Jam sesson

While Dateline drama was unfolding with Mike and the in-laws (not my problem anymore, except for an interest in the cats’ welfare), we were busy picking blueberries on the hillside. Zenny had never been berry picking before, and she waded into the thick bushes to sit and pick the fattest berries around her, talking about bringing her own kids to pick berries with me some day, and imagining seasonal berry products at her future hypothetical cafe in St. John’s—which will also have a fluffy cat in residence because she’ll parter with the SPCA. She had barely covered the bottom of her pail with (admittedly superior) berries by the time my mother and I had ours filled. I was glad we didn’t run into any bears, because my mom kept getting ahead of us and disappearing over the hills, and she would have been the one needing rescue in a tug-of-war over the tin bucket.

No scurvy for us this winter

Premium hand-selected berries that we admired and then dumped into the jam pot anyway

Glad she wore the pink hat for visibility

I’m going to have to put bells on them

My mother has been happy listening to audio books and making jams and jellies all week, picking plums and feeding the crows. She’s settling into the idea of retirement, and I’m glad she’ll be able to leave with jars and jars of preserves to give her friends as she travels on to Indiana next week.

Dept of embarrassing admissions:

At work, we got a new mascot - a giant plastic goose. Our director dressed it up in a little shirt and backpack, and that is when I learned that a ‘porch goose’ is some kind of trendy product for Women of a Certain Demographic, and there are entire lines of costumes to go with them. In middle school it was pogs and jitter rings; in middle age it is plastic geese in turkey costumes. Also, just as in middle school, I can’t afford the trend, because porch geese are 100-goddamn-dollars. Then I learned about DESK GEESE. Desk geese are 7 inches tall and also have dumb costumes to dress them in. And magnetic beaks, so you can give them tiny knives. I side-eyed the goose on my screen, decided $13 was a reasonable price for a library mascot to support the campus initiative, and ordered it. I did not buy any outfits for it, but the part of my brain that is attracted to miniature things started designing sewing patterns for goose-sized literary costumes. I was not about to admit to being drawn in by any of this, but the next day my co-worker pulled me into her office to fix an issue with her computer, and there on her desk was a goose in a welder’s toolbelt and sunglasses. I laughed. “I just ordered one of these!” She cringed and pointed at her book shelf, where she had two more unboxed geese waiting to give to our other coworkers, and three boxes of goose outfits. “It was an accident,” she said. “I just kept adding them to my cart. But look at the hats!” 

And so, for the price of a $13 goose, I have gained entry to conversations with other people my age—which is all middle school trends are really about anyway. My kid has a squishy and backpack charms that only serve as bait to attract other kids with squishies and backpack charms. That is how squads are formed. Let’s go, weirdo goose ladies.

Hookers, cat murder, and amateur forensics

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Men of the house

Living with my mother is like living with a raccoon. She gets into things, collects a bit of clutter, and sits at the window watching the birds. She’s been pretty happy, even with the cooler days and a bit of rain.

On Sunday she got into my shed and found the old weed whackers that came with the house, pointed at my embarrassing lawn, and had me bring her down to buy 2 stroke engine oil, a liter of gasoline, and replacement line. We got one of the machines running, and it belched out smoke while it burned off the dirt in the engine, nearly catching my armpit on fire while I tried trimming the knee-high grass. Now my yard is embarrassing in a different way, because it looks like it was chewed up by beavers, and she’s looking into getting a trail cam to find out what animal is leaving the bear/moose-sized butt indentations in my grass at night. 

On Monday she wanted to know what was wrong with the dish washer, and when I shrugged and said it was broken when we moved in, she opened it up, pressed buttons, got it running, filled it with water, and then said, “Oh! I see what’s wrong - it doesn’t drain.” So now I have a dishwasher full of water.

My plans to take an afternoon off work to spend some time with her were thwarted by start-of-term activities. The students taped each other to the walls of the gym, wrapped each other up in toilet paper, and did a relay race dressed in random items from suitcases. I chased them around with the camera as photographer, stuffed my hair into a net to serve pizza, used my storytime voice to yell directions at people, and did not have to plan any of it or worry about attendance, because everyone had to be there. 

Working in a college is the best. 

Dept of Back on my Bullshit:

I did successfully develop a very minor crush on someone who meets the bare minimum criteria for someone who isn’t actually interested in dating but wants to remember what feelings feel like: a) single, b) not anywhere in the area, and c) has no idea I exist. So far the sum total of my flirting has been one comment on a reel about a month ago that resulted in zero banter or DMs. WELL. The guy is a tattoo artist in another town, and he’s coming to the craft expo down here in 2 weeks to do flash art amid the crocheted keychains and 3D printed fidget dragons. And guess who else will be there? Me, walking by in my best bra, pretending to look at toilet paper cozies.

If I come back here with a tattoo, the situation will have gotten away from me.

Travelers

The little bus pulled up in the evening to deliver my mother from St. John’s and we ran outside to help her with her suitcase. The driver stood outside the bus grinning at us, and waved back when I yelled thanks and brought her inside. My mother was worried he was expecting a tip, and I assured her that no, there’s no tipping on the bus, he’s just having a look at us because people know Ernie’s dad’s house was sold and a WOMAN moved in. There’s probably a group chat he has to report back to. 

I’ve been driving her around to the thrift stores and local sights (Dollarama and Canadian Tire), and entertaining her with a pile of bird food to attract the crows and blue jays. I need to be careful; if she sticks around long enough the birds will start dropping injured babies on her for rehabilitation. If it’s a crow, that would be cool. If it’s a sparrow or a jay, that would be STRESS. Little birds die half the time, and she’s only staying a couple weeks, so guess who’d be inheriting the rehab patients? I am not an enthusiastic bird witch. 

At work, the new students have been coming to me with questions and calling my name the same way kids call their moms. Hoooolly! It’s really cute. I’m not used to hearing my own name - people in the public library just called me “miss” or “you work here?” They’re like lambs, getting into the library and clambering all over the printer, trying to get their homework done. Youths are my favorite animals.

Also I got an insider tip-off that the job I’ve interviewed for was, in fact, tailored and earmarked for a particular person, and the diabolical timing of the job listing was not an accident, just as I suspected. If this person gets the position over my 20 years of experience in exactly what the job description detailed, I’ll have a big clue as to how the game is being played. I’m not much of a game player, but I can try.

Meanwhile, my son is all grown up and legally drinking cider in Glasgow. He went to feed the ducks and got swarmed by pigeons. He’s eating meat pies and sticky toffee pudding, and walking around the 15th century campus to get his paperwork done. He’s having a good time (even though the airlines lost his baggage), and I’m so happy for him.

Vanishing frogs and crow loot

The sun was out on the weekend, and we took a hike along the Walk of Hope-you-ever-return Trail—but only so far as the frog pond. I promised the girl some frogs, and there they were: gone. It seems too warm out for the frogs to be sleeping already, where do frogs even get off to in late summer? One star, terrible show, frogs. I picked berries along the way back and ate them, but Zenny wrinkled her nose. Bugs, she said. More likely to have moose or squirrel pee on them, I said, and that did not make her any more eager to eat them. Whose kid is this?

Visible absence of bugs and pee

Unimpressed with frog turnout

It’s beautiful outside. In just one month away, all the flowers changed places like relay racers, and the little plums on my tree started turning purple. The crows have gone bald. Their winter feathers are coming in, and they look like they should be hunting gelflings. They are happy to see us, though; after two days of peanuts and kibble, one of the crows left an empty crab leg on the railing. I put it on my trinket shelf. 

baby fluffs

awkward tween crow still flaps and begs, annoying mom and dad

treasure

My good jeans fit again. To keep up the momentum (and to give us something to do in bad weather), I signed both of us up for the YMCA. On Sunday I swam laps for 14 minutes (I was watching the clock and aiming for 15, CLOSE ENOUGH) before dragging my saggy old carcass back to the changing room. My 46-year-old body may not be able to compete with my 16-year-old body, but it can still swim laps around my 8-year-old body, so HA. 

There has been no word about the job, and my brain is amplifying my awkward interview moments into catastrophic disasters. I told my embarrassment to a rock and threw it in the water on my lunchtime walk around the pond. There isn’t much time to worry about it anyway; classes started, students arrived, everything broke, the printer started eating urgent documents, the freshmen needed ID cards, and I was kicked into the deep end because the IT lady is on leave and librarians are the next best thing. I don’t mind; I like staying busy, and I’m not afraid to click on things and take machines apart.

I didn’t dye my hair, I don’t know why it’s gone blonde this year. Pre-grey?

There is another hurricane approaching Hawaii at the same time my mother and my son are set to travel; my mother is flying here for a visit, and Leif is headed to Scotland for university. If the storm misses the island, I’m taking full credit for pushing it away with my brain by staring at the NOAA satellites.