In Which I Get a Sister

The day after my nineteenth birthday, my boyfriend took me out to celebrate.  I got home pretty early, though, because my job that summer, for the Indiana Department of Highways, required me to get up at five am.  When I walked into the living room my parents were acting odd--giggly, but it a weird way.  My Dad held a magazine over his face like a shield.  "You tell her," he said, from behind it.

"Oh, I have to tell her?"  My mother laughed.  She paused for a moment, while I wondered what on earth was going on, and then she came out with, "your brother isn't the baby of the family any more."

It took me about five seconds to work it out.  A baby!  A baby!  I hugged my mother, kissed my father, and said, "Wow, Dad, I didn't know you had it in you," which caused him to go beet red and dive behind his magazine again.  My mother said, "I told you she'd be happy."

My mother was due in late November, five months from then.  She'd been a bit late figuring out she was pregnant because, well, because.  She was forty-three, with a son in high school and a daughter in college.  "Don't tell anyone yet," my mother said, and I agreed.

As soon as I got upstairs, my brother knocked on the door.  "Can I use your phone?" he asked.  (This was before cell phones were even dreamed of, natch.  But I had a phone in my room, a privilege I'd been granted after years of whining about it.)  "I need to call a few people."

"As soon as I'm done," I said.  I was already dialing my boyfriend.  (My father kept his vow of secrecy until noon the next day, when he went out to lunch with the most gossipy of all his friends.)

After we'd called the most important people, my brother and I fell into an argument.  Boy or girl?  He, naturally, preferred a boy, but I argued that I already had one little brother, whereas if he had an older sister and a younger sister that would be two entirely different things.  We finally agreed to settle it with a coin flip.  I won.  Despite her Advanced Maternal Age, my mother never had amniocentesis, and the ultrasounds back then weren't detailed enough to show gender.  But it didn't matter.  From the day after my nineteenth birthday, my brother and I knew the baby would be a girl.

"Besides," I told him, "I need a sister."

Twenty-seven years ago today, my mother had a healthy baby girl.  Lauren's a mother herself now, to a wide-eyed beautiful boy, so she understands how happy were all were, so long ago, to know she was on the way.

How do I navigate a Fair Trade Christmas? (Besides knitting, I mean.)

On Saturday morning, at 7:27 am, my daughter said, "Mom?  This entire day is off-limits for blogging."

I can not tell you how much that cramped my style.  I could have written an excellent blog post about Saturday.  At 7:27 am, it was already taking place in my head.

This is going to be a strange week.  It's not as though I didn't realize it was November, but yet Thanksgiving Week has come as something of a surprise.  Yesterday I was shocked to see that it was already the feast of Christ The King, ie., the last Sunday of the Catholic liturgical year.  Ie, the first Sunday of Advent is next Sunday. 

Today I have an empty schedule.  I drove my daughter to school.  (We live in the county, and she attends the city high school.  Therefore, no buses.  And my husband had surgeries scheduled and left at 6:17 am.)  I'll pick her up at 2:30.  I don't need to fuss too much about cleaning the house, because we're going to our mountain place for Thanksgiving and our family is meeting us there.  I don't need to go to the grocery--I'm picking up our organic free-range never-frozen turkey at Earth Fare in Johnson City tomorrow morning, along with what I'm sure will end up being a cartful of happy organic specialty items, and cheese, and then I'll do a big shop in Linville for potatoes and such.  I'm doing laundry, but I always do laundry on Mondays.  I'll have a whale of a lot of barn chores, because we're expecting freezing rain and all the horses will have to be snugged inside the barn, but I'll wait until my daughter's home to help me.  I'll write, sure.  The new novel--a sequel to my "England" book, which is now (still tentatively) titled The War That Saved My Life, but which still doesn't have a release date--is nicely underway, but since I know I won't be writing at all from tomorrow until next Monday, it's difficult to find a lot of momentum.  I have some articles to write.  I could iron. 

Mostly, though, I'm thinking about Christmas.  I've bought some gifts and planned others, and have a nice pile of knitting.  (Oooh, the yarn store!  Inconveniently closed yesterday, when I first realized I did not have a specific color and weight of yarn in my stash.  I must go to the yarn store.  It's always a bit perilous--those wool fumes can completely intoxicate a person--but yet, I have my duty to fulfill. 

There are rules regarding the gifting of handknits.   The rule widely felt to be most important is that you never knit a sweater for a boyfriend until you are engaged.  I didn't know that one back when I broke it, but it hasn't seemed to hamper our relationship--we've been married 24 years.  (I think he still has the sweater.  I'm not sure he's ever worn it.)  You can give handknits once to anyone you please; however, no recipient is ever required to be rapturous about receiving a handknit.  At the same time, anyone who does not sincerely appreciate a handknit can be struck off the handknit gift list without guilt or reproach.  Handknits are simply not for everyone. 

I'm trying to think hard about my other giving, too.  I'd like to be Fair Trade and responsible.  I really don't need cheap t-shirts that require the slave labor of children.  But I'm having trouble deciding which companies are more or less ethical than others.  I can find loads of "Eco-Gifts"--recycled Christmas ornaments from Haiti, bracelets made in Africa, ugly loose-fitting clothing made from the scraps of saris.  That's all good.  But what about golf balls?  Bras?  Blue jeans?  Stylish boots?  Are there ethically-produced clothes that don't make you look like you live in a yurt?  I can buy organic coffee, but I'm at a loss when it comes to an ethically-produced espresso machine.

Anyone want to help me out?  Anyone know what to do?

Bye, Liz. Thanks for All the Fish.

Bonus points if you get the title reference.

My lovely editor Liz is leaving me.  I'm devastated very happy for her.  She's leaving for the best of all possible reasons, to be at home with the baby she's about to have.  I worked as a research chemist before my children were born, and I know I never would have been able to hand them over to a caretaker for 10 hours a day, so my heart is completely on Liz's side here.  Except, of course, for the part that isn't.

She's so good, and so clear-eyed, and she makes me work much harder than I want to.  She sent Jefferson's Sons back for revision 5 times.  The fifth time I wasn't sure whether to throw myself off a high cliff somewhere, or go back to bed for a year, but in the end I trusted Liz's judgement, and she was right: I could still make the manuscript better.  I can not tell you how much I hated that appreciated it.

I would like Liz to clone herself, please, so that one Liz can lavish love on her firstborn child, and the other can hold my hand while I embark on yet another perilous journey into my imagination.  Baring that, I would prefer to be her Most Special Writer, the one she can't possibly do without, so that she'll break her own rules just a little and edit only my work.  She should be able to do it while the baby's napping.  Really.  I'm not unreasonable.

Most of all I wish her joy on her own journey into motherhood.  When she broke the news to me on the phone the other day, I told her about my son in college.  I told her that, in the next few years, there would be individual days and nights that seemed to last several years, but that, in the end, the time would speed by faster than she or I or anyone else could believe.  I told her that she could always return to being an editor, but that she'd never be able to turn back the clock once her babies were grown.

Then I felt mawkishly sentimental, and went off to force my daughter to watch another episode of Downton Abbey with me.  It seemed like the only thing to do.

P.S.  When I first started watching Downton Abbey, Liz told me that she'd been swimming at a pool in NYC and got slammed into by Dan Stevens, who played Matthew Crawley, and that she told him off for it.  Once I'd watched the first few episodes, and began to fully appreciate Dan Stevens, I offered to come swim in her place.  Sheesh.  That sort of thing doesn't happen in Bristol.

Indirect TV

My thoughts are a little incoherent today.  I'm blaming it on DirecTV.

I am a little bit anti-television.  I don't think I'm stridently anti-television (though other members of my family may disagree) but I'm pretty sure that, with the exception of events like the Olympic Games and Kentucky Rolex, I could live without it just fine.  (For the record, I vastly preferred the British version of the Olympics on BBC--all actual sports events, all the time, nary a commercial or special in-depth feature at all.)  At home we currently have 3 televisions--in the family room, in the basement workout room, and in my bedroom.  We put one in our bedroom because my husband wanted one there when we built the house, but the truth is, the only time we ever watch it is at 6 am on snowy mornings, when we're trying to find out if the children have a snow delay.   The television in the basement can only be used for watching DVDs, because we don't have a DirecTV receiver down there.  Since my husband would like to watch sports while he exercises, and since I don't care either way at all, we're getting the DirecTV receiver moved from our bedroom to our basement.  Also, since he'd like to chose which sports he watches, and when, we're getting a DVR so that he can record games to view at leisure.

I have no problem, none at all, with any of this.  What irritated me beyond reason, however, was calling DirecTV.

Step one: speak to an automated voice.  What do I want?  "I want to order a DVR," I say.

"You want to order the movie, 'The Man,'" the automated voice replies.

"NO," I say.  "NO.  NO."

"This will become available to you starting on Thursday, November 22nd--"

"NO."

"At 10 am, and will cost nine dollars--"

"NO.  I DON'T WANT THIS.  NO."

"And ninety-nine cents.  Is this correct?"

"NO."

"You do not want to order the movie, 'The Man'?"

"NO."

"Please tell us what you want."

"DVR."

"You want to order the movie, 'Dead on Arrival."  This will be available--"

"NO! NO!"  Finally I scream, "REPRESENTATIVE!"

The automated voice sighs.  It's not clear if she thinks I'm being unreasonable, or she's just relieved to finally be getting some sense out of me.  "One moment, please."

Then I get a human.  Alas, not a rational one.  Or perhaps in her regular life she's perfectly rational, but in DirecTVland her script forces her into irrationality.

I explain what I want.  It's no problem, no problem at all.  Only first, while they have me on the line, they want to look over my service and explain some exciting new options.

I do not want options, no matter how exciting.  I want to get off the phone.

So many movies available, all these movie channels that we're not getting--

--we don't really watch movies, I explain.  Really, we don't.  We watch sports, and at the same time I knit or read.  We have NFL Sunday ticket so we can watch every football game played in America.  We don't have time for movies.

But there are some really good movies coming up.  Also a new channel that will show old Christmas movies 24/7.  Winter Wonderland and It's A Wonderful Life, 'round the clock.

Seen 'em both, I say.  Don't need to see them again.

But right now I could get a movie channel for free.  Completely free for the next 3 months.

Yes, I say, and then it would cost me a bundle, and I'd forget to cancel it.  Also, I think but don't say, when I tried to cancel I'd get stuck in another phone call like this one.  I say, no thank you.

But no risk--

I really don't watch movies.

Finally, we move on to what I do want.  My options are explained to me.  They're actually pretty straightforward.  We already have Hi-Def service even though we don't have Hi-Def TVs ("You don't have flat-screens?" the woman asks in disbelief.  Um, no.) because our local channels only work in Hi-Def (I didn't know this, but I don't care) and that's GOOD because the new DVR thingie only works in Hi-Def.

In other words, I can buy what I'm hoping to buy.  Excellent.  I'm not sure why we're spending so much time discussing it.

It will cost blah blah blah blah.  And they have to send one guy out to move the receiver and another to install the DVR, and that's all free, only there's a new monthly charge, and I'm expected to keep my DVR and pay the monthly charge for 2 years.

I think I'll be able to cope with that.  After all, I've kept the two televisions for ten.

We set a date in which I'll be imprisoned by DirecTV for 8 hours, as one technician will arrive between 8 and noon and the other between noon and 4.  They will give me a courtesy call one half hour before they arrive, which is guaranteed to take place the moment I step into the shower.  Also, do I have dogs?

I do.  I will put them in their crates.

The woman writes this down, muttering, "will put them in crates."

At last I think we're finished.  But no.  As part of their commitment to service excellence, they put me through to a second human.  I am required to verbally confirm every single aspect of everything I just arranged with the first human.  Do I want my receiver moved?  Yes, yes I do.  Do I want the DVR?  Why yes.  Do I understand the charges, which are as follows....at this point I 'm pretty sure she could say, "One million dollars," and I'd agree.

The moment after I hang up my husband calls.  He's just finished his morning's surgery, restoring sight to half a dozen grateful people before lunch.  "Big deal," I say, "I just talked to DirecTV."

Bad Mommy (Bad Dog!)

I have traumatized my dog, and it makes me feel like Bad Mommy all over again.

Remember that feeling?  The one you get when your four-year-old announces cheerfully at breakfast that she's sick and can't go to school, and you think she's malingering and send her anyway, and she spikes a fever and vomits in the lunch line and when you go to the school office to pick her up sobs accusingly, "I told you I was sick!"?  Yeah, that one.  Only maybe a little worse.

Yesterday I got home from appointments and errands to find a polite note from the water company on my door, saying that if I owned the green barn that fronted Booher Road I should do something, since I apparently had a water leak that had used 40,000 gallons of water in the past few weeks.

I hotfooted over to the green barn, which is indeed ours, only metered separately from the rest of our farm, and turned the water off, and could not find a leak, and consulted the water company, and with their help determined that the leak is probably somewhere in the 60-year-old pipe running beneath the 100-foot-long concrete center aisle.

Awesome.

I returned home to two joyous small dogs, the old one and the younger one, apparently celebrating the fact that they'd pulled a bottle of Under Dog's cardiac medicine down from a high windowsill, chewed the top off, and eaten all the pills.

Frantic, I called our vet, who immediately consulted an online toxicology source and told me that if I could get the dogs to vomit right away, all should be well.  Per the vet's suggestion, I poured half a cup of household hydrogen peroxide down Under Dog's throat.  He swallowed, looked vaguely apologetic, and urped up a big puddle that clearly contained some of the pills.

Polly, our gentle dog, morphed into 18 pounds of ferocious resistance.  She clenched her teeth and thrashed her body until we were both drenched and the peroxide bottle was empty.  I poured salt and water into a cup and tried to make her swallow that.  She heaved and fought; it took half an hour before finally, wretched, she puked up her share of the pills.  Then she cowered in her crate the rest of the night.

This morning I had to take her to the vet's for her regular grooming appointment.  As soon as I walked into the mudroom, where her crate is, she started to shake.  She trembled all the way to the vet's, and I felt so awful that I tried to hold her on my lap and pet her while I drove.  She wasn't having it.   At the vet's, however, I became the lesser of two evils, and she stuck her head in my armpit and leaned against me while her groomer cooed reassuringly and our vet came out to see how she was doing.

I feel like such a bad mommy.  My one consolation is that when my daughter came down the stairs this morning and told me she was sick, I didn't make her go to school.  I sent her back to bed.

Chain Free Bristol Needs Your Help!

A couple of years ago, a Bristol woman named Liza Conway started an organization called Chain Free Bristol.  Liza's my friend's sister, and my son's friend's aunt, so I've known her for years, and I always liked her, but when she got going on this I thought she was just a tiny bit off her rocker.

Liza's a realtor, so she sees a lot of Bristol's housing close up, and she was bothered by the number of dogs she encountered who were spending their entire lives living outdoors, on a chain.  We're in a relatively cool part of the south; we get freezing rain and snow in the winter.  Liza saw suffering dogs, and couldn't stand it, so she decided to do something about it.  She started raising money to purchase chain-link fence, and then she recruited friends, went up to homeowners, and offered to build a fence around their yard for free so their dogs could be off tether.

That's not what made me think she was off her rocker.  What I questioned was the scale of the problem.  No one likes to see any dog suffer, but I thought, how many dogs in Bristol actually spend their whole lives on a chain?  After all, in my childhood we had a brief period of time where we lived without a yard fence.  We had our dogs out on chains then--in the daytime, under shelter of some trees.  They came in at night.  They weren't suffering. Also, how many of the owners of those dogs were going to accept free fences?  If you know anything about Appalachia, you know folks here are mighty set in their ways.  I could just imagine how the good ol' boys would respond when Liza rang their doorbell and said they were abusing their dogs.

Well.  I was wrong.  I reckoned without Liza's personal knowledge and indomitable energy.  Liza set about building fences, one at a time, raising money by collecting recycling, setting up a website and a formal charitable organization, drumming up workers and donations.  In two years Chain Free Bristol has built fences for over 50 local dogs who otherwise would have spent their entire lives tethered outdoors.

The whole time, Liza's also been asking the city councils (we live in a border town, so we have two) to ban the lifetime, unattended chaining of dogs.  Today Bristol Tennessee has offered to listen.  Liza's giving a power point presentation to the council during their work session tonight. 

This is what she needs now:  people.  Community support in its most visible form.  If you want to help, please come to the work session, tonight, at 7 pm.  It's in the Municipal Annex Building on the corner of 8th Street and Shelby, and the entrance is on Shelby Street.  You won't have to speak or do anything but attend. 

Liza thanks you.  I thank you.  And so do the dogs.

Nerdfighters, Unite!

I was on my way back from church with my daughter yesterday when I mentioned someone who was making the best of a difficult situation.

"Ah," said my daughter, nodding sagely, "decreasing World Suck.  Like a Nerdfighter."

"Decreasing what?" I said.

"World Suck.  You know, stuff in the world that just sucks."

"And Nerdfighter--that's not someone who's fighting the nerds?"

Impatient sigh.  "No, Mom.  That's a nerd that doing the fighting--fighting against World Suck."

"Ha!" I said happily.  "I'm a Nerdfighter!"

My daughter argued that I could not possibly be a Nerdfighter, because 'Nerdfighter', along with the phrase 'World Suck,' and the radically more obscure phrase 'French the llama!' were all invented or at least made popular by YA writer John Green, my daughter's new hero.  In addition to writing best-selling, beautifully-written novels, John, along with his brother Hank, publish a vlog series (that's video blog for you Luddites) which gets something like 8 million views a week.  My daughter believes that since I haven't actually read any of John Green's work (in my defense: has he read any of mine?) (also: I've owned The Fault In Our Stars for at least two years, in hardback, and plan to read it as soon as I want to be tragically sad) I can't be a fan of John Green (wrong) and therefore can't be a Nerdfighter (double wrong).

As soon as we got home, my daughter called up a vlog episode, "Nerdfighting FAQs," or something like that, and I watched it, and in it John Green himself said, "If you want to be a Nerdfighter, you are a Nerdfighter."  So ha. 

I'm a Nerdfighter.  Fighting against World Suck!

P.S.  I told my daughter that John Green seemed to be more popular among her peers than, say, me.  She flipped her hair at me.  "Well," she said, "why don't you start by making the New York Times Bestseller list.  Then see what happens."