A Summary Of The Affair

N and I were watching part of You've Got Mail with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Having to leave before the movie ended, I made a quick summary of the plot as we buttoned up coats and climbed into the car. The sun low in the sky, and both of us a little dusty and tired Naomi fought off the urge to nap.

A low, constant mumble came from the backseat. The theory is: so long as she's talking, she's still awake. But at one point my girl gave up the mumbled Cliff's Notes of her take on love and marriage.

"First comes friends...then comes dates...with love and kissing...and...stuff. And along comes marriage. And after that (long, pensive pause) divorce sometimes."

Travel Plans

Next week I’ll reside in an Atlanta,Georgia hotel room and attend a conference on Fossil Fuel Power Generation. As the consummate homebody, I feel fortunate to have landed a job that doesn’t require extensive travel.

That's not to say I mind traveling, really. And Naomi relishes these brief business excursions of mine. She delights in her father’s undivided attention. Their a day or two of their laid back routines.

On my end: the distant city brings some conciliatory offerings. While the food is generally bland, it’s cooked for and presented to me. The plate is similarly cleared and cleaned without asking me to lift a finger. I polish off whole chapters of whatever book I’m reading in a single sitting, meet interesting people, and own control over the television remote.

At the end of each conference my luggage is improved by a large, three-ring binder of learning materials, and a trinket (usually a multi-tool or Swiss-Army knife) sporting the vendor's logo.

Whenever my plane lands in Lincoln's dinky Airport I am reminded of a conversation my dad had with his twenty-something daughter (me) about the word domicile. Under the law, it's essentially it’s your legal residence, but on our front porch dad called it a place to which you plan to return. It marks the endpoint of your travels.

I don’t mind a business trip here and there. However I always sigh with relief at the end of my journey. There isn’t a lot that can top the struggle of getting Naomi dressed and ready for school each morning. The trick of pulling that off AND arriving at work on time. Cooking my own spicy dinner in an awkward and small kitchen. Starting and stopping my book mid-sentence. At times I am grateful that the sweetness is loosely tied to the struggle of this life.

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Currently Listening To: Ladies of Liberty by Cokie Roberts
Naomi’s Latest Undertaking: Proliferating Her Repertoire of Knock-Knock Jokes
Dinner Line-Up: Carrot and Cashew Curry
Recent Personal Mantra: You're not paranoid if they really are out to get you.

Problem Shower-Heads

The average American uses 159 gallons of water every day,
while more than half the world's population uses 25 gallons.

I walked into the gym locker room this noon. Being the beginning of the year, and with lousy weather outside the gym was unusually crowded. I lugged my gym bag on my shoulder, excuse-me 'd my way through the room, and found dry space on the floor to set down my stuff.

My problem isn't the newbies to the gym, or the crowded locker room...it was realizing that a room crowded with people (moms, kids, professionals, seniors) was content to ignore the sound of three unoccupied, but still running, shower-heads.

I know, I know water is a preoccupation of mine. I’m an avid swimmer—a Pisces, no less—a gardener, and an environmentalist stranded in the prairie desert. To say water is a big deal to me is an understatement. I can’t stand the absent, lonely sound of dripping water.

But this locker-room shower-head experience wasn’t a drip-drip-drop annoyance; it was a constant stream gushing out of, not one but, three separate showers. Aghast I fought the urge to shriek or cry.

I took my bad mood out on the lap pool. Being upset can inspire a heck of a work out.

After a lap swim I showered, left behind a non-dripping shower-head in my wake and used the contents of my gym bag to put myself back together. But even in the reassembly, I feel crumpled up inside.

Four Minutes

Tonight I made McKibbin venture out to Pioneer's Park with me. We had an outside chance of spying the International Space Station.

I spent the fifteen minute drive from our house to Pioneer's Park gate listing the reasons this purposeful excursion couldn't possibly work. Seeing the Space Station was, at best, a long-shot. I didn't have a telescope. I probably wrote it down wrong or jumbled up the details. I didn't have binoculars with me. I can work up a pretty negative outlook when I get going. I parked the car, probably muttering, and in a doozy of a foul temper.

McKibbin suggested we climb the stairs of the sledding drop. It was the highest point around and probably the best place for staring at the night sky. Rumor had it the Space Station would be in the western sky. Visible at 6:41 pm, traveling north, and it should disappear from view at 6:45 pm. We spent a couple of minutes pointing at various airplanes: is that it? what about that one? don't you think?

There. McKibbin pointed at an orange dot low on the horizon.

When he's certain of something, there is a particular quality to my husband's voice. I'd call it a tone to his voice but that makes it sound arrogant or annoying; neither of which is accurate. He just sounds solid. I know it when I hear it. My eyes locked on to the orange dot McKibbin found.

You're seeing the sun's reflection off the solar panels, he explained. That's why it's orange.

We watched the Space Station arc up the sky, and disappear.
Four minutes.
Sometimes words fail me.


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Currently Listening To: The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
Still Chuckling About: Burn After Reading
Early Morning Indulgence: Chewing Mint Gum On My Way To the Gym
(Mmmmmm, Arctic Ice)
Dinner Line-Up: Spinach Salad, Eggplant Parmesan

In the Unlikely Story That Is America

The Campaign Trailhead

Naomi and I had the following conversation, this morning, as I brushed her hair...

Naomi: Where’s dad?
Me: Downstairs.
Naomi: What’s he doing?
Me: I don’t know. He’s downstairs.
Naomi: Dad should be Mayor.
Me: He'd have my vote.
Naomi: Yeh, he’s smart…
Me: He is smart.
Naomi: …he's a good speller...
Me: Mmm-hmmm.
Naomi: …and he makes peanut butter cookies.