saturday morning solace

"At the worst, a house unkept cannot be so distressing as a life unlived."
—Rose Macaulay, from today's Writer's Almanac

Last weekend I was in Michigan visiting my sister. Grand Rapids in July (fleeing Houston) is a delight. Houston in December (fleeing Grand Rapids) is likewise. The berries were abundant and the mornings were cool. I was thrilled to have four whole days with my sister. Just two sisters and the occasional child, grandchild or friend stopping by. [I, not too subtly, also celebrated the absence of her rod-up-his-ass, soon-to-be ex-husband.] We tinkered around her new/old (1925) and completely beguiling Craftsman bungalow. Fixing this, unsticking that. In between we dined and napped and talked and laughed.

This weekend I'm facing a little post-visit slump. And the return of the What Am I Doing with My Life Short and Long Term Goal Review. I probably go through this too much, but time passes and a girl wants something to show for it.

So I review. And remember to count that time spent relaxing with partner or self is not wasted time. Inner Puritan be silenced. But there are items ahead. Projects. Travel. Health care. House Repair. Writing. Reading. Major and Minor Expenses. And I want to do it all and do it really well. Which is a key to my inaction.

When I was a girl, I joined the ranks of band fags everywhere and took up the french horn. I loved the horn. I loved the sound it produced (when I didn't make it sound like an elephant in rut). I loved the design of it. I loved the way it blended in the orchestra and I loved when it rose above the ensemble. But I was a mediocre horn player. That was clear for 8 years. It was one of the only activities I persisted at, knowing that I would never excel.

I remind myself of this when I am unwilling to complete something that isn't exactly what I wanted. When I become mired in perfection. Which is part of the reason I am writing this mediocre, self-serving post. Blogging can be a tiresome examination of all things mundane. It's not my goal. But I'm getting out of practice, so this is my response to just writing something.

I have some lumber that needs cutting. I refuse to go outside and work in this bloody heat. I ought to clean the mess in the rest of the house...but hell, why not haul in the miter saw and cover that back room in sawdust anyway? Unkept or unlived? It's a pretty easy choice.

taming the chaos

Sister coming to visit. Very busy. DIY mavens, we are. New ceiling fan installed. Check. New kitchen faucet (and sprayer, ptl) installed. Check. Yardwork. St. Barbara's check. Homemade enchiladas and lasagna in the freezer. Check and check. Lists with check boxes checked. Check.

new ceiling fan. cool.

new faucet. smooth.

We're going to have so much fun. And my domestic duties will include far less domestic duty. Will report back.

seriously outstanding sisters

My parents had four daughters. Not to slight my brother, whose story is here, but this is just about The Sisters. Somewhere along the way (our parents and) we started referring to ourselves in this strangely conventish manner and it stuck. I like the idea that we're some odd but not-very-pious faux-religious order. An order in which all first names begin with the letter E.

I am the second daughter, flanked by an 18-month or so distance on either side by #1 and #3. Another odd factor: our parents often refer to us by birth order number. (I have since rejected my place in this appellation as too fecal, even for this potty-mouth. I prefer to be called e-squared.) Anyway, in keeping with the previous theme, I call #4: Sister E of the Bungled Contraception. She was the six-years-later bonus baby. The result of irregular cycles, assumptions and mom being too cheap to go get a blood test. My mother thought she was pregnant, stopped using birth control and got pregnant. I fucking LOVE this story. (My mother is absolutely the wellspring from which my humor originates, and while I don't think she would find this entry as entertaining as I do, she still appreciates the funny. I also don't think she reads this blag-o-mine because I say fuck and asshole too much and she hates those words. I delight in those words because I'm such a fucking asshole.) I especially love that this funny misstep affixed the fourth wheel to our e-is-for-estrogen caravan. A real bonus baby if I've ever met one.

Anyway, I have, in all modesty, three of the most badass sisters ever assembled. If there was an athletic bone in my body, I'd say we were a ready-made team that would be hard to beat. All of my sisters are smart. Educated. Funny as hell. Great mothers. Professionals. Compassionate and generous. And can't bear it when any one of the other sisters is in pain. We live very far away from each other, a thousand miles or more separate me from each of them, and I'd like to say that the distance isn't what keeps us close but I don't know. I hope that proximity would not erode the affection we share.

We've all been through our respective periods of hell. On the list of the saddest moments of my life was watching my just-younger sister lose her children in a custody battle. We are very close and the anguish she felt was physically painful to me. (She got them back and has proven what we knew all along, that she is an exceptional mother who was married to a spineless piece of shit. Sorry, my niece and nephew, I have no love for anyone who hurts my sister.)

My oldest sister has been away. And she's come back and the best, best thing of all is to hear her laugh again. Really laugh.

There have been sick children, ugly divorces, custody battles, financial crises and finding out their self-righteous, once-religious sister (moi) was queer. There have been accidents and domestic violence and court martials and unplanned pregnancies. And still, when the shit hits the fan, my sisters rush to each other with shit-repelling umbrellas. And Lysol, for the smell.

I have three incredible sisters. My parents should positively burst with pride.

P.S. I may have forgotten to mention that we're a damned attractive quartet of siblings, too.