The Banged-Up Realist

Favorite Books, 2011 Edition

2012-01-23T16:59:00.000-08:00

We had not expected to be women like that. We had thought that we really would read all seven volumes of Proust.

Leah Stewart, Husband and Wife

Proust doesn't appear on my favorites list (below) nor in my reading journal of the 99 books that I finished in 2011. Some years, the goal in reading is simply to escape, even if my choices would give me no bragging rights at a reunion of UM English majors.

The Weird Sisters (Eleanor Brown)
Separate Beds (Elizabeth Buchan)
Hannah's Dream (Diane Hammond)
The Metropolis Case (Matthew Galloway)
The Foremost Good Fortune (Susan Conley)
Poser: My Life in Twenty-Three Yoga Poses (Claire Dederer)
Three Stages of Amazement (Carol Edgarian)
Tolstoy and the Purple Chair: My Year of Magical Reading (Nina Sankovitch)
Sister (Rosamund Lupton)
The Magician King (Lev Grossman)
The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern)
The Language of Flowers (Vanessa Diffenbaugh)
Blue Nights (Joan Didion)
Robopocalypse (Daniel Wilson)

"I have a hard time believing that the history of the universe is being written by a talking rabbit," Eliot said. "Though that would explain a lot."

Lev Grossman, The Magician King

2011-03-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

I don't have hundreds of friends, not even on Facebook. But in the past three weeks, it seems that way too many of my small circle have been hit by pain and suffering.

Two friends lost their mothers to illness.
My brother-in-law (husband to one of Jim's sisters) lost a brother to suicide.
One of the bridesmaids in our wedding was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer.
The "trail walks leader" at our shelter was attacked and severely injured by a dog that had just arrived at the shelter.

Religion might be helpful right now, but I abandoned that nearly two decades ago, with assistance from the Sisters of Mercy. Instead of the word of God, I now read poetry when sorrow arrives.

But mostly I just stand in the dark field,

in the middle of the world, breathing

in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name

but breath and light, wind and rain.

from "What Is There Beyond Knowing" by Mary Oliver

Pit bull girl no more

2011-03-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

When you don't have a job, it seems as though you have to craft an identity for yourself, a response to the inevitable "And what do you do?" at parties. A big piece of my self-image for the last two years came from being a member of the shelter team that took long-termers--mostly pit bulls and pit mixes--on two-mile group walks. Team membership is limited to the best dog handlers among the many volunteers who work with the shelter's canine population.

I liked the image of myself as a tough, middle-aged woman who could walk two pit bulls at at time; it counteracted the reserved, ex-librarian stereotype. I've been jumped on, leaned on, slobbered on, and given extravagant kisses by pit bulls. But as much as I love pits, I never lost sight of the fact that they are physically strong and--if untrained, as many dogs who end up in shelters are--can be strong-willed.

Last Saturday, one of my charges was acting out. For the first time on these walks, I feared for my own and both dogs' safety, particularly since we were near a busy street. Curiously, the other team members, including the staffer who leads the group, just continued walking while I tried to get the female pit bull under control. Eventually the entire group was out of sight. By the time they finally realized I wasn't with them, I had been nipped repeatedly and the dog who was behaving (sort of) had blood streaming out of one of his eyes. It was a horrific experience that could have been averted if even one other person on the team had offered me some assistance.

I resigned from the team the next day, losing a piece of myself in the process.

A taste of the future?

2011-02-24T11:02:00.000-08:00

In the past 17 days, I've had a physical, an ultrasound, a biopsy (benign), and, just to top things off, stomach flu. I also have a fistful of referrals for various medical procedures (mammogram, colonoscopy, bone scan, carotid artery scan). Jim has been home for the last two days with a bad cold. Our conversation has centered around health-related topics.

It's beginning to feel like an old folks' home, and I'm not talking one of those active lifestyle retirement communities.

Irish literary humor

2011-02-17T17:20:00.000-08:00

Earlier in the week, I took a break from (hopefully needless and definitely obssessive) online reading about thyroid cancer and purchased a subscription to the London Review of Books so that I could catch up on the annual publication of Alan Bennett's diary for the preceding 12 months. (In addition to the print version, the subscriber gets online access to the Review's archives.)

Following my biopsy this morning, I treated myself to reading Bennett's 2010 diary. He made me laugh for the first time in days with this anecdote:

I pass the house in Fitzroy Road with the blue plaque saying that Yeats lived there . . .

It was this house where Eric Korn heard someone reading out the plaque as being to ‘William Butler Yeast’. ‘Presumably,’ Eric wanted to say, ‘him responsible for the Easter Rising.'

Love in Renaissance Flanders

2011-02-14T14:34:00.000-08:00

I loved the work of the 15th century Flemish painter Jan Van Eyck long before we moved to Belgium. I'm particularly fond of his portrait of a young couple, Giovanni and Giovanna Arnolfini, and of Robert Lowell's spot-on description of the pair in his poem "Marriage."

They are rivals in homeliness and love;

her hand lies like china in his,

her other hand

is in touch with the head of her unborn child.

They wait and pray,

as if the airs of heaven

that blew on them when they married

were now a common visitation . . .

Medically induced crankiness

2011-02-11T11:28:00.000-08:00

I really liked the internist I found when we moved to Colorado. Dr. B. was smart, funny, and had a great bedside manner. Unfortunately, she moved back to Virginia to care for her elderly mother.

Dr. B. was replaced in the two-person practice by the newly minted Dr. H. Although I would have felt more comfortable seeing middle-aged Dr. K., when I called for an appointment for my 2010 annual physical, the receptionist said that I had to schedule it with Dr. H.

Someone has to give these young doctors a chance, I thought.

Dr. H. was pleasant and brisk during appointments. She correctly diagnosed a horrendous rash I had earlier this year as a drug allergy. But after calling me on Tuesday to report that I needed a thyroid biopsy, she (or her staff) dropped the ball. I never heard from the practice's referral staff or from the hospital where the biopsy will be performed.

I finally called Dr. H.'s office this morning. The biopsy order had never been sent, which made me hit the roof. One of the MAs said that she'd fax it immediately--marked "URGENT"--to the hospital. She also gave me a number to call to schedule the biopsy.

I waited half an hour for the fax to go through and then called that number. It was the wrong number.

When I was transferred to the correct number, they had not received the fax from my internist, nor could they schedule an appointment without it. They asked where the films of the ultrasound were, and I had to report that I had no idea if they were at my internist's office or the imaging center. Apparently the diagnostic radiologist has to actually see the films first in order to determine if s/he can even do a biopsy.

I know that the chances of my thyroid nodes being cancerous are small. But after losing family and friends to various forms of cancer, even the chance of it is unsettling. Uncertainty is not my best milieu, and the hassle of trying to resolve that uncertainty (i.e., just getting the biopsy scheduled) is raising my blood pressure, one of the few health measures I can report is in perfect condition.

I feel bad about my neck thyroid

2011-02-09T10:12:00.000-08:00

During a routine physical on Monday, my internist, Dr. H, dragged me over to the full-length mirror in the exam room. "Can you see it?" she demanded.

I mumbled, "Yes," although the only thing I really saw was the big red mark she left on my neck from her examination of my thyroid.

Which is how I found myself immediately after my physical at a diagnostic imaging center having a thyroid ultrasound. Fortunately that didn't involve drinking gallons of water and "holding it," as I had to do for ultrasounds during my pregnancy. Unfortunately, after holding my head back for 35 minutes in a position that would fully expose my thyroid for the ultrasound, I had a stiff neck.

Dr. H, who's only a few years out of med school and needs some practice in giving patients potentially bad news, called yesterday with the test results. There are four growths on my thyroid, one of them "pretty big." So next up on my calendar of things to look forward to (right behind that trip to Paris in the fall) is a needle biopsy of the cells that have invaded my thyroid.

If you had asked me just a week ago to point out my thyroid, it would have like asking me to point out the exact spot of Morocco on a map of Africa. I know it's on the continent's north coast, and then I get a little fuzzy. But I can guarantee that after that needle biopsy, I'll know exactly where my thyroid is.

"You can't save them all"

2011-02-04T11:10:00.000-08:00

One of the hardest parts of volunteering at an animal shelter--apart from trying to get certain pit bulls with heads the size of bowling balls to walk nicely on a leash--is accepting the fact that you can't rescue every dog that tugs at your heart.

With only two dogs in the house, we aren't at Arvada's three-dog legal limit. I'd passed on adopting the puppy mill dog the week before. But when I spotted Fawna, a tiny stray, while I was volunteering at the shelter last week, I offered to adopt her. A wise shelter worker suggested that I "foster to adopt" instead.

We renamed the five-pound mutt with the sweet face and huge ears "Orphan Annie." She proved to be smart, mostly house-broken, and a world-class snuggle bunny. She was also determined to be the alpha dog.

From the start, Annie tried to put herself between the humans and the other two dogs in the house. She literally attempted to shove Buzz and Jenny aside, a move that worked with nine-pound Buzz, but was futile with 70-pound Jenny. If Buzz was in my lap, Annie would leap on top of him to get him to move. She took toys and food right out of his mouth. Then, two days ago, while I was tossing balls for the two small dogs, Annie turned the competition to be the first to retrieve a ball into a terrifying dog fight. I couldn't get them apart by yelling, "Stop!" Finally I grabbed Annie around the hips and hauled her off Buzz.

I was stunned. In all the years of having multiple dogs in the house--our own and friends' dogs that we were dog-sitting--we've never had a dog fight.

I cried when I returned Annie to the shelter yesterday.

The first best book of 2011

2011-02-01T13:26:00.000-08:00

When I'm in the midst of a wonderful book, life acquires an extra sheen. The weather might be frigid, the foster dog might be throwing up in our bed, and I might go all day without speaking to a human being, but I will still be content as I go back and forth between reading and the rest of life.

Here's a few samples from "The Weird Sisters" by Eleanor Brown, which I (sadly) just finished. I expect that I'll end up owning the library copy, which the foster dog really did hurl on while I was reading it in bed the other night. A small price to pay for such pleasure.

We were fairly certain that if anyone made public the various and variegated ways in which being an adult sucked eggs, more people might opt out entirely.

We were never organized readers who would see a book through to its end in any sort of logical order. We weave in and out of words like tourists on a hop-on, hop-off bus tour.

We think, in some ways, we have done this our whole lives, searching for a book that will give us the keys to ourselves, let us into a wholly formed personality as though it were a furnished room to let.

God Save the King (and Grant Him Many Oscars)

2011-01-25T19:55:00.000-08:00

Although my Irish ancestors would be horrified, I have been an Anglophile since I was old enough to read The Secret Garden and A Little Princess. So, despite Christopher Hitchens' complaints about the film's historical inaccuracies (none of which had to do with the relationship between George VI and Lionel Logue), I was inordinately pleased that "The King's Speech" received 12 Academy Award nominations today.

Sheep bites dog

2011-01-23T08:29:00.000-08:00

For the third year in a row, we attended the stock dog trials at the National Western Stock Show, the "Super Bowl of Livestock Shows," a two-week long event that has been held in Denver for over a century.

If a herding dog nips any of the three sheep it has to guide through a variety of herding challenges, the dog is immediately disqualified. Apparently, however, if the herdee bites the herder, as one decidedly feisty sheep (twice) did a visibly astonished Border Collie yesterday, the dog doesn't score compensatory points.

A Three-Dog Life?

2011-01-20T19:29:00.000-08:00

I've volunteered at the animal shelter for two and a half years, and only adopted one shelter dog--Jenny. We weren't supposed to have more than one pet (Hana) at our first Colorado house, a rental, although we did add Buzz to the family when we knew that we would be moving to our own home. Hana and Buzz co-existed peacefully, and Jenny learned to be a Gillette dog from both of them, although some of the psychological effects of the abuse she suffered in her former life remain. Life with three dogs could be tiring, particularly since our dogs have always gotten two walks a day.

Now Hana is a box of ashes sitting on the mantel beside her picture. Life with the "Odd Couple" (a Papillon and a Pit Bull mix) is calm, and affection flows among all parties. (Jenny is still not fully comfortable with Jim, but we can literally see her pushing herself to get over her fear, which is rooted in the five years of her life before she came to us. She will deliberately choose to go and sit next to Jim sometimes, shaking all the while.)

So why am I looking for a third dog? And why, when I went to look at a dog at another shelter this afternoon, did I even let myself hold her when I found out that she had been removed from a puppy mill less than three weeks ago?

The view from my desk chair:

Buzz has his own bed nearby,
but often chooses to sleep near Jenny.

Brother and Sister II

2011-01-14T13:09:00.000-08:00

Patrick and Alison are 28 years old today. This photo was taken at the hospital with my dad, whose wide girth proved ideal for holding his first two grandchildren.

Brother and Sister I

2011-01-13T16:28:00.000-08:00

December 1958

I don't see my brother, my only sibling, much anymore. Once he graduated from law school and moved to Minnesota, we've never lived closer than 700 miles apart. Aside from a joint trip to Paris with his daughters while I lived in Belgium, these days we see each other only at events: weddings, funerals, graduations.

My brother had a meeting in Denver this morning, so he spent last evening with us. Given the number of times I've been ready to strangle him over the past decade (example: on the way to Our Lady of Sorrows to plan our father's funeral, I threatened to make him get out of the car and walk after a particularly wounding comment), it was good to be reminded that remnants still remain of the strong bond we shared as children.

Favorite Books, 2010 Edition

2011-01-08T21:36:00.000-08:00

Annie was comfortably dug in to her burrow of books.

Cathleen Schine, The Three Weissmanns of Westport

I read fewer books in 2010 (87) than in 2009 (120). The move, the addition of two new dogs to the family, and the dubious joys of home ownership (mowing the lawn! interviewing contractors!) ate away at my reading time.

Unlike 2009, there doesn't seem to be any common theme to my 2010 favorites, although many of the quotes that I jotted down in my reading journal seem to be about parenting (2010 was a difficult year for me as a mother) or accepting (in my case, at 56, perhaps belatedly) one's true self.

Parents are the mystified criminals, blinking in the docks, making it all the worse for themselves with every word they utter.

Michael Cunningham, By Nightfall

In the order in which I finished them, here are my favorite reads from last year; I make no apologies for the two doorstops (451 pages* and 766 pages**) of novels that were guilty pleasures.

Dreaming in Hindi (Kathleen Russell Rich)
Where the God of Love Hangs Out (Amy Bloom)
The Happiness Project (Gretchen Rubin)
Committed (Elizabeth Gilbert)
The Season of Second Chances (Diane Meier)
Angelology* (Danielle Trussoni)
The Lonely Polygamist (Brady Udall)
The Passage** (Justin Cronin)
The Cookbook Collector (Allegra Goodman)
Slow Love (Dominique Browning)
The Blind Contessa's New Machine (Carey Wallace)
Cutting for Stone (Abraham Verghese)
Let's Take the Long Way Home (Gail Caldwell)
This Must Be the Place (Kate Racculia)
The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating (Elisabeth Tova Bailey)
The Widower's Tale (Julia Glass)

"Hammock or chaise lounge?" Randeane said.
Ray said that he was more a chair kind of person, that hammocks were unpredictable.
"Oh, life's a hammock," Randeane said.
"Exactly my point. I'll take the chair."

Amy Bloom, Where the God of Love Hangs Out

Why those blog posts have dwindled

2010-06-07T08:44:00.000-07:00

I'm great at multitasking in a virtual environment, but I'm feeling completely overwhelmed by the number of three-dimensional home and garden tasks facing us right now. Add to that a large, emotionally needy, extremely energetic foster dog ("Yes, Jenny, we love you, but please don't plow into dear old Hana in your enthusiasm to be the first one down the stairs every morning!") and some days--even though I'm not "working" in the American Capitalist sense of the word--I feel in desperate need of a vacation.

Oh, to be a librarian again . . .

2010-06-01T14:55:00.000-07:00

Librarians Do Gaga

Provocative Question

2010-05-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

Chalked in blue on a nearby sidewalk:

What can we do to get to the next world?

Heaven? An alternate universe, such as Lyra's in The Golden Compass? A planet in a galaxy far, far away?

Meadow Lake

2010-05-19T08:56:00.000-07:00

I lived in three Great Lakes states (Wisconsin, Michigan and Ohio) for most of my life, but I never lived close to any body of water until we bought this house in semi-arid Colorado. Meadow Lake Park is literally right across the street, offering tennis courts, a playground, green space, and, best of all, Meadow Lake. The park is bordered by a paved trail which is perfect for dog-walking.

Michiganders would call Meadow Lake a pond, size-wise, but it supports an amazing amount of wildlife, some permanent, some transitory. There's always Mallards, a few Canadian Geese, fish, and some turtles, including a large snapping turtle that sometimes wanders onto the trail. (A small boy, rubbing the snapper's shell under the watchful eyes of his parents, confided, "He likes to have his back scratched." The turtle, whose eyes were half-closed, did indeed look blissful.)

In early spring, a half-dozen pairs of Northern Shovelers came and stayed for a couple of weeks. A Great Blue Heron has been lurking around for the last two weeks. Occasionally, exotic visitors stop in: a Hooded Merganser, American White Pelicans, and a Black-Crowned Night Heron.

Meadow Lake has become a miniature nature observatory for me, so I felt proprietary pride yesterday when I noticed that two pairs of Canadian Geese had successfully brought five goslings each into the world and launched them onto the lake for an inaugural paddle.

One last thing about Meadow Lake: If you walk to the far end of the lake, you suddenly get a stunning panorama of the mountains to the west. At sunset, you feel as though you should be paying for that view.

Meadow Lake (Click on the image for a better view!)

Our New (Foster) Dog

2010-05-13T10:14:00.000-07:00

Jim and I had talked before about fostering dogs for the shelter where we both volunteer, but had decided not to pursue it while Hana was still alive. But when I went in last week for my regular Tuesday morning shift with the long-term dogs, one of the other volunteers told me that Genoa, a five-year-old Rottweiler/Staffordshire Terrier (aka pit bull) mix who was a great favorite among the staff and volunteers, was "on the block."

Like humans, some dogs adapt to confinement better than others. Genoa, who'd been in the shelter for months, was suffering from depression, losing weight, and exhibiting behaviors of dogs who are literally at their wit's end. We'd already lost three dogs from the long-term program in the previous weeks, including Genoa's brother. The words, "Maybe I could foster her," were out of my mouth before my brain had even processed the idea.

Genoa--we call her Jenny--came to live with us last Saturday. Even with her all ribs showing, she's a big, powerful girl. She needs some brush-up work on house-training and basic obedience skills, but like most pit bulls, she's a fast learner. Also like many pit bulls, she's very affectionate and loves cuddling.

We hope that Jenny will find a permanent home soon--she'd be a perfect "best friend" for someone. Meanwhile, she's learning to live "on the outside" again, hitting the hiking trail with us and breaking in her new dog bed.

Currently #1 on the Job Hunt Nightmare List

2010-04-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

The e-mail below came from an enormously talented and experienced librarian friend who is also job-hunting right now. The names of the organizations involved have been omitted because we librarians are nice people who don't want to embarrass large, publicly funded institutions whose employees exhibit shamelessly bad behavior.

OK, what I'm about to tell you, I think could place number 1 in bizarre job hunting events.

On Sunday, I applied for the position of [Research Coordinator] at [an institute] that is affiliated with [a large West Coast University system]. I was really excited about this position because so much of the job description was research and they also wanted someone to set up a library. OK, so I don't have fundraising experience, but all of my research experience should have made me end up on the interview list. . . .

After I sent my cover letter and resume, almost immediately, I received the form letter from HR...thank you for your interest in [the institute]... If they are interested in interviewing me, I'll hear from them (DUH!).

So, this afternoon, get this...I received an email from the woman who I had identified as the Director of Development. You can imagine how excited I was to see that in my inbox. When I opened the email, it said: "no." That's right, Katie, it had two letters, n-o. NOTHING ELSE.

City Views: Capitol Hill, 4.25.10

2010-04-26T07:23:00.000-07:00

Ixelles, our Brussels commune, was known for its wide variety of splendid architecture. The American suburbs don't offer that, obviously.

We've begun exploring the city of Denver, though, particularly since Patrick and Rachel moved into the Capitol Hill neighborhood downtown. Denver, unlike Detroit, values its architectural heritage, from the Craftsman bungalows (which often list at $500,000 and up) to the mansions of those who made their fortunes on Colorado's natural resources.

I've started taking my camera along when I'm in Denver. From time to time, I'll post images from a city that, in its own way, provides visual pleasures similar to those Hana and I had on our daily walks through Ixelles.

The building below is across the street from Pat and Rachel's apartment. The decorative carvings and statuary are eclectic (to put it mildly), ranging from an American eagle flanked by Chinese-style lions at the roof line to medieval gargoyle heads and dragons reminiscent of Copenhagen bordering the windows.

Plumbing: $1,800. Decorating advice: Free.

2010-04-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

The plumber charged us $1,800 for three jobs, including resetting the tub in the basement bathroom, which the house flipper completely bungled.

But the big guy (his co-worker looked like a Viking) offered decorating commentary gratis. As he passed through our bedroom to fix the master bath toilet, he commented, "Yeah, we had this paint color in our living room when we first moved in. It always reminded me of makeup color."

"You mean foundation?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's it."

I had planned on painting the bedroom anyhow, but imagining greasy foundation oozing down the walls while we sleep just bumped that project up to the top of the list.

It's Baaack!

2010-04-22T20:50:00.000-07:00

Snow, that is.

April in Colorado can be erratic. Today it's snowing huge, wet flakes that are threatening to bury my just-planted violas.

But last Sunday was sunny and in the 60s, a perfect day for the Denver Botanic Gardens. Bordered on one side by a neighborhood of old, European-style homes, the Gardens are hosting "the first major open-air Henry Moore exhibition in the Western United States." The contrast between the massive statues and the fragile spring flowers and budding trees was delicious.

And looking at the pictures again almost makes me believe that spring is here. Or was here.

A former private residence near the Gardens,
now an administrative building.

The Gardens' Japanese Tea House,
where tea is served during the summer.

"Justices Reject Ban on Videos of Animal Cruelty"

2010-04-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

When I saw yesterday's New York Times headline, above, my heart sank. I understand--intellectually--the legal basis for the ruling, particularly after Patrick Gillette, JD and dog lover, explained it to me. But emotionally, I can't seem to get past the message it sends to people who promote dog fighting. These scum aren't concerned with the First Amendment nuances of the ruling and probably view it as a judicial blessing to keep throwing dogs into a pit to tear each other apart while they film the carnage.

Over the nearly two years that I've volunteered at the animal shelter, I've handled a lot of pit bulls and pit bull mixes. (Much of the time, they represent the majority of the dog population at our shelter, since many shelters in the area won't accept pit bulls or, if they do, they euthanize them immediately.) Some of them have been my favorite dogs to come through the shelter; one of the most battered, whose snout was criss-crossed by scars from dog fights, had a disposition as sweet as that of Buzz, our little Papillon. The idea that the Supreme Court would do something that, for practical purposes, may add to the maiming and killing of these dogs sickens me.

Who would ever think that I could agree with Justice Alito?

Below: Jenkins, one of my favorite pit bull mixes from the shelter, and me at an animal adoption event last fall where I handled him for the afternoon. The big guy was adopted two months later; his new owner reported that Jenkins is "like a big puppy" who "loves to snuggle." But I already knew that . . .

Corporate Theater of the Absurd

2010-04-16T08:56:00.000-07:00

Letter received yesterday from Allstate, which provided landlord's insurance on our Northville house during its years as a rental. (That would be the house we sold six months ago, incidentally.)

Dear Former Customer:

We're writing because, due to a processing error, we did not send you a policyholder disclosure document entitled "Notice of Terrorism Insurance Coverage" (AP3337-2) while your Landlord's Package Policy was active. The endorsement contains important details regarding Terrorism Coverage.

We apologize for this error. To correct this, we have enclosed the endorsement document in this mailing for your reference. Also, this issue did not affect your insurance premium at any time your policy was in force.

Thank God, now I'll be able to sleep at night.

At least once a week, sometimes twice, for the past couple of months, Comerica Bank (home to my late father-in-law's trust fund) calls the house during the day, when everyone except unemployed losers (e.g., me) is at work. The conversation is always the same:

CB: "I'm calling from Comerica Bank. May I speak to James Gillette?"

ME: "James Gillette was my father-in-law. He passed away in 2009."

CB: "Okay then, may I speak to Jack-quezz Gillette?" (Jim is a trustee on the account.)

ME: "JACQUES is not here at the moment. May I take a message?"

CB: "No, no message."

Is it just me, or is it a little odd that not a single Comerica rep has apparently ever reported to a manager that James Gillette is deceased? Or that word of his death, for which Jim provided documentation to the bank, hasn't filtered down from above?

Not to mention that none of the reps responded to the news of Jim, Sr.'s death with even the automatic "I'm sorry" that good manners suggest when one individual tells another--even a stranger--that a family member has died. Apparently it's more important to stick to the script in corporate America . . .

What about Hana?

2010-04-15T10:24:00.000-07:00

Dogs possess an indomitable spirit for life
that teaches right up to their last day.
from Dogs & Devotion, the Monks of New Skete

After I posted pictures of Buzz and his pal, Jack, Sheila sent me an e-mail asking about Hana. So, as Oprah would say, here is what I know for sure:

Four months after her lung cancer diagnosis, Hana, who is approaching 14, is still with us. We came scarily close to putting her down in late December, after two days in which she didn't eat and barely moved, apparently from arthritis pain. In fact, the vet had already inserted the catheter to inject the euthanasia drugs. I was sitting on the floor next to Hana, sobbing, when she suddenly turned and licked my face: this from a dog who was never a kisser. At that point, I told the vet to remove the catheter because I just wasn't ready to let go.

The vet suggested trying yet another of the new canine arthritis drugs. Although the previous arthritis medication had caused nasty side effects, including cognitive problems, the new drug not only got our girl up and moving, it improved her diminishing appetite. After years of being a picky eater, she has become a chow hound.

Like most elderly dogs, Hana sleeps most of the time. She is quite deaf, although she hasn't yet lost her sight. She coughs more often, and we wonder whether the lung tumor is expanding. On the other hand, although her days as a trail dog are over, she still enjoys twice-daily walks, now usually a slow stroll around the pond in the park across the street. Sitting out in the sun while I'm working in the yard, she still lifts her nose appreciatively to catch the scent of who knows what (coyote? mule deer? mountain lion?) blowing down from the mountains.

About the presence of Buzz in her life, Hana seems bemused. I like to think that, after having lived with other dogs for the majority of her life, she is pleased to have another of her own species in the house, even if Buzz does sometimes act like a herding dog to get her moving from one spot to another. I also like to think that Hana has taught Buzz all she knows about being a Gillette dog, lessons that she learned from Merlin, my beloved first Bouvier.

We don't really know how much time Hana has left. Jim doesn't think she'll see another Christmas, but as long as she can still move and breathe without too much pain, enjoy sitting in the sun, and get a blissful look on her face when she gets peanut butter to cut the taste of her meds, we will keep her close.

Four-Eyed Once More

2010-04-12T17:37:00.000-07:00

I started wearing glasses in the third grade. In college, when I thought that I might be walking down the aisle with John C., I got contact lenses. No way would I be a four-eyed bride.

Obviously, I didn't marry John, but I've been wearing contacts for the 35 years since that romance went bust. As I got older, I needed reading glasses on top of the contacts. Since I constantly misplace my reading glasses, I now own 10 pairs, ranging in style from Costco three-packs (a frugal fashion statement recommended by Mike M. and Steve K.) to Kate Spade.

Colorado's dry climate is tough on contact lens wearers, though; by the middle of many afternoons, my eyes are burning. So, while I'm keeping my contacts for the purposes of vanity, as of today, I am the somewhat ambivalent owner of my first pair of bifocals, er, progressive lenses.

At least in my current four-eyed incarnation, I'm sporting Vera Wang frames, a big improvement over the cat-eye glasses of my childhood.

1965: My glasses are awful, but note that
I am wearing a fashionable Madras shirt.

Dog Days

2010-04-07T12:46:00.000-07:00

Buzz and his visiting friend, Jack, after a long walk,
followed by a half hour of chasing each other around the dining room table.

A scrap of history

2010-04-05T09:20:00.000-07:00

We recently discovered a little piece of historical Paris in Denver's Cherry Creek neighborhood.

During World War I, the Union Française Comité de Prevoyance et d'Economies held a poster design competition for French schoolchildren. The posters' message was to encourage citizens to conserve resources. Each winning poster, which was then printed for distribution, focused on a specific resource, such as sugar, tobacco, or, quelle surprise, wine. Somehow, one of the printed posters turned up at Gallerie Rouge, a small Denver shop that specializes in vintage European posters. Appearing no heavier than a piece of tissue paper, it was in pristine condition on a linen backing.

Although the poster cost more than we have ever paid for a piece of art, we were completely smitten by the image and its back story. Our poster exhorts French citizens to save the gas used in early 20th century lamps. The young artist's name was Jeanne Fapaurnou.

I discovered a website that has images and descriptions of other posters in the series. I'm particularly taken with the poster below, and told the Gallerie Rouge owner that if she can find it for me, I'll buy it, too. ("I am a brave chicken of war. I eat little and produce much.")

Final note: The wine poster in the series is available in a modern reproduction.

Good Friday

2010-03-31T12:36:00.000-07:00

I was at a standing room only funeral for a Catholic priest the day Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was elected to the Papacy. The deceased had been the pastor at my father's parish. Eight months before Father W.'s death from a sudden heart attack, he sat with us one late September afternoon at St. Mary's Hospital while my father lay dying from a stroke he had suffered just that morning. Father W. stayed with us until Dad died, a great kindness.

I never saw him again after Dad's funeral, but attending Father W.'s own funeral was a way of bearing witness to his gift of himself to our family that September afternoon. Just before the final blessing, a priest slipped a note to the bishop who was presiding at the Mass; Detroit's cardinal, of course, was in Rome for the papal election. The bishop broke into a big smile and announced, "Habemus Papam, we have a Pope! But we don't know who it is yet!" The congregation clapped and cheered, an odd occurrence at a funeral, but one that Father W. would have enjoyed.

Five years later, the arrogant behavior of the man who was elected Pope that day and the institution he leads has restarted the nightmares I suffered for many years. I have personally experienced the flabbergasting hostility and arctic chill of the Church closing ranks against children who were abused while in its care, particularly when those children return as adults to finally tell their stories. (In my case, two decades later.)

No wonder I feel that Christ's assertion, "Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God?" doesn't apply to me.

Spring Blizzard

2010-03-24T07:35:00.000-07:00

The view from my desk

Home Decor?

2010-03-17T07:34:00.000-07:00

When we were first married, we sometimes bought furniture at farm auctions in the countryside around Ann Arbor. As the years went on and we had more disposable income, we just went to furniture stores when we needed something for the house.

When we moved to Belgium, though, the exchange rate was too high for us to purchase new furniture anywhere other than Ikea, so we turned to secondhand stores--Les Petits Riens or the ubiquitous Troc--and brocantes.

To furnish our new Arvada house, I've visited furniture stores and consignment shops. I've also become addicted to perusing the furniture section of craigslist. In addition to furniture and accessories that I'd actually buy (e.g., the bars stools now sitting in our kitchen) recent offerings included the following hard-to-pass-up items:

Eiffel Tower Lamp Base

Driftwood Coffee Table

Elk Antler Lamps

Diorama Coffee Table
"Taxidermied Raccoon and 3 Blue Wing Teal ducks
in naturalized setting.
Lights at night for an elegant look."

As my friend Georgia commented, "Just think of the countless hours of entertainment it would provide your four-footed family members."

Real Estate Talk Therapy

2010-02-27T18:47:00.000-08:00

Proponents of psychotherapy claim that talking about one's bad experiences can help to alleviate some of the pain associated with them. Perhaps blogging about the experience we had purchasing our "new" house will disperse some of the black cloud hanging over it. Or, as I said to our Irish Catholic realtor, maybe we'll just hire a priest to do an exorcism.

In the 32-plus years we've been married, we've purchased four houses. The first three--one in Ohio and two in Michigan--were "For Sale by Owner." In each case, the process was cordial and smooth from purchase offer to closing. Similarly, obtaining a mortgage was painless the first three times around.

The purchase of our fourth house, which is on Zinnia Street, has been a very different and very ugly story.

THE SELLER
We made an offer, and then upped it after feedback from the seller's agent that another offer was coming in at the same time. The offer was accepted after 5 p.m. on January 27. A few hours later, we got a call from our realtor: The sellers had received a higher offer after they accepted our offer, and, since no earnest money had yet changed hands (the earnest money was to go directly to the title company, which was closed by the time of the acceptance), they were taking the higher offer.

At this point, I wanted to walk away from the deal. The sellers' questionable behavior was sending off alarms in my mind, which operated on a "Trust no one" basis long before "The X-Files." I worried that if the sellers were behaving badly early on, they could pose additional problems down the road. Jim, however, wanted to offer a slightly higher bid, with the provision that we would not continue bidding if the other prospective buyers upped their offer again.

Counseled by their agent to take our offer because we were in a better financial position than the competing buyers, the sellers accepted. In hindsight, we should have told the sellers to stuff it.

The Zinnia house, it seemed, had been a foreclosure that was purchased by a small group hoping to flip it: a recent Colorado School of Mines graduate who acted as a general contractor on renovations and a married couple who provided the financing. The husband (we'll call him RJ) in the couple is a lawyer whose practice areas, according to his firm's website, include commercial litigation and real estate.

As our president likes to say, let me be perfectly clear: I have no innate animosity against attorneys. I'm surrounded by them at family funerals and weddings. Uncle Mike is a lawyer; my brother is a lawyer; two of my first cousins are lawyers; Patrick just took the Colorado bar exam. My college roommate, Judy, who qualifies as family, is a lawyer. Our Northville neighbor, Pete, is a lawyer, as is our Arvada neighbor, Jeff.

But the behavior of the attorney behind the Zinnia house blew that line from Shakespeare's Henry VI right into my head: First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. RJ wasn't content to let his listing agent communicate with our agent; he frequently called and sent e-mails directly to our agent. His tone was bullying, sometimes threatening, usually couched in legalese. For example, after literally signing off on a $5,000 seller's concession to cover repairs, he declared that he hadn't understood that the $5,000 did not include the $1,500 amount put in the initial offer to cover a new furnace if the existing furnace couldn't be certified. An e-mail from our realtor summarized that conversation:

RJ . . . called me today and was adamant they were not going to pay the $1500 . . . I informed him this is a contractual obligation and there is no room for negotiation. He threatened not to show up for closing. I asked him to put that in writing and he refused.

Another example: Our realtor asked RJ for a written warranty on the new roof that the house received after last summer's storm. RJ's e-mail response, which the realtor forwarded to us:

The contract only states that we need to provide "proof" of transferable warranty. Our proof is that we confirmed with our contractor that the warranty for their workmanship is transferred to the buyers for one year from the date of installation of the roof.

An attorney asking us to take his word (which hasn't been too reliable to date) that he had confirmed the roof warranty?

And so on . . .

THE BANK

We've been customers of Chase ever since it acquired Banc One (formerly National Bank of Detroit). We've had a home loan, car loans, checking and savings accounts, and a credit card with Chase. We were pre-approved for a loan that was two and a half times what we ended up requesting. We were told that it could take as little as 10 days for official approval.

Instead, the process of nailing down that money took nearly four weeks, due to an inattentive loan officer and a loan processor, who, we found out later, was having personal problems, leading her to miss work and lose/misplace documents when she was at her desk. (For example, she asked us three times for one particular document because she misplaced it the first two times we sent it to her.)

Less than 48 hours before the scheduled closing date, I got a call from another loan processor at Chase (we'll call her Carole) who was picking up "our" loan processor's work. She said nicely, "We're trying to get you ready to close in March, and I see that we're still missing [the document we'd already sent twice before]."

"Actually," I said, "if you read the purchase agreement, we're supposed to close on or before February 24, which is in two days."

"Really? Oh, I see that now . . ."

Thanks to Carole running interference for us, we did close on the 24th. However, we showed up at the title company for closing at 1 p.m. without having seen the settlement statement, ergo not knowing exactly how much cash to bring to the table. When the settlement statement did come through on the title company's fax, it was wrong: The final sale price did not reflect the $5,000 seller's concession that had gotten RJ's panties in a twist.

As a result, the settlement statement went back to underwriting at Chase, while we sat around for two hours waiting for them to get their numbers right. Every time estimate the loan officer gave us for fixing the problem his people had caused was wrong. In addition, he promised to be available by phone that afternoon, but all our calls went to his voice mail, which he rarely returned. We probably shouldn't have been surprised, since the loan officer's performance during the entire loan process was a maddening combination of a good ol' boy "Hey, I'm here for you, buddy" demeanor when you spoke with him and, for all practical purposes, apparently doing a brain wipe of anything related to our loan the moment he hung up the phone.

By the time all the drama was over, I wasn't even sure that I wanted the house anymore. I'm trying to get excited about it, but the best I can do is a mild happiness that we're getting away from the toxic black mold in the rental.

Rooms with a View

2010-02-25T11:52:00.000-08:00

Our new house didn't rate a "Mtn. View" in its real estate listing. So, while they're not the breathtaking views of some foothills homes, we're still thrilled to be able to look out the west-facing second story windows and see a small slice of the Rockies.

Think your living room is a mess?

2010-02-23T07:58:00.001-08:00

Above: My life, reduced to TROUT boxes.
Below: The biggest of the holes in the living room ceiling,
home to a large (and growing) population of toxic black mold.

Packing. Again.

2010-02-19T10:14:00.000-08:00

December 2006: Pack for move from Michigan to Belgium.
March 2008: Pack for move from Belgium to Colorado.
February 2010: Pack for move from 66th Place to Zinnia Street.

Lessons learned:

No matter how much you think you've given away, thrown away, or sold prior to each move, Madonna's hit "Material Girl" keeps playing in your head as you pack. Box. After box. After box.
Preparing to move 2.1 miles is nearly as exhausting as preparing to move across the Atlantic Ocean.

A what?

2010-02-12T19:09:00.000-08:00

Spotted on craiglist under "Furniture for Sale": Micro Swede Spinning Chair.

What comes to mind is a recumbent version of the bikes used in the rec center's spinning classes, designed for a vertically challenged Scandinavian . . .

We knew that

2010-02-11T10:31:00.000-08:00

I don't usually read self-help books or even books about self-help books, which is, in part, what The Happiness Project is. The author, Gretchen Rubin, is a little too self-congratulatory for my Irish genes, which stress not making a big fuss over one's accomplishments.

That said, the book's summary of research on marriage and intimacy perfectly captures the essence of a number of conversations I've had over the years with my women friends:

Perhaps because men have this low standard for what qualifies as intimacy, both men and women find relationships with women to be more intimate and enjoyable than those with men. Women have more feelings of empathy for other people than men do (though women and men have about the same degree of empathy for animals, whatever that means). In fact, for both men and women--and this finding struck me as highly significant--the most reliable predictor of not being lonely is the amount of contact with women. Time spent with men doesn't make a difference.

Or, as a female character in Emily Chenoweth's novel, Hello Goodbye, put it:

"People think you need husbands to grow old with, but that's not true--what you really need is that one perfect friend. You can get fat and ornery and grow bunions together."

Molds R Us

2010-02-08T15:48:00.000-08:00

According to the "Fungal Assessment Report" we just received from the environmental testing company, the investigations performed 10 days ago "indicate the presence of abundant Stachybotrys and Myxomycetes spores." Stachybotrys, we read elsewhere, "is the type of mold often referred to as Toxic Black Mold," making me feel like a candidate for a National Enquirer story.

The final approval on the loan for the house we're buying can't come fast enough.

Squirrel Patrol

2010-02-04T15:04:00.001-08:00

Notre petit chien nouveau

2010-01-31T10:17:00.000-08:00

NAME: Buzz, known to his former owners as Maverick (A name with bad associations for the liberal Democrats in this household, hence the change)
BREED: Papillon
DOB: 9/5/2008
JOINED OUR HOUSEHOLD: 1/27/10
WEIGHT: 5 lbs., 2 oz.

Oh, puh-lease . . .

2010-01-27T08:58:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow begins the tenth week of our leaky roof problems. Nothing has been fixed (nor do we have a timetable for the remediation and repair work), which made us howl with laughter yesterday when one of our neighbors, who is in contact with our landlord, forwarded this e-mail from Gracey:

Other than that, please let Jim and Kate know that we continue to plug on with the roof. Frank has been in constant contact with property manager and insurance company and we are all determined to have it done right. The timing of this all during the holidays did not help, but as slow as it may be going, and inconvenient to all, I really want this situation to be taken care of properly.

Gosh, I wonder how bad things would be if Frank wasn't on top of the problem.

Competitive Spirits

2010-01-25T18:26:00.000-08:00

We went to two competitions this past weekend and had a wonderful time at each, even though the competitors in one had heavenly voices, and the competitors in the other were sometimes scrambling on their bellies in the dirt.

On Saturday, we attended the Rocky Mountain Regional Finals of The Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions, or, as Jim's brother-in-law referred to it, "American Idol Goes to the Opera." For two hours, we sat in the third row of Denver's exquisite opera house and listened to eight young classically trained singers vie for a chance to go to New York to "compete for $15,000 cash prizes and the chance to perform in the Grand Finals Concert on the nation's most prestigious opera stage . . . Over 1,500 singers between the ages of 20 and 30 will participate in the National Council Auditions, the oldest and most wide-ranging singing competition in the country."

Much as I love our new home state, Culture-With-a-Capitol-C sometimes feels lacking here. Saturday's performances filled a little of the artistic vacuum I've experienced since leaving Europe.

Sunday's competition, on the other hand, was pure Colorado: the final sheep herding trials of the 2010 National Western Stock Show. Last year, we saw the novice dogs compete, which involved a lot of automatic DQs for biting sheep that refused to be herded. (One young dog actually slunk out of the ring with a mouthful of fleece.) This year's dogs were more experienced, but some of them still nipped their charges or crawled on their bellies when they were supposed to be motionless or couldn't accomplish all the required tasks under the five-minute time limit. The winner, Lad, belonged to an elderly gentleman who worked in perfect harmony with his dog, communicating only with whistles. (Shades of "Babe") Laddie put those sheep through their paces in a mere 2 minutes, 10 seconds. Bravo!

Adventures in Real Estate

2010-01-22T09:15:00.000-08:00

Although we contacted the owner of our rental property about the possibility of buying the house, we haven't received a response. The holes and water stains on the ceiling and walls remain unfixed, although two more contractors paraded through in the past six days and took pictures. Jim and I are exploding with frustration and have kicked our house-hunting into high gear.

I've always enjoyed looking for houses. In part, it's the fascination of peering into other people's architectural and interior design choices: Why is that dining room decorated to look like a cave? Why did someone add a tacky, lean-to sun room with 70s-style green indoor/outdoor carpeting onto a large, otherwise attractive home? Why are so many fireplaces stuck in a corner of the family room, rather than centered on the wall? Why does the master bathroom, rather than the master bedroom, have the best view of the lake? When you've spent tens of thousands to update a kitchen and put in hardwood floors in your home, why do all the bedroom closets sport metal folding doors circa the 1960s? Or how about that 14-year-old house in an upscale area in which none of the floors on the western side of the house are level? (I jokingly told our realtor that I'd had only one glass of wine the night before, so I knew that it wasn't a hangover causing everything to tilt.)

There's also something psychologically intriguing about house-hunting. Why, especially in a buyer's market, do some sellers meticulously stage the house and yard, while others seem to care less about how their property (their PRODUCT, from a marketing standpoint) looks? For example, I went through a fairly expensive house the very first day it went on the market. Although it had a spacious back yard--at least by Denver metro area standards--the yard was full of dog poop. Why didn't the owners clean it up before putting the house on the market? What were they thinking?

Stress Points

2010-01-15T11:27:00.000-08:00

Yet another contractor--this one representing the owner's insurance company--walked through our rental house today, taking pictures of the water damage and expressing shock that nothing substantive has been done to take care of the problem. "They didn't drill holes in the walls and blow hot air in?" Nope. "They didn't remove the wet insulation?" No on that, too.

You could probably fill two fat photo albums with the pictures that have been taken in the last two months by various contractors, insurance adjusters, and staff from the property management company. Very little has actually been done to ameliorate the problems, although the living room ceiling and walls now sport five large holes. Those holes, ranging in size from 4x6 inches to 18x72 inches, are covered in clear plastic stapled to the surface, lending the house the ambiance of a lean-to.

Although we've approached the owner about buying this house (lunacy, I know, but we adore our neighbors), we've also kicked our search for a property to buy into high gear. We drove by over 40 houses in the past week, walked through six of them, and have showings scheduled tomorrow for another eight or nine. Of the houses we've toured, only one is even a possibility, mainly because it has a kitchen that looks like something out of a home decorating magazine. (The rest of the house needs updating, unfortunately.)

I had an interview last week for a part-time reference job at a local public library. It was one of the most bizarre interviews I've ever had, in part because the three librarians in the group interview gave no indication that they had ever seen my resume or cover letter. (All the applications went through the city's HR department.) They had a three or four page list of questions that they trudged through as though their lives depended on sticking to the script.

As I told my friend Sheila, who's also a librarian, some of the questions made me think that I was interviewing for the presidency of the American Library Association. "What kinds of Web 2.0 technologies could you use to attract teens to the library?" "How can reference librarians prove that they're still necessary when 85 percent of people say that they just go to Google to get their questions answered?" "From the following list of technologies (which included everything from PowerPoint presentations to wikis and RSS feeds), please tell us which you have worked with and describe how you have worked with them."

By the time they got to questions about traditional library services ("What books would you book-talk for young patrons? Please provide titles for both children and young adults."), my brain was fried. Sheila said that she probably would have walked out mid-interview, and, in retrospect, I probably should have done just that. At least then I wouldn't feel so astounded that they didn't even have the courtesy to send me an e-mail, much less snail mail, thanking me for my time, but notifying me that they wouldn't hire me if I were the last librarian in the solar system.

Why I Don't Cook

2010-01-11T14:31:00.001-08:00

E-mail today from my darling daughter:

Will you be offended if I say this is how I imagine you in the kitchen?

Which she follows up with a link to a recent New Yorker article titled "The Cursing Mommy Cooks Italian" . . .

Favorite Books, 2009 Edition

2010-01-06T07:12:00.000-08:00

She was not a writer herself, but she was a very good reader, passionate and eclectic in her tastes . . .

David Benioff, City of Thieves

I read 120 books last year. Don't be impressed--some, such as Ann Patchett's What Now?, were so thin that they couldn't balance a wobbly table leg. One, The Graveyard Book, was nominally written for children. Plus, I had a lot of unique opportunities to read in 2009, including the time I spent on "the rack" (Rick, what's that machine really called?) during physical therapy.

When I finish reading a book, I add the title and author to an ongoing list in my journal. If I really, really liked the book, I put a star next to its title. When I went to compile my 2009 favorites, I was shocked to find that many of the titles, starred and starless, featured one or more deaths. What's that all about? It's not as though I read a lot of murder mysteries.

[Our dog, Berry] might not realize that I am going to die, for a start. He doesn't know about death. As I lie expiring, surrounded by people who got tickets for the event in time, how do I know that as I open my mouth and prepare to utter my carefully prepared and rehearsed last words, he may not burst in and demand to be taken for a walk?

And that my last words, after all that, will turn out to be: 'Oh, for God's sake, not now, Berry!'

Miles Kington, How Shall I Tell the Dog? and Other Final Musings

On the other hand, my favorite book of the year, Manhood for Amateurs, a collection of essays by Michael Chabon, was short on death and long on life with all its vagaries. I read Manhood toward the end of 2009, so perhaps it's a harbinger of happier reading ahead.

With that lengthy aside ("No, I am not preoccupied with death!"), here are my other 2009 favorites, listed in the chronological order in which I read them.

The Mercy Papers (Robin Romm)
Sing Them Home (Stephanie Kallos)
The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Muriel Barbery)
City of Thieves (David Benioff)
Between, Georgia (Joshilyn Jackson)
The Exact Same Moon (Jeanne Marie Laskas)
The Graveyard Book (Neil Gaiman)
Angels of Destruction (Keith Donohue)
Missing Joseph (Elizabeth George)
Losing Mum and Pup (Christopher Buckley)
The Family Man (Elinor Lipman)
Eat, Drink, and Be From Mississippi (Nanci Kincaid)
The Little Book (Selden Edwards)
The Likeness (Tana French)
Home Safe (Elizabeth Berg)
Her Fearful Symmetry (Audrey Niffenegger)
The Magicians (Lev Grossman)

Blockbuster note: I loved Angels & Demons and enjoyed The Da Vinci Code, but I got through only 35 pages of The Lost Symbol before returning it to the library from sheer boredom.

"Are you kidding? That guy was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and crudely stapled to a ticking fucking time bomb. He was either going to hit somebody or start a blog."

Lev Grossman, The Magicians

Decisions, Decisions

2010-01-04T13:59:00.000-08:00

For years, my overhead bin at work sported a magnet with the phrase "Leap and the net will appear." (It was supposedly a Zen saying, but I was doubtful.) After we decided to leap, er, move to Belgium, I gave the magnet to the Head Librarian, who was contemplating a little leaping herself.

We now find ourselves trying to decide whether to leap back into home ownership, which seemed desirable in our 20s and 30s, but is less so now. We hadn't planned to even consider that decision until spring, when our lease is up and Jim will have been at his new job a bit longer. However, we're facing the prospect of living for many weeks (6? 8? more?) in a Marriott Suites sort of lodging while a major portion of our rental home's interior is gutted to repair the damage from the roof fiasco. Although the property management company has hinted that it would release us from our lease, I haven't found another decent rental house, particularly one that will accept dogs, even a dog who is literally on her last legs. I haven't even been able to find much in the way of homes for sale at this time of year.

Jim feels that we should explore the option of making an offer on this house prior to the start of the remediation work. His thought is that, since the house is going to be torn up anyhow, why not have some other work done on it, work that we had discussed back in the days when the roof didn't leak and we thought we might want to own the house? New windows, for example. A remodelled kitchen. New floors in the bathrooms. After the never-ending fallout from the roof disaster, though, I am leery.

But . . . I like the neighbors, the neighborhood, and the proximity to the mountains and to downtown Denver. I like many things about the house itself--the cozy family room, the view out back to the woods, the fact that the interior, with its many windows, is très lumineux, as the rental listings in Brussels used to boast. (Of course it is much easier to be très lumineux in a part of the world with over 300 days of sunshine.)

Maybe I need that magnet back, or at least the ignorant optimism I briefly had that nets do appear to catch those who have abandoned all that was once certain in life.

Roofing=Rocket Science?

2009-12-21T15:35:00.000-08:00

It turns out that roof #2 was laid over insulation that never dried after snow melted through roof #1. The two disaster recovery companies out here today were mumbling about having to tear out all the walls and the cathedral ceiling in the open floor plan that contains our living room, dining area, and kitchen.

When I asked the property manager what we were supposed to do while all that was going on, she blithely answered, "You'll either have to find another place to live (i.e., move out permanently) or live in a hotel until the repairs are done." She didn't offer to foot the hotel bill, incidentally.

And on a further note: This is going to sound sexist, but it was difficult to take the representative from the second disaster recovery company seriously. She showed up wearing tight jeans and high heels, did not bring a ladder to inspect the ceiling (she had to borrow ours), and had only a tiny (but oh so cute) red flashlight for inspecting the attic, which does not have electricity.

Got a Feelin' Called the Blues

2009-12-20T16:37:00.000-08:00

Water is still dripping through our living room ceiling, even though the new (as of November) roof that the independent inspector called "shoddy" was replaced this past Thursday. With bubbles in the paint, brown water stains down the walls, and a portion of the ceiling threatening to drop to the floor, it's difficult to work up much enthusiasm for Christmas decorating. I feel as though I live in a flophouse.

In addition to putting on a shoddy roof, the November roofers never cleaned the gutters after finishing the job. I had been diligent about salting and shoveling the steps and the front porch, but I was out all day a week ago Friday and returned through the garage entrance. When a neighbor asked me to come over that evening, I stepped out the front door, did a half-somersault on the ice that had accumulated during the day on the porch from the overflowing gutters, and slammed the back of my head and my already iffy left knee on the concrete steps. I've had a constant headache and a "second kneecap" ever since.

Hana was horribly ill last week with gastrointestinal problems, so ill that our vet sent her to a specialist for an ultrasound. The good news is that her intestinal system proved to be fine, and $1,300 of drugs, IV fluids and vet fees later, she is eating without vomiting. The bad news is that the ultrasound picked up a "solitary nodule within [the] right caudal lung lobe . . . consistent with primary pulmonary neoplasia." In layman's terms, our 13-year-old girl has lung cancer.

Hana, 12.18.09

The Roof Over Our Heads

2009-12-11T10:59:00.000-08:00

Maybe I need to change the title of my blog to The Cynical Woman. On five of the past nine days, we've been graced by a succession of roofers and home repairmen whose so-called efforts have done nothing to stop the leaks in the roof. It's a sad state of affairs when the property management company's offer to buy us more buckets to catch the drips feels like a early Christmas present.

Personally, I think that the owner should let us get that second dog I've been craving as partial compensation for living in a sieve.

Not-So-Hypothetical Question of the Day

2009-12-09T09:06:00.001-08:00

Do we still have to pay rent when our roof has been leaking for the past two weeks, despite a parade of roofers stomping around up there?

(I have a new appreciation for the effectiveness of Chinese water torture.)

Another candidate for the Darwin Awards?

2009-12-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

Note: Colorado's annual ski passes feature the pass-holder's name, photo, and associated bar code. When a ski lift staff member scans your pass, your picture appears on the scanner.

From the December 5 Denver Post:

Girl using guy's ski pass: Had sex change

Keystone>> A father was "shocked" last weekend when a deputy called asking whether his son was having a sex-change operation, according to a report from the Summit County Sheriff's Office.

The trouble started when a woman was caught at Keystone Resort trying to use the ski pass of a man named Daniel. The woman claimed to be in the middle of a sex change. The deputy asked for the parents' phone number and the woman gave it to them. Daniel's father answered and said he knew nothing of a sex change. An hour later, the Keystone supervisor told the deputy there was a phone number on Daniel's ski-pass file. The deputy called the number and Daniel answered, informing the deputy that he had given the pass to his girlfriend, Wanda. The woman spoke with Daniel, then told the deputy that she was actually Wanda. She was arrested and booked on charges of theft of more than $500 and criminal impersonation.

Small Pleasures

2009-12-02T09:13:00.000-08:00

Although I grew up with a relatively small dog (a cranky Boston Bull Terrier mix who loved only my mother), when I met Jim and fell almost as much in love with his Newfoundland-Irish Setter mix as I did with him, I became a "Big Dog Person." Consider the dogs that we've owned over the past 20 years: Merlin: 125 lbs. Sam: 120 lbs. Sophie: 90 lbs. Hana: 70 lbs.

So perhaps it's a surprise that my next dog will probably be a Papillon, a breed that generally tops out at around 10 pounds. (On the other hand, Papillons are sometimes referred to as "big dogs in little suits.")

Jill's dog, Foxy, was the first Papillon I really got to know. Unlike many small dogs (including the various toy breeds owned by my mother-in-law over the years), Foxy is calm, even around strange people and large dogs. In Brussels, Foxy and Hana treated each other with the exquisite manners of two well-bred aristocrats. Foxy is smart, but then Papillons are often on Top 10 lists of the most intelligent dog breeds. Most remarkably, though, she has what in humans is called emotional intelligence. She seems to sense what people around her need—entertainment, comfort, a warm body to sit quietly with—and quickly supplies it. (The only dog I've owned that truly had this gift was Merlin, the Bouvier des Flandres.)

Foxy and Hana at Chateau de la Hulpe, 2008

I just assumed that Foxy was unique and that Jill, who had adopted her from a rescue group, was one of those lucky people who had found the dog perfectly suited to her.

Then in August, my neighbor Joyce adopted a male Papillon from the shelter where I volunteer. He was a stray that the shelter staff christened "Bling." Joyce renamed him "Jack Sparrow" (a "manly" first name, a last name that referenced his birdlike bones) and paid his hefty veterinary bills when, three days into the adoption, he was diagnosed with canine influenza.

In less than four months, Jack and Joyce have become as perfectly in sync as Foxy and Jill.

Jack, 2009

When Joyce was out of town for 10 days over Thanksgiving, Jack came to stay with us and I got to see what he was like 24/7, just as I had when I dog-sat Foxy in Brussels. And here's the interesting thing: their temperaments are virtually identical. Foxy and Jack each stayed with me at times when I was feeling very low. Foxy was with us in Brussels when we knew we we had to leave Europe but Jim didn't yet have a firm job in the States; Jack was here last week when I was in complete despair about my job prospects AND was yearning for a home of my own, after dealing with a leaky (brand-new!) roof in our rental house and an AWOL property management company.

At the risk of sounding like one of those sentimental, gushy dog people, it's impossible to convey how much these two tiny creatures lifted my spirits during their respective visits, from waking up in morning to find Foxy's head on my pillow to laughing at Jack's habit of flipping his dry food into the air like tiddly winks. Which is why, at the risk of sounding like a whiny two-year-old (and knowing that our landlord is dead set against allowing us to have a second dog), I tell Jim at least once a day, "I want MY OWN Papillon."

Heartsick

2009-11-29T10:08:00.000-08:00

Of all the jobs that I've applied for and been rejected for in the 19 months since moving to Colorado, the one that hurt the most was the Volunteer Coordinator position at the animal shelter where I've put in hundreds of hours since August 2008. During that time, I've worked in the following shelter programs: dog enrichment; trail walks (for the dogs who are short-term shelter residents); a special program for the long-term dogs (mostly pit bulls); dog-handling at off-site adoption events; and, for the last five months, as the designer for the volunteer newsletter. I've bathed a few dirty dogs and come home soaking wet, and, recently, was one of five volunteers asked to participate in a new program for dogs "with issues" that are awaiting court dates or breed-specific rescue groups.

I was never called to interview for the position; last Monday, I was just told verbally that I didn't get it. Since I got the news in public, several feet from where other volunteers were standing, there was really no opportunity to discuss it.

Since I left the shelter that day feeling heartsick, I sent an email to the shelter staff member who will be supervising the position. She has been the Volunteer Coordinator since I started there (she's moving to another position within the organization), so I've had a lot of interactions with her during my time at the shelter.

For those who haven't had to look for a job in this economy—particularly those of you over 50—the following email exchange (my email to the shelter contact and her reply) is an example of why, some days, I feel as worthless as a used Kleenex.

Hi ----,

Thanks for telling me in person that another candidate had been chosen for the Volunteer Coordinator spot. I didn't want to discuss it in the shelter lobby in front of other volunteers, but it would be helpful to me--as I continue to job hunt--to know if there was something in my resume or in my interactions at the shelter that would have made me a more attractive candidate. (I guess that I was a bit surprised that I didn't even rate an interview.)

I'm not trying to put you on the spot--truly--but if there's anything that you can add to my understanding of the hiring process without making it too awkward for either of us in the future, I'd be appreciative. Thanks much.

Kate

Hi, Kate,

I appreciate your email.

As I think I had mentioned awhile back, we were amazed by the 76 applicants for a part-time position. So I completely understand your surprise with the process. It was very competitive and some of the applicants had a great deal of nonprofit work experience and management/training of volunteers.

There was nothing at all that you could have done differently in the process or with your interactions with [the shelter].

I wish you the BEST of luck with your job search. Thanks for following up with me!

Sincerely,
----

Our Pilgrim Foremothers

2009-11-26T14:45:00.000-08:00

The colonists who came over on the Mayflower believed that women were morally as well as intellectually and physically inferior, and that they should be married off as early as possible so their husbands could keep them on the straight and narrow . . . But it was occasionally difficult to wring the proper degree of deference out of women who had crossed the ocean in small boats, helped carve settlements out of the wilderness, and spent their days alone in isolated farmhouses surrounded by increasingly ticked-off Indians.

from When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present by Gail Collins

Great Sand Dunes

2009-11-22T11:12:00.000-08:00

In Michigan, we had Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, with its 400-foot high mounds of fine sand overlooking Lake Michigan. In Colorado, we have Great Sand Dunes National Park, with its 750-foot high mounds of slightly coarser sand in a valley below the Sangre de Cristo mountains. We stopped at the park on our way home from Mesa Verde.

I can't even begin to understand how 19,000 acres of sand dunes ended up sandwiched between endless plains—an "Open Range" where the cattle wander unfenced—and a line of mountains. The only water in sight is an unimpressive creek. Words like "sand deposits," "Rio Grande and its tributaries," and "ephemeral lake" (a lovely phrase that I picked up at the visitor center) have something to do with it.

Going up the dunes was dreamlike: no matter how many mounds of sand you scrambled over while fighting strong winds and shifting sand below your feet, the top still seemed no closer. After failing to summit, I was left with a) a lot more appreciation for Lawrence of Arabia and b) the feeling that my face had just undergone a 100-percent natural microdermabrasion.

More pictures from Great Sand Dunes

Mesa Verde

2009-11-18T17:04:00.000-08:00

We'd been talking about visiting Mesa Verde National Park since we arrived in Colorado, but always found reasons for not going. It takes a minimum of eight hours to drive there, depending on your route. During the summer, it's pretty hot that far south. No matter which route you take, you have to go over some mountain passes, which makes for a dicey trip during the winter months.

But two weeks ago, the weather forecasts were promising, we had roofers hammering away above us, and life was wearing us down. We tossed our suitcases in the trunk and drove. And drove. And drove. In the three-day round trip, we travelled over 1,000 miles through ever-changing, jaw-dropping scenery without even leaving Colorado.

Mesa Verde, Spanish for green table, offers a spectacular look into the lives of the Ancestral Pueblo people who made it their home for over 700 years, from A.D. 600 to A.D. 1300. Today, the park protects over 4,000 known archaeological sites, including 600 cliff dwellings. These sites are some of the most notable and best preserved in the United States. (National Park Service)

The decision to visit Mesa Verde during the first week in November was serendipitous. Judging from the size of the parking lot at the museum/visitor center, the place is mobbed during the summer. We shared a tour of the Cliff Palace—one of the biggest settlements at the site—with about 50 delightful fifth grade girls from a Denver charter school.

Cliff Palace

The rest of the day, we saw few other visitors. We were the only hikers on the Petroglyph Trail that afternoon. The silent canyon heightened the drama of coming face-to-face with our first-ever petroglyphs, including the small handprints of the artist(s).

More pictures from Mesa Verde:
http://picasaweb.google.com/Katharine.Gillette/MesaVerde

I'm not a cyborg

2009-11-17T09:38:00.000-08:00

. . . but when I'm without my computer, as I have been for most of the last two weeks, I feel as though I'm missing a vital body part.

(My machine has been in the shop. It caught a virus, was fixed and sent home, and two days later, caught a different virus and went back to the PC Gurus. It may be time to invest in a new box, but I have a lot of emotional attachments to the old one. Clearly I read way too much science fiction during my formative years.)

In Flanders Fields: Armistice Day

2009-11-11T09:12:00.000-08:00

During one of our last weekends in Belgium, we spent a day in the area most Americans know only as Flanders Fields, from the poem by John McCrae, a Canadian soldier in World War I. The city of Ypres, which was under horrific siege by the Germans, now houses the In Flanders Field Museum and other war monuments. The surrounding countryside, the site of many battles and—still—the trenches so closely identified with the Great War, is dotted with military cemeteries holding the dead from the British Commonwealth.

I never had a chance to blog about that experience while we still lived in Belgium. But today, the official end of World War I, seems like a good time to share the photos. Unlike the more uniform markers in American military cemeteries, the grave markers in the British cemeteries in Flanders are engraved with the regimental symbols of the dead soldiers, which adds to their poignancy.

Pictures from Ypres, the military monuments and cemeteries, and the now peaceful countryside:
http://picasaweb.google.com/Katharine.Gillette/FlandersFields

John McCrae's poem "In Flanders Fields"
http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john-mccrae-in-flanders-fields.htm

The Brakebills Library

2009-10-31T15:24:00.000-07:00

This one's for you, Gretchen . . .

I spent several hours during this week's snowstorm reading Lev Grossman's new novel, The Magicians. A large chunk of the action takes place at Brakebills, a sort of college-level Hogwarts. Although I think that all libraries are magical places (cue to loud groaning), the Brakebills Library--which I envisioned as looking rather like the Long Room in the Old Library at Trinity College Dublin (yes, I have been there, so I know whereof I speak)--literally has its own brand of magic:

...some of the books had actually become migratory. In the nineteenth century Brakebills had appointed a librarian with a highly Romantic imagination who had envisioned a mobile library in which the books fluttered from shelf to shelf like birds, reorganizing themselves spontaneously under their own power in response to searches. For the first few months the effect was said to have been quite dramatic. A painting of the scene survived as a mural behind the circulation desk, with enormous atlases soaring around the place like condors.

But the system turned out to be totally impractical. The wear and tear on the spines alone was too costly, and the books were horribly disobedient. The librarian had imagined that he could summon a given book to perch on his hand just by shouting out its call number, but in actuality they just too willful, and some were actively predatory. The librarian was swiftly deposed, and his successor set about domesticating the books again, but even now there were stragglers, notably in Swiss History and Architecture 300-1399, that stubbornly flapped around near the ceiling. Once in a while an entire sub-sub-category that had long been thought safely dormant would take wing with an indescribable papery susurrus.

It's hard not to love the idea of disobedient books. Or the word susurrus.

October Snow

2009-10-29T09:43:00.000-07:00

You may have heard that we're having a bit of snow out West. How bad is it? Well, my neighbor Holly, who has teenagers, commented as she was shoveling her driveway for about the thirteenth time in the last 24 hours, "This is the first time we've ever had two [school] snow days in a row this early in the season!"

The streets don't get plowed (see below), but the paved trails in the open space areas do, which enabled me to walk Hana on Ralston Creek Trail this morning and take a few pictures.

No tennis for us today

Letting Go of "Home"

2009-10-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

My family moved twice while I was in grades 1-8, so I attended three Catholic elementary schools. Making new friends isn't easy when you are gawky, shy, bookish, and "four-eyed." (Those cat-eyed glasses did me no favors.)

When I had children, I vowed that they were going to stay in the same house from the moment they entered first grade through high school graduation. We bought a house in an excellent school district the summer before Pat and Ali started first grade (1988) and remained there until we left for Belgium in 2007. We'd managed to stay put not only until the kids were out of high school, but until they were out of college.

For most of the past three years, while we were in Belgium and then Colorado, we rented our house to a young couple from Germany. When Carolin and Ranier told us over the summer that they were being transferred to California, we decided, despite the horrific real estate market in the Detroit metro area, to put the house up for sale.

The house itself isn't anything architecturally special—it's a big 1970s Colonial typical of the northern Detroit suburbs. However, it backs to a huge, rolling commons area where the neighborhood children ran back and forth on summer evenings like a herd of antelope. During the winter, they all sledded down a hill that I could see from my kitchen windows. Patrick first tried snowboarding—with a cheap snowboard that he strapped on over his boots—on that hill; he and Alison also tried to get our dogs to sit on the toboggan with them (fat chance!) as they glided down the gentle slope. (Merlin and Hana also showed no interest in pulling the toboggan up the hill.)

Although the previous owners had not been big gardeners, we added a flower and vegetable plot at one of the lot's back corners. (The other corner held two identical playhouses on stilts, one for Patrick and one for Alison. Sharing has never been an option for those two.) One spring, when my next-door neighbor Sue and I had three friends between us who were suffering from breast cancer, we channeled our anxiety and fear into creating a shared, peaceful, shade garden in the narrow space between our houses.

We closed on the sale of the house last Thursday.

Color Season, Colorado-Style

2009-10-19T12:35:00.000-07:00

Fall is beautiful but monochromatic in Colorado: the aspens turn gold. Period. Maples and other hardwoods, the autumn showstoppers of the Midwest, are rare.

However, while hiking at Meyer Ranch Park last week, we glanced at the grasslands bordering the trailhead and realized that all the colors we associate with fall were right in front of us. They just happened to be at ground level. (Click on the picture for the full effect.)

Phillies 5, Rockies 4

2009-10-13T16:35:00.000-07:00

I don't have a Bucket List.

We're not big baseball fans; it's a slow game that lends itself to daydreaming. I tend to miss most of the exciting plays. Jim prefers sports like soccer, basketball, and hockey.

But the Colorado Rockies made the playoffs, tickets were affordable, and we didn't have to take a day off work to go to the game. (There are benefits to unemployment, we told ourselves.) Neither of us had ever been to a playoff game in any sport. It seemed like the kind of thing one would do if one had a Bucket List.

Which is how we found ourselves at Coors Field yesterday sitting in the upper deck over right field. The Rockies made a dramatic comeback in the eighth inning, but still managed to lose the game when the Phillies came back from the brink in the top of the ninth with two outs and two strikes on the scoreboard.

The fans were equally entertaining. The weather during Sunday night's game had been in the 20s. Although yesterday's weather was warmer and the game started earlier (4 p.m. vs. 8 p.m.), many people showed up at Coors Field looking like they were headed for a camping trip in the high country or a day on the ski slopes. Jim didn't want me to wear my ski pants, but I did have on ski socks, my high-tech ski turtleneck, a hoodie, a ski jacket, a scarf, gloves, and a polar fleece headband. I also brought a fleece blanket. For the record, I didn't need the jacket or gloves during the first half of the game, but by the time darkness fell and the wind picked up, I was feeling snug and smug.

If only I'd a taken a "real" hat that could be turned inside out as a "rally cap," a tradition that I'd never seen until that awful moment in the top of the ninth. The Rockies' relief pitchers needed all the help they could get.

More pictures from Game 4 of the Division Playoffs:
http://picasaweb.google.com/Katharine.Gillette/RockiesPhilliesDivisionPlayoffs

It's nice to know that I'm "suitable"

2009-10-07T10:50:00.000-07:00

From the ding letter in this morning's e-mail:

Although you were identified as a suitable candidate for the position, the Search Committee selected an individual they believe is best suited for the job.

Just not suitable enough, apparently.

Wilderness Cure

2009-10-06T09:54:00.000-07:00

We spent a lot of time last week watching the PBS series The National Parks: America's Best Idea. I was drawn to the story of Stephen Mather, the first director of the National Park Service, whose "love of the parks was highly personal: he had found that time in nature helped him ward off the bouts of depression to which he was prone."

The description resonated with me. Since our move to Colorado, I always head to the high country—or at least to a spot where I have an unimpeded view of the mountains— when I feel depression lurking. And if I need a big wilderness fix, one of the jewels in Mather's park system is less than two hours away. (RMNP pictures, July 2009)

Bumper Sticker

2009-10-05T10:08:00.000-07:00

Spotted recently:

"Liberals. One per day. One in possession," illustrated by a graphic of a rifle sight with a person in the crosshairs.

Does this mean that the owner of the car—which was parked in a nearby subdivision—views me as prey?

Postcards From the Edge

2009-10-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

When Jim's college roommate, Dave, was in Colorado two weeks ago, he wanted to take the cog railway from Manitou Springs to the summit of Pike's Peak. Snobbish Colorado transplants that we've become, we thought it sounded a titch touristy (God forbid!), but we try to oblige visiting friends and family.

It proved to be the a wise decision: The road to Pike's Peak has no guardrails. Zip, zero, nada. (Note to my brother: No wonder Mom was livid when you and Mike D. swiped the car and drove up Pike's Peak during the debate tournament trip.) It was much easier to enjoy the scenery when none of us had to concentrate on driving, or, in my case, praying that Jim wouldn't launch the car over the edge. (After 18 months on mountain roads, he's become off-handed about switchbacks.)

Curiously, our alma mater was well represented on top of the world. Dave wore a Michigan baseball cap; I had on a UM sweatshirt. Two of the three people in the seats facing us on the train--seats that are reserved, by the way, so it wasn't our Wolverine regalia that caused them to sit with us--were Michigan grads; we chatted about the football team and swapped stories of running the Dexter-Ann Arbor race. And, rather wonderfully, at the summit, there was a little Wolverine theater of the absurd playing out as a guy in a UM t-shirt and cap showed the sights to his pal in a gorilla suit.

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/Katharine.Gillette/PikeSPeak. Wolverine and gorilla shots courtesy of Dave.

Fire on the mountain

2009-09-17T17:43:00.000-07:00

It's hard to convey to our friends and family in Great Lakes states (water, water everywhere) how the possibility of forest fires weighs on the minds of Westerners. The current level of fire risk is posted on roads and trailheads all over the mountains; we pay more attention to it than to the terrorism threat level.

In the 17 months we've lived in Colorado, the state hasn't had anything like the California fires near Jill's house earlier this summer. So we felt uneasy yesterday when we saw a fire burning near the wooded area we had planned to hike through late in the day. Open space being plentiful here, we opted to hike on a mesa farther from the fire, but we could still see the smoke across the plains.

Oddly, the fire didn't seem to bother the herd of cattle and the colony of prairie dogs—including a fellow so relaxed he was stretched across the opening to his burrow, just watching the humans and cows parade by—sharing the open space with us.

We found out later in the evening that the animals' nonchalance was justified: the fire was a "controlled burn" designed to prevent an inferno like that in California. The news made us feel less guilty for enjoying the fire-enhanced evening sky, which looked ready to open up to a choir of the heavenly host.

books. dogs. life is good.

2009-09-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

During the years of our black and white feline sisters, Thelma and Louise, I owned a T-shirt and a tote bag with this Edward Gorey image:

Above the image were the words, "books. cats." Below the image, "life is good."

Despite continuing unemployment and assorted other stresses, today's T-shirt would be similar, but with a canine focus. Books, mostly from the Jefferson County Library, continue to make me happy. In the past few weeks, I've had a particularly splendid run of "good reads," as we used to call them at NPL: The Little Book by Edward Selden, a novel of time travel with remarkable twists, and In the Woods and The Image, psychological mysteries by Irish author Tana French. (Thanks to my sister-in-law Wendy for introducing me to Ms. French's work.)

Although there are no longer cats in our lives, we still have our just-turned-13-years-old Hana here at home. And, on the days when I am at the animal shelter, a constantly changing cast of dogs reminds me that grace and a sense of humor are possible even in the grimmest of situations. Below is Tiger Lily, my current favorite, whose ear-to-ear doggie grin is completely contagious. The shelter calls her a Staffordshire Bull Terrier (aka pit bull) mix, but because of her ears and her diminutive size (relative to most of our pits), I tell her that she's just a big-boned French Bulldog.

Question of the day

2009-09-14T11:01:00.000-07:00

If you knew that, after leaving your job to move to Europe for 14 months, you wouldn't find employment when you returned, would you still get on that plane for Brussels?

View through a September downpour

2009-09-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

Golden Gate Canyon State Park, 9.6.09

Aye Chihuahua

2009-09-03T19:58:00.000-07:00

There must be something about our neighborhood that makes dogs want to climb out second-story windows onto the roof. (A better view of the mountains, perhaps?) Last year it was Miss Lily, the basset hound across the street, this week it was the chihuahua several houses down.

We grew a cat!

2009-09-01T09:33:00.000-07:00

When the hail storm damaged or killed many of our potted annuals earlier this summer, we couldn't really afford to replace them. Some, like the snapdragons, managed to partially recover. Others, like the three fuchsia plants I put out to attract hummingbirds, did not. I pulled them up and left the pots empty.

So I was quite pleased when I glanced out the kitchen window Sunday morning and discovered a huge ginger cat lounging in one of the empty planters.

Snake in the Grass

2009-08-31T11:43:00.000-07:00

We've seen signs warning us of rattlesnakes at Roxborough State Park.

We've twice been told that we were looking at a rattlesnake. Once, another hiker at Mount Falcon Park warned us that the big pile of coiled reptile under a bush was a rattler. We skittered by too fast to confirm it. A few weeks ago, at Mount Galbraith Park, a trio of teenage Japanese tourists told us that the skinny snake rearing up between two boulders like a snake charmer's boa constrictor was a rattler. I'm no herpetologist, but it looked like a garter snake.

So I guess we'd gotten a little sceptical about ever seeing a rattlesnake out here. But as I led our little party of three (Jim, Hana and me) around a bend on the Eagle Wind Trail at Rabbit Mountain yesterday, a gigantic snake—olive with black markings, at least 30" long—slithered across the trail right in front of me. The rattles looked weirdly like molded plastic pieces popped over the tip of its tail—sort of like fake fingernails. As it passed into the brush, a sound like the shaking of seeds in a dried gourd confirmed the sighting.

So naturally we had a "Ya think?" moment when we paused at the end of the hike to read a little sign at the trailhead that reported that Rabbit Mountain had once been named Rattlesnake Mountain—"for good reason!"

TMT: Too Much Twitter

2009-08-27T10:33:00.000-07:00

"You're receiving this email because of your relationship with [name omitted] Orthopedics & Spine Center."

Although our "relationship" consisted of one brief visit after my skiing accident in January, these docs (or, more likely, their marketing people) have been sending me daily emails inviting me to follow them on Twitter.

What kind of tweet could orthopedists possibly send that I would be interested in reading? Updates on the slow progress of some guy's knee surgery? ("wtf, L8 4 t time") Links to x-ray images of bizarrely broken bones? ("IC big $$") Rude comments about the last patient they saw? ("OMG 2 hot")

UG2BK

Stricken by Formophobia

2009-08-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

Formophobia n. Paralyzing fear, distress, and nervousness caused by the act of entering personal information into a pre-made template. Making simple tasks such as applying for jobs, school, etc. almost impossible for the affected. (Urban Dictionary)

Until I began to job hunt on our return to the States last year, I hadn't actually filled out an employment application since 1972, when I applied for a student assistant position at the Undergraduate Library (aka the UGLI, a reference to its Soviet Bloc-style architecture). In the professional job search, you submitted a cover letter and a resume. Period. You had your resume typeset by professionals and you typed your cover letter v-e-e-r-r-y slowly, so that you wouldn't make a mistake and have to start over. (Using Wite-Out in a cover letter was verboten, especially for English majors. Maybe engineers got away with it.)

That was so 20th century.

As a job applicant (supplicant?) to a large corporation or a government agency in the brave new world of the online job search, you "will be allowed to attach a resume and cover letter later." This assumes, of course, that you will successfully answer every question on said application before losing (select any or all of the following) your confidence/your patience/your mind.

Fill out enough applications, and you will have to first recall all of your previous salaries and then report them—by the hour, the week, the month, or the year, depending on the prospective employer's way of thinking about compensation. If you held various positions at a single company over a five-year in the 1980s, you have to wrack your brain for the exact month and year when you left your position in Product Development to move to Marketing. You also have to come up with a bland version of your real reason ("homicidal tendencies towards supervisor") for leaving Product Development.

You may be confronted with questions so ridiculous that you conclude that you would rather be homeless than work for anyone stupid enough to ask them. For example, an application for a high tech firm presented a list of computer software products used in the job and then required the hapless applicant to rate on a scale of 1-5 how interested he/she would be in learning each product, with 1 being, for example:"I am not at all interested in learning Microsoft Access" and 5 being: "I cannot imagine anything more thrilling than learning Microsoft Access."

And, then there was today's online application psychodrama, in which I was applying for a different position at an organization to which I had previously applied. I won't get into it, but let me just say that I may be drinking Pinot Grigio directly from the bottle tonight, à la Cameron Diaz in my favorite scene from "The Holiday."

Another Magical Spot

2009-08-19T10:35:00.000-07:00

The approach to Roxborough State Park is set in old grazing lands, and doesn't look especially interesting. After the final bend in the road, though, you enter a landscape that looks as though it might be home to creatures from the imaginations of Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, and other great fantasists.

We didn't see any hobbits or even Mr. Tumnus, but nature put on her own magic show in a meadow set against this monolithic backdrop: a huge swarm of tiny sulphur butterflies—so pale a green that they appeared white from a distance—dancing (mating?) above the tall grass. There was no way to capture the scene on camera, so we stood silently, watching in wonder.

Just peachy

2009-08-12T15:28:00.000-07:00

Of all the day-to-day things that I miss about living in Brussels, food is high on my list. (Alright, alright, it's number one.) When I learned that we were moving to Colorado, I consoled myself with the thought that we would have access to wonderful Mexican food and excellent beef. (A friend who ate at one of the few Mexican restaurants in Brussels said that the "salsa" was just ketchup.)

Sixteen months and many failed attempts later, we may have found a good Mexican restaurant, but we want to try it a second time, just to be sure. We have yet to eat beef that tastes as good, in its own beefy way, as chicken from Brussels' ubiquitous rotisserie trucks, below.

So, what do we have that rivals the food we ate in Belgium? Strangely enough in this semi-arid state, it's peaches, specifically peaches grown in Palisades, on the western slopes of Colorado's slice of the Rockies. We buy our peaches by the boxload off a small truck belonging to a small orchard; the owners e-mail their fans to let them know when they will be coming to a certain church parking lot in Arvada. The peach line forms early; the tension about whether there will still peaches left when you reach the front of the line is palpable. (It's sort of like waiting in line for Bruce Springsteen tickets, or, out here, Phish tickets.)

But when you bite into a Palisades peach, you wonder why Eve ever settled for an apple.

Sleepless in Arvada

2009-08-05T07:10:00.000-07:00

When humans can't sleep, they can read a book, raid the refrigerator, watch reruns of "Law & Order," surf the Internet for stories about celebrity plastic surgery gone bad, or call L.L. Bean to order a new Polar Fleece jacket.

When dogs can't sleep, they pace, pant heavily, and claw their owners' (or "guardians," as the always-PC Boulderites call us) bed.

Hana's insomnia began in late June. The vet attributed it to pre-July 4th fireworks and the violent middle-of-the-night thunderstorms we were having then. She prescribed Valium, which we picked up at the Walgreen's pharmacy under the name of "Hana Dog Gillette." The script was written for six tablets, "which should see you through the holiday," according to Dr. Harris.

The Valium had no effect on Hana. The pacing and panting continued long after the fireworks season and stormy nights had passed.

For a while, Hana slept if Jim or I moved into one of the two single beds in the smallest of our three bedrooms. Hana would wedge herself into the small space between the two beds, or between one of the beds and the wall, and, after some more heavy panting, settle down. We weren't too happy with the Q. Elizabeth/P. Philip sleeping arrangements, but we were exhausted and assumed it wouldn't last long.

It did. And now there's a new twist: After I moved into the tiny bedroom last night when Hana started pacing in our room, Hana followed and proceeded to shuffle around the bed in a continuous U-turn. Because space is tight in that room, sometimes she bumped into the closet doors during her endless journey, interrupting any light doze into which I might have fallen.

Some Internet sites dealing with canine insomnia suggest giving your sleepless dog a lot of exercise during the day to ensure that she sleeps at night. Hana gets two walks a day, and accompanies us on all our mountain adventures. Even after a seven-mile hike (a hike rated "Difficult" in the guide books) near Mount Evans, she was up all night.

What we need for Hana, I said to Jim this morning, is the canine equivalent of a program for Alzheimer's patients recently described in a New York Times article ("All-Night Care for Dementia’s Restless Minds") about the Bronx-based Hebrew Home's ElderServe at Night,

a dusk-to-dawn drop-off program intended to strengthen their decaying minds while sating their thirst to be active after dark.

Participants are fetched from their homes by vans and spend 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. painting, potting plants, dancing and talking — or, for those immobilized by their disease, relaxing amid music, massage and twinkling lights. The patients rest as they need, for a few minutes or a few hours, and return home the next morning fed, showered and, usually, tuckered out.

[Your caption here]

2009-07-31T09:53:00.000-07:00

While we were walking pit bulls this morning, one of the subjects in the photo below asked me if I had put it on the blog. No, I replied, because every time I looked at it, I was reminded of the title of a certain movie starring Jim Carey and Jeff Daniels.

But since you asked nicely, sweetheart, here is the shot of you and Michael, the dynamic engineering duo, posing before your professionally guided fly fishing trip earlier this month. Blog readers may feel free to affix their own caption it.

A Room With a View

2009-07-29T20:47:00.000-07:00

We drove to Vail this afternoon to visit our friend Kim, who's in the hospital there after taking a bad fall during a bike race last Saturday. Despite many broken bones and a lot of pain, she's revelling in the view from her hospital room's huge window, which looks out through the tops of tall pines to—thanks to all the rain we've had this summer—Vail's lush, green ski hills.

Hopefully she'll be fully recovered by the start of ski season.

Behind the Scenes of Art History 101

2009-07-28T13:09:00.001-07:00

As some of you know, this tale of thwarted artistic treachery is currently captivating my imagination. It appears in British author Rachel Cusk's The Last Supper, a travel memoir that also features commentary on Italian art.

At the time the story opens, Michelangelo was in the midst of sculpting a tomb for Pope Julius II.

While Michelangelo was out of Rome, [the artists] Bramante and Raphael set about trying to undermine his reputation. They suggested to Julius that to build his own tomb was to invite his own death. When Michelangelo returned, he was told by Julius that work on the tomb had been suspended. Instead, he was to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, a job at which Raphael and Bramante were confident he would fail, for Michelangelo was principally a sculptor, not a painter. Michelangelo locked himself into the Sistine Chapel: no one was allowed in, not even Julius. It seemed that to fetter Michelangelo was simply to make his myth the more powerful. Soon, all of Rome was fixated by the mystery of what lay behind that locked door. Then, according to Vasari, Michelangelo had to leave Rome for a few days, and while he was away Bramante got hold of the keys. He and Raphael went in to look. And what they saw, of course, was the preeminent artistic achievement of the Renaissance, and perhaps of the whole history of art, past, present, and future.

If only we could see the expressions on the faces of Bramante and Raphael at the moment they stepped into the Sistine Chapel . . .

Dead Silence

2009-07-26T17:42:00.000-07:00

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

William Shakespeare
from Sonnet 73

During the hail and wind storm last week, the Denver Post noted that in one park alone, "hundreds of birds . . . were killed or maimed by hail and flying debris." A local news station reported that, "The Birds of Prey Foundation in Broomfield has been swamped with injured hawks and owls since Monday's storm."

Our neighborhood, which is bordered by a woods on the south and open space on the north, used to be full of birds, particularly small ones — finches, chickadees, sparrows. Their chirping often woke me in the morning. Now there is only silence.

I walked Hana today in the local park in which I first heard (and saw) a western meadowlark. Again, total, eerie silence.

Mother Nature Strikes Again

2009-07-21T09:58:00.000-07:00

An enormous hail storm hit us suddenly late last night. My neighbor Kim says that even long-time Denver residents have never seen anything like it. It killed all of our flowers and vegetables, and stripped most of the leaves from the five spirea bushes in back. The hail also shredded two big window screens in the front of the house. Being unemployed sometimes leaves us feeling like white trash; now our house reflects our mood.

Splendor in the Grass

2009-07-20T09:01:00.001-07:00

The Denver Post reported yesterday that "2009 has been a banner year for wildflowers." In the past three months, we've seen wildflower species that that we never even glimpsed last year. In 2008, we certainly never saw hillsides full of wildflowers, as we have this year.

This exuberant fecundity isn't limited to the plant kingdom. During yesterday's mountain hike, there was so much grasshopper hanky-panky going on that it made Jim and me act like third graders. ("Euuuw, there's another couple going at it!") Too bad all those the grassshoppers didn't appear to be enjoying themselves.

Adieu, mon ami

2009-07-15T10:41:00.000-07:00

Adieu: from Old French a dieu, (I commend you) to God : a, to (from Latin ad) + Dieu, God (from Latin deus)

Despite your best intentions to get to know the locals, when you're an expat in a foreign country, hanging out with other Americans can be as restful as flopping in an old easy chair. So it was with our friends Joe and Jill, fellow Midwesterners (as Minnesotans, they were the genuine article) living in Brussels at the same time we did.

Joe and Jill jumped into European living with zest. Their travels took them to the continent's great cities—Paris, Rome, Athens, Venice, Berlin—as well as to quirky, known-only-to-locals spots, such as the only farm in Belgium that sells donkey milk (with the added benefit of a herd of adorable donkeys for Jill, a great animal lover, to pet). They loved perusing the open air markets for antiques, trying grand and hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and entertaining their friends in their beautiful, high-ceilinged row house near the Ixelles ponds. (Joe made an exquisite kir royale and then told you hilarious stories while you were trying to drink it, making it difficult not to snort champagne out your nose.)

Joe, an accomplished cyclist with, as Jill says, a "passion" for riding, went native and joined a bicycling club in a country where cycling is revered; Belgians follow the Tour de France with the enthusiasm of Americans during March Madness. After he and Jill were transferred to southern California late last year, he became a member of a local cycling club.

Joe was struck and killed by an underage, drunk driver during a cycling club ride in the Angelus National Forest last Saturday morning. He was 43; he and Jill had been married for six years.

Mountain Girl

2009-07-10T07:57:00.000-07:00

Lillian, my "granddaughter-of-the-heart," is visiting Colorado with her mom and dad this week. (That's Michael, her dad, in the background.) Although she's only three, Lillian hiked the trail to Rocky Mountain National Park's Alberta Falls like a pro.

Arrrghhhh

2009-07-06T16:35:00.000-07:00

The dryer decided today to ignore its timer, while simultaneously emitting only cold air. The clothes were still damp when I finally realized that the "the most expensive appliance in your home to operate" had been running for hours. HOURS. Of course, this happened two days before Catherine, Michael, and Lillian arrive for a six-day visit, and after a weekend when I had better things to do than laundry.

If anyone would like to witness an example of spontaneous human combustion, just try telling me that, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle."

And the decision is . . .

2009-07-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

We're staying.

Flee response

2009-07-02T08:54:00.000-07:00

Overwhelmed by stress, we fled to the mountains yesterday, hoping that a hike in the Mount Evans wilderness area would ease our minds.

On the drive home, we talked of how difficult it would be to leave Colorado, of being able to see views like this only on vacation. If we return to Michigan, will "our" beloved mountains call to us constantly as Innisfree did Yeats?

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand in the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.*

Will our hearts break?

*William Butler Yeats, from The Lake Isle of Innisfree

What now?

2009-07-01T08:29:00.001-07:00

We learned yesterday that the tenants in our Michigan house are moving out ahead of schedule, due to a job transfer. The news, coming on top of our Colorado landlord's insistence that we sign a full year's lease (we've been going month-to-month since May, paying a 20 percent rent premium for the privilege) threw us into a panic.

Do we move back to Michigan, where the economy is worse than it is in Colorado, but where we have friends, family, and professional contacts? Or do we stay in Colorado, which we have come to love for its community spirit and friendly people, and, above all, the incredible natural beauty which has been a balm to our ragged souls during these stressful months?

Just answer the question

2009-06-29T20:24:00.000-07:00

The spring before they entered kindergarten, Pat and Ali went through the screening process required of all incoming kindergartners (accompanied by a parent) in our school district. Patrick took a dim view of both the process and the overly made-up, dripping-in-jewelry, older woman doing his assessment; during the interview portion of the testing, he sat with his back turned to her.

Then the assessor asked, "What do you do all day, Patrick?" at which point he lost all patience, whirled around in his little chair, and yelled, "I'm five years old. What do you THINK I do all day? I PLAY!"

There have been moments during recent job interviews when I've wished that I could answer as forthrightly as Patrick did.

What's the first thing you'll do on your first day of work?

Locate the coffee pot, and, fifteen minutes later, look for the ladies' room.

How do you handle criticism?

I dare you to try to make me cry.

What are the titles of the last four books you read?

The only thing I remember is that they all have "Dead" in the title.

Where do you see yourself in 15 years?

Living in the tent I just picked up at Goodwill.

Talk me through your career trajectory.

Right this minute? Headed for a crash landing.

Shuffling back to the blogosphere

2009-06-27T11:55:00.000-07:00

When I shuttered A Foothills Life four months ago, I wasn't certain that I'd ever blog again.

I didn't realize just how much I would miss the act of writing. Even in the midst of an annus horribilis—my inability to find a job in Colorado; Jim's job loss after 22 years with MWH; my ongoing musculoskeletal breakdowns and pain; and, last month, my father-in-law's death—a part of my brain kept stepping aside to editorialize on events and emotions.

Perhaps the urge to write is simply genetic: three of my grandparents majored in journalism in college, while Grandma Foley was an English major.

Perhaps writing is an attempt to make sense of how a middle-aged, middle-class (dare I say boring?) life became unglued so quickly. As Alice's White Queen reminds her consort,

"The horror of that moment," the King went on, "I shall never, NEVER forget!"

"You will, though," the Queen said, "if you don't make a memorandum of it."

Or perhaps, with apologies to Descartes, J'écris donc je suis.