Yesterday was crisp; in the Canyon, it was cold. The walls are steep; and after about Halloween, we get no direct sunlight until Valentine's Day. I worked outside for a little while after work, plopping shovels full of compost onto a screen and seeing what fell through into my bucket. I do indeed have some "black gold", but not much. Not after I picked the banana peels, carrot butts, etc... out of it. The compost bin is just an open box. Maybe next year, I will incorporate a black plastic cover for it and see if that helps things break down faster.
I chatted with the fellow who is interested in buying the wooded lot next to our house. He was back there thrashing around in the brambles again yesterday, placing stakes and then pulling them up again, trying to find a footprint for his dream home that is going to work with the county's restrictions (which are formidable) to building in the Canyon. He has not bought the lot, yet. He will see if he can actually build anything before he closes on the purchase.
Chuck is not feeling well. He has a scratchy throat and a stuffy nose. Still, he got up off the couch and came to find me in the kitchen when "I'll Take You There" by Mavis Staples came on the radio.
How do I get the actual YouTube in there? Advice?
We had a little bump and grind and a a little smoochy stuff while he sang, "I'll take you there!" in my ear. Made me drop my spatula. If you are local, I would recommend turning NPR off at 6 PM (It's just a repeat of "All Things Considered" from a couple of hours earlier) and turn on KRCL to listen to Bad Brad Wheeler's show "Drive Time". He's got the most eclectic mix of stuff to dance to, stuff sing along with , stuff to embarrass the soccer carpool with... It's all there.
My low point today was a return to conflict with Simon. We had been doing well- he even brought me a present when he got back from England, to thank me for taking care of the kids in his absence. We were going to meet to talk about Christmas presents for the kids; and when he called last night, I thought we were going to set a time to do that. But things moved rapidly: he didn't have time to meet; he couldn't make an appointment; he didn't have time to meet me for coffee; he is too busy; and according to him, I just seem to think that, after my custodial time is over, I'm DONE! He is left doing all the hard work, picking up adn dropping off....
Si, are you trying to tell me that you need help? If you need help, just ask me specifically for what you need and I will try to help you.
He has to pick her up from school three days, NO! FOUR DAYS a week and it's not fair.
[This is the custody schedule you asked for, Simon...]
Si, are you trying to tell me that you need help?
YES! YES, I need help!
Why don't you just tell me-
He had hung up.
Sara had overheard and was irritated. She told me that in fact, she calls him every day after school and asks him: should she take the city bus to his office? Or would he like to get her? She says she takes the bus to his office as often as not. She also says he is mostly upset because he is very busy dating a new lady who wants him to have more free time for her. The kids are miffed because he says that having custody of them cramps his style; yet he was out past midnight on Saturday, up again to take another lady out to breakfast, and then went out to spend the afternoon hiking with the lady he had been out with the night before. When I picked up the kids on Sunday afternoon, they had barely seen Simon in the last 24 hours.
And finally, a moment of silence, please, for Mr. Squishy, my feather pillow. Mr. Squishy was a thrift-store purchase, so old that he is made of the blue and white striped ticking that was ubiquitous for pillows two generations ago. He was pretty limp when I got him, but he supported my neck in just the way I like. When I had the mastectomy, I would use Mr. Squishy to hold my battered chest in place. He was my road-trip pillow. But my family teases me about him, now. "Mom! There are only about 100 feathers LEFT in that filthy old thing!" He was starting to wake me up in the night, my neck stiff and my shoulder sore. I went and got another pillow from tha linen closet last night and traded the pillow case. Chuck said, "You don't have to do this, you know!" "Well, I'm not sure. I'll just set him over here on the chair until I make up my mind." I slept great, but what am I supped to do? I can't throw him out. He's not fit to put in the linen closet, as if someone else might use him. He needs a home. A no-kill shelter for pillows.