The Die is Cast

I’ve heard it said that you shouldn’t own a bike if you don’t know how to repair it. Likewise, Small maintains that if you have nice silver, you should polish it yourself. Maybe the same principle applies to a blog: if you can’t fix it when the technology blows up, perhaps you’re not ready for the responsibility. This is not a hypothetical situation. Last week my blog’s back-end (that sounds rude) once again went kablooey and I had no idea what to do. The Internet advised:

In the table wp_options, under the option_name column (field) find the active_plugins row. Change the option_value field to: a:0:{}…

Obviously.

Luckily, Molly came to the rescue, despite having little time, because she knows I feel unmoored when I can’t get into Bloggy. Scary, but true.

Wet Clay

Some people speculate that had ADHD been a thing when I was growing up, I might have been diagnosed with it. That could explain a lot of things, but not my knocking into shite every single bloody day. I know you’re sick of hearing about it, but until now you’ve just had to take my word for it. Here’s documentation. As I videotaped my pottery teacher demonstrate how to pull handles, I took a tiny, careful step forward to see better. Can you hear the little thud and me saying, “Did I just knock your thing over?”

Yup, I’d managed to topple my classmate’s three masterpieces. We know by now what sodden clay does. At times like these, I really can’t stand myself. It didn’t help that the woman was miffed about it, but eventually she forgave me after a bunch more heartfelt apologies.

Here are my two latest creations: an attempt at a cylinder with a handle (when the teacher saw it and said, “What a lovely piece,” I gaped at her as though she were delusional) and another little thrown thing just off the wheel.

My daughters and I entertained ourselves last night by making up silly names and emailing them to each other. As one does. In response to my “Bingle Doodlepopper McSquid Bing Bang Bong de-muh-Charlie McGootz,” Eleni wrote:

“I once knew someone who called themselves “Seer Dreamsmith.” The first time I met him I asked him if that was his real name and he replied “what IS real?” so yeah: totally not his real name.”

The vignette amused me and I asked her permission to put it up here, but worried I might infringe on Mr. Dreamsmith’s right to privacy. However, I found no such person listed on Google, and Eleni suspects that “Seer Dreamsmith probably doesn’t exist anymore—I’d wager he’s back to using his *real* real name and is in finance now.”

Finance

Last week Ember wanted to buy something at the school book fair but she’d forgotten money. As it turns out, a classmate offered to lend her $10 if she paid him $15 the next day. Innocent that she is, she agreed. Poor Em: when she told me, I was outraged. That bratty boy will no doubt go on to great success in the financial world. Fifty percent interest over 24 hours? Highway robbery, man.

The Future Lies Ahead

On to this post’s title: After endless rumination and calculation, I’ve come to the realization that I really do need to sell my house, and denial only puts off the inevitable. My new plan is to move out this summer, fix it up and then list it by early fall. Down the road, when I know how much money I have, I’ll figure out where to go. My only requirement is that I be within three hours of Chico. Time will tell. 

In working through all this I’ve left no stone unturned, yet sometimes people tell me there must be other options I haven’t considered. While I do appreciate their good intentions, that’s not helpful, and in fact it’s unsettling (and annoying). Here’s the kind of response I prefer:

How exciting! How terrifying! Where will you stay at first? Congratulations on making the decision! What an adventure! Not to say it doesn’t sound daunting but jeez, you are so adaptable and so experienced with traveling/moving/camping/uprooting/recalibrating. That’ll all come in handy.

Email from Eleni

This decision reminds me of another impossible one in my past: figuring out when to put my beloved 14-year-old dog, Otis, to sleep. There was no easy or clear answer. Eventually I just had to declare it time. (It was after his hind legs stopped working when he was swimming well offshore in the SF Bay).

I’ve never taken a leap in my life without some idea of what might be on the other side. Where will I go when my stuff is in storage and my house getting fixed? How long will I wander lonely as a cloud? And once it sells (I hope for a decent price but with the country in turmoil, who knows), where will I settle? We’ll see.

I daydreamed about taking a nice camping trip in late June and began to plan a route, but realized I can’t be out of cellphone reach for so long at that time. Instead, I hope at least to get as far as White Wolf for a few days.

And of course a long-overdue visit to Small is on the agenda!

I know I should be thinking about all this uncertainty as an adventure. “When one door closes…” But no. So to stave off the despair that wafts in, I’ve been going through my treasures to see what I can live without, since I’ll have to downsize considerably. Even after my massive possession-purge two years ago, I’m astounded by how much stuff I still have. Over the weekend Ember and I hauled a bunch of it into the basement. At some point I think I’ll invite friends to come grab what they like. Details to be determined; maybe not a free-for-all, since some of the junk does have value.

Onward into my week of doctor’s appointments (3), estimates for house repairs (2 and counting), and clay manipulation. Byeeee.