needs to be done on joint health. Still, I think I'll get through the three matches this weekend and a workshop tomorrow. Doubles is less court coverage after all. I watch with Misti some of her team play and then go home. I'm beat. Between workout, digging through Mom's closets and tennis, I've had enough activity. I read the paper and doze and finally get a shower and take the latest Wired magazine to bed. I don't read much, though.

	South Congress window amusement "No matter how much you love: nothing, no one, lasts." Lorrie Moore, Amahl and the Night Visitors in the short story collection Self-Help
	JUST TYPING Yellowed material. A silverfish. Yellowed paper. Incomplete projects. Worthwhile stuff, no doubt. To someone. But no longer to my mother. One thing you don't take with you, for sure. Unfinished projects.

Tuesday, April 8, 2003