Still here
Sep. 20th, 2004 02:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanIt's a warm, sunny, windy day; the air feels like summer, but the light says autumn. The light began saying "autumn" right on September first. I was climbing the back staircase on my way to make coffee, and on the first three landings it said "summer," but at the top, coming from the south through the leaves of the mulberry sapling Eric and I decided to let live, it said "autumn." From now until sometime in March, the light inside our house is perfect.
This morning I went to bed at 2:30, tossed restlessly for a while, and was wakened by the alarm at 7:45. "Bad news for you," said David, turning it off with alacrity. I got up and took a shower, puzzling the cats, and then wandered around in a daze until the nice Sears delivery person called me from the alley on his cellphone. I had carefully put a sign on the back door saying that the bell there didn't work, please ring the front doorbell, but I had forgotten that we are living in the future now. Standing in the alley, the cheerful speaker-to-customers and his silent, sullen sidekick stripped the box off the beautiful new dishwasher, installed its wheels, slung it up in a strap, and walked it up the painfully-cleared back staircase to the painfully-cleared spot in the upstairs kitchen. Raphael and I were bent on running it immediately, but the faucet on the upstairs kitchen sink has neither interior nor exterior threads, so that the faucet adaptor for the dishwasher could not be inserted. I appealed to David, who, in accordance to plans long laid but not yet carried out, went forth and bought a new faucet, which he is about to put in place. He got a new faucet for the upstairs bathroom sink, too. How blissful it will be when nothing drips all night, when there is hot water in the bathroom sink again, when there is no longer a continual stream of Pamelas going up and down the stairs with dishes, dirty ones to go into the downstairs dishwasher, clean ones to be put away upstairs.
When we first got the downstairs dishwasher, I was so happy to have it that I didn't mind the stairs a bit. But that was eight years ago. The glamor has worn off.
These are some of the fruits of the refinancing. Among the others are new paint for the trim on the house, repairs to and new paint on the garage, and maybe other more exciting things; but long-deferred maintenance is quite exciting enough for the moment.
I'm hoping to put up some snippets of phenology for the month when I didn't post anything. In the meantime, I'll note that we have an ongoing feline health crisis that is taking a lot of emotional energy. We had quite a pleasant party for David's 50th birthday, but it took me half the evening to snap into proper hosting mode from my default position of hermit-obsessed-with-cobwebs.
Eric is coming to visit in October, which pleases me immensely.
The book is a book, but it's becoming increasingly clear to me that it is quite easy to write a sequel to The Whim of the Dragon and remarkably difficult to write one to The Dubious Hills. I haven't yet decided whether this indicates that my idea of writing a joint sequel to both is a stroke of genius or the fevered notion of a madwoman.
If I had had more sleep, I'd write an LJ default encompassing everybody's triumphs, disasters, and birthdays. I read my Friends List every day, even if I am mute as a dormouse.
Pamela
This morning I went to bed at 2:30, tossed restlessly for a while, and was wakened by the alarm at 7:45. "Bad news for you," said David, turning it off with alacrity. I got up and took a shower, puzzling the cats, and then wandered around in a daze until the nice Sears delivery person called me from the alley on his cellphone. I had carefully put a sign on the back door saying that the bell there didn't work, please ring the front doorbell, but I had forgotten that we are living in the future now. Standing in the alley, the cheerful speaker-to-customers and his silent, sullen sidekick stripped the box off the beautiful new dishwasher, installed its wheels, slung it up in a strap, and walked it up the painfully-cleared back staircase to the painfully-cleared spot in the upstairs kitchen. Raphael and I were bent on running it immediately, but the faucet on the upstairs kitchen sink has neither interior nor exterior threads, so that the faucet adaptor for the dishwasher could not be inserted. I appealed to David, who, in accordance to plans long laid but not yet carried out, went forth and bought a new faucet, which he is about to put in place. He got a new faucet for the upstairs bathroom sink, too. How blissful it will be when nothing drips all night, when there is hot water in the bathroom sink again, when there is no longer a continual stream of Pamelas going up and down the stairs with dishes, dirty ones to go into the downstairs dishwasher, clean ones to be put away upstairs.
When we first got the downstairs dishwasher, I was so happy to have it that I didn't mind the stairs a bit. But that was eight years ago. The glamor has worn off.
These are some of the fruits of the refinancing. Among the others are new paint for the trim on the house, repairs to and new paint on the garage, and maybe other more exciting things; but long-deferred maintenance is quite exciting enough for the moment.
I'm hoping to put up some snippets of phenology for the month when I didn't post anything. In the meantime, I'll note that we have an ongoing feline health crisis that is taking a lot of emotional energy. We had quite a pleasant party for David's 50th birthday, but it took me half the evening to snap into proper hosting mode from my default position of hermit-obsessed-with-cobwebs.
Eric is coming to visit in October, which pleases me immensely.
The book is a book, but it's becoming increasingly clear to me that it is quite easy to write a sequel to The Whim of the Dragon and remarkably difficult to write one to The Dubious Hills. I haven't yet decided whether this indicates that my idea of writing a joint sequel to both is a stroke of genius or the fevered notion of a madwoman.
If I had had more sleep, I'd write an LJ default encompassing everybody's triumphs, disasters, and birthdays. I read my Friends List every day, even if I am mute as a dormouse.
Pamela
no subject
Date: 2004-09-20 03:05 pm (UTC)Pamela
(Not to worry. That's just a very impervious remark, as I'm sure you know. I am not saying you are impervious. The remark is.)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-20 03:28 pm (UTC)Although if you're leaning towards fevered, I can bring you soup. That always helps when I'm fevered.