Exiting Memorial Parkway

At the beginning of his hospital stay, I had a sense of urgency that things at home needed to be put right because as soon as he was out there would be no time to attend to anything. Our lives would be falling apart in the rearview mirror as we embarked on the road to recovery, maybe even in another city. I would need to leave behind a manual for all of it.

Feed me

I’m sitting in the hospital room, scrolling through your news. There are the sounds, the wheeze of the motion-triggered hand-sanitizer dispenser and all the different alarms that routinely go off when an IV bag is empty. The snap of the gloves. And there is the silence. There is a lot of time to sit. His eyes are closed.

And so I start to read his book, the book he had been reading at night. This is the book I stuffed into the bag because how do you pack a bag for the emergency room? Will you be home the next morning or in a week or never? The idea of reading his book to him seems both the most natural and the most forced thing to do.

Lights out

We are in bed, not yet asleep, and my husband turns on the light. He is sitting up and reaching for something on the nightstand, but when I ask him what’s the matter he just looks at me and doesn’t speak.

The dispatcher tells me to lock up the dogs, to bring any medications to the hospital.

Shall we drive?

According to the state of Alabama, the Younger Daughter is now officially allowed to drive to Kale Smoothie Palace and Bendy Yogastore all by herself. And if you need anyone to go the grocery store, I’m yer man, she informs me.

 

 

Tidying the playhouse

Still Life with a Bouquet and Skull, Adriaen Van Utrecth, 1642

Hey, happy new year. I’m back. I am banal and topical.

I have spent the past two weeks reading Marie Kondo, reading about Marie Kondo, and tidying up.

She tells you to start by visualizing why you want to tidy.

Ugh! I hate this part. What brings you here? I dunno, so I can breathe, move on, do other things. Light, space, air. Clean desk.

You’re driving. Me crazy

Learning to drive as a teenager in Manhattan was a hypothetical situation. Like stenography and monogrammed linens, it might be of use in the future, but was not essential for my immediate life. I looked forward to driving, sort of, but I didn’t think I would be particularly good at it. The whole left/right thing was off-putting, as was the fact that you could literally kill yourself and other people if you made a mistake.

Watch this space

One of the nice things about where I live is that it is laid back. Traffic is light. Truck-sized parking is free and easy. If you go to a big concert downtown it’s a flat fee of $5 to park. You’re not having to do crazy things to get a ticket or a table or a seat or a place in line. Usually there isn’t a line. There are no rat runs on the way to school. And so we are not at each other’s throats.

Until recently.

My Disney diary

Day One: Gray is the new pink

Your Disney Experience begins long before you arrive. You are supposed to pre-select the color of your wristband, which you will use as a room key, admissions ticket and credit card. It probably records biometric data.

If you don’t log into the app before you arrive to select a color, you get the gray band of shame. I am going to play it off like I chose gray because it goes with everything. It’s a sophisticated neutral.

Breathe differently

Yesterday there were 11,603 emails in my gmail inbox, 5,081 of them unread, of which 72 are from Brooks Brothers, who have been sending me increasingly hysterical, now twice-daily, notifications about their sale. Usually it is more trouble to delete an email than to skim past it, but clearly this has to change. It is a kind of passive digital hoarding. Yesterday, the younger daughter kept me company and offered opinions as I emptied out dresser drawers and purged clothes. I let her have my Beached at Bellevue’s t-shirt from our friends’ party at a Hell’s Kitchen restaurant in the fun 90s. And now I am diving into the wreck, with you and my old cat to keep me company, to declutter my inbox.

Handle with care

It’s a certain kind of woman in her 90s who thinks a package being delivered to her house might be a bomb, and then opens it anyway.

And this is why I was sending her cookies and peppermint bark, because throughout my life she has been one of those important people I am fortunate to know.

The package was kind of battered by the time it arrived. The address was faint. She had been outspoken online and thought maybe this was retaliation.