Got Through The Day

     Chaired the online meeting, did a couple loads of laundry and even washed dishes.  That's plenty.  I kind of napped a few times, too.

     Healing takes longer and longer as the years add up.

Walking

      During the pandemic, Tam and I got into the habit of taking a walk around the block every morning.  Or, by and by, two blocks, or three....  It was decent exercise for a couple of spinsters, and we don't actually spend much time in one another's company otherwise; I work, she's always got writing projects underway, and a lot of our interaction consists of keeping out of the other person's way.  We're usually watching a TV series over supper -- 45 minutes or an hour of staring at the same screen.

     So walking around the block is a good way to find out what's going on with the other person living in Roseholme* Cottage, as well as exercise.  We'd stopped our walks at the worst of winter, and as that damn virus became endemic and the vaccines made it far less a problem, we eventually came to a spring when we didn't start our walks back up.

     That was a mistake.  We're getting old; we need the exercise.  We're getting grouchy, too, and it helps to have a little time to go talk about inconsequentials: Oh, look, a cardinal, a squirrel, the Moon; what lovely flowers! what kind of bush† is that? and so on.

     So we're walking again, this time with our smartphones keeping track.  I need it, especially after the way I strained my back last weekend.  It's getting better, but still a little sore.  And some one of these days, our track will go as far as the place that sells breakfast pastries -- maybe it's not the most healthy goal I could have, but at least it's a goal.
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* This name of my house is not a reference to the similarly-named university but a mocking allusion to the heraldry supposedly associated with my family name, a "naturally-colored" rose on a silver-grey background.  Oh, the arms are real enough, a minor title that faded over three generations, apparently a War of the Roses version of the GI Bill, but my last name is a toponym, and so far there's no evidence I'm related to that long-ago soldier/squire.
 
† I'd sure like to know.  Feathery, reddish-green needles, gnarly branches, dense and no more than three or four feet tall.  Interesting-looking shrubbery. 

We Did It!

      Actually, we have almost done it.  For, well, years, Tam and I -- mostly me -- have been accumulating fallen branches and twigs on the front porch, and trimmed saplings in a pile out back.

     Some of it is decent firewood and we do have a fire pit.  I have sorted that out in batches and stacked it in small crates.  The brushpiles remained.  A couple of months ago,* I picked up a canvas mini-dumpster.  They're sold folded up flat, of course, and the package sat in the garage, in mute recrimination.

     Or it did until yesterday.  The weather was nice, the heaps were annoying, and even if we only made a little progress, it would be worth it.

     The work went much better than expected, and after a couple of hours, what do you know?  The porch was clear.

     I felt so good about it that I went out after supper, added a stack of broken-down cardboard boxes, and there was still room for the back yard brushpile.

     Still to come, calling up the provider and paying a little more to have it taken away.

     Maybe we'll even plant some flowers again this year.

     Downside?  My back feels pretty awful.  Too much bending over, not enough proper squatting.  Price of age -- and of getting rid of some of the mess.  And my creaky knees are, at least., not any creakier this morning than they were yesterday morning.
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* Yes, I do have only two speeds, but they're not Dead Slow and Full Stop, only Slow and Slower.

Critique Group

     The critique group I chair met this morning, and I continue to enjoy the level of talent the members have, both natural gifts and a willingness to put in the hard work of turning a string of interesting ideas into an engaging story.  There's a fair amount of skull sweat involved, and like the lovely swan gliding across the smooth surface of a pond, there's considerably more thrashing around taking place under the surface than you'd ever expect.

     The members of the group are putting in the effort and their stories and chapters show it.  Going over their manuscripts with an eye open for what works and what needs work is an education in and of itself.

No, As In No

     Not just no, but hell no.

     A young man knocked on the front door yesterday.

     "I'm a student?  At IU?  I'm majoring in entrepreneurship, and I noticed the paint on your house could use a touch-up--"

     "Thank you for stopping by.  Goodbye."

     Look, if I want my house painted and I can't do the job myself, I'll hire a house-painter, not a entrepreneur.  What I want is someone, or a small firm, who has been painting houses well enough and long enough to earn a living at it, not someone who is studying how to separate fools from their money and will try anything that looks plausible to do so.

     Don't lead with "entrepreneur."  That isn't the right pitch.  Customers are interested in results, not motivations.

     Back in the old days, house painters tended to be drinkers or users of other substances.  You looked for guys with a few daubs of paint on them, not too shaky, not too skinny, and you looked for a clear and somewhat overbearing boss; or you hired family members.  If you were lucky, they mostly showed up on time, mostly were still able to do the job after lunch, didn't steal and didn't leave a mess.  You were usually better off supplying the paint unless they had a really good reputation.

     There is no "entrepreneur" on that list.  It's not a hugely profitable business.  Done honestly, it's a decent living for a small crew if they don't have much overhead.  Done dishonestly, it doesn't work out well for anyone -- crews get ripped off, customers get lousy paint jobs, bosses skip town with a rattly truck and a few supplies, to start over in the next town.

     I don't need to add in a kid looking to add to his resume, with no interest in the actual work and a head full of glib notions.

     A couple of my nephews are brilliant house painters when they have time.  They did the initial paint job on Roseholme Cottage a few years after I moved in and I'd love to have them back on the job.  It's unlikely.  They've got plenty of work at their day jobs.  I'm hoping to put a decent coat of heavy-duty outdoor primer on the windows and frames by myself this summer, and maybe touch up the trim.  Anything else will have wait.

Important Logical Principle

     Remember, a thing does not have to exist for no one to have seen it.

Try This

     Smile at someone today.  Do them a small good turn.  Let them in in traffic or something.

     If you need motivation, bear in mind that they may spend a long time wondering why you'd do any such thing.

I Got Your AI Ap

     Here's what I want: AI that plays podcasts while I'm in the bathtub, and pauses them whenever my ears are below water.  It's got to do so in a way that keeps creeps from peeping, because I refuse to be blamed for an outbreak of uncontrollable nausea in the sicko-hacker community.

     Get your AI solving that, and maybe I'll consider it something more than an investor-scamming BS machine.

Busy Day

     So, not much of a blog post.  Tomorrow will be busy, too, but maybe I'll come up with something.

It's The Year Of The Dragon!

     In honor of the Lunar New Year, I had a nice, garlicky breakfast: breathing fire!  We each do what we can, after all....

It Appears To Be True

     The saying circulating on social media is the real deal: In Norway, one way to respond to "How's it going?" is to say you're "Up and not crying."

     It may be a low bar, but it's a worthwhile state.  Especially at this time of the year, with the shorter days and stressful holidays, being awake, on my feet and not weeping is about as good as it gets.

Recovery

     Recovery from this cold is about as slow as I have ever experienced.  My lungs and sinuses are still emptying.  And I'm still pretty tired.

     I got up early this morning to bring in a grocery delivery, then spent the morning in online meetings of a fiction-writing group.  That took me until mid-day, at which point I was about done for the day.  I managed to put together some spicy pork roast with vegetables and it has been simmering all afternoon.  And I'm trying to get caught up on laundry.

This Is Fine

     After working today, I'm off all this week.  Tamara K has been sick since Friday, a rattling cough that got worse and worse.  It appears to be a cold, not RSV or covid, but it's been miserable for her and we have been avoiding one another in the house as much as possible.  Which is not very, but I'm not in the shared office or her attic, and we're not having meals together.  As of this morning, she is feeling better.  Still sounds pretty awful, but on the mend.

     I have to work today thanks to short-staffing and schedule conflicts.  This coming Saturday, I have been invited to appear as part of a panel of "authors" at a local event.  So I don't want to get sick.  

     Author?  Don't look at me -- I'm a writer.  I don't even own a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows.  But I'll go along.  Still, I consider writing as I practice it to be more of a skilled trade than a profession.  I'm happy to cede "author" to the people with MFA degrees, no few of whom are excellent writers, but I'm an amateur carpenter among sculptors, content if I can build tables that don't wobble and simply aspiring to a mastery of the craft.  If the result is Art, great -- but my aim is competence.  The event organizers gave the invited authors a list of questions and I'm putting together notes about the answers on 3x5 cards so I don't have to wing it.

Another Week

     ...Another five days spent at work just trying to keep things from getting any worse.  Not making any real headway, but we spiffed-up the work areas so it will be all shiny for the big brass and managed to keep the place from going off a cliff at the same time, so I am calling it a win..

Five Of Them Are Clicking On The Link

     A sure sign that clickbait is becoming more and more difficult:

     And just think, you're probably watching yourself when you sleep....

Use It Up, Wear It Out...

      "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without."

      If your parents were Depression babies like mine, you heard that more than once growing up.  Now, there's a possibility the "influencer" trend might be getting a little bit threadbare.

      There is a cycle to such trends and there are generational differences.  Sometimes frugality is ascendant, other times we're urged to aspire to conspicuous consumption.  Mass-market stuff or handmade, artisanal items?  It's a trend -- or, often, a necessity cloaked as a preference, especially when the economy gets tight.

      I am (mostly) the child of my parents.  I'm still using Mom's old Revereware pots and pans, some of them gifts from her wedding in 1949 and others more recent presents from my Dad, merely thirty years old.  On the other hand, I've got three trendy cookpans from an on-line start-up, so I can't claim to not have been influencered;* on the other other hand, they're supposedly lifetime purchases.  And on the fourth hand, Mom would doubtless have pointed out that I already had perfectly good skillets and stewpots.

      The culture: we're swimming in it.  Probably better to shower afterward instead of pretending we're above it all.
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* This cannot possibly be a word.  I'm not sure if it should be.

Bored?

      Why not make a clay dragon?  Or a cardboard sword and shield, with your very own coat of arms!  Better yet, help a kid make 'em.  English Heritage will show you how (see the tabs at the top of the linked page.).

      The sun might set on 'em these days, here and there, but the Brits aren't beaten yet.  Terry Pratchett's gone but his spirit lives on.

Happy Birthday, Tamara

      Tam is [undisclosed] years old today!

      And remember, dear friend, a restaurant can have a senior discount even if they don't have a senior menu.

No, We're All Like That Now

      I'm home today, having done something wretched to my back, either by spending an hour at floor level going after trimmings from copper-pipe deburring that were at risk of being sucked into the air intakes of one of my big electrical machines at work or by a week of looking after the (scoopable) litter for my neighbor's (five) cats, which involves a lot of bending over and lifting (her usual cat-helper took a week off).  Or possibly both.  Whatever, I presently have two speeds, Molasses Slow and Full Stop, both of which involve more groaning than is seemly.

      I had groaned my way to the kitchen for a lunch-like snack (gherkins and buttered saltines) when I heard a delivery truck pull up and idle.  I eased my way to the front window and peeked out through the gap between the curtains from several steps back: one of the big-name package haulers, with a box two feet on a side waiting up front, the driver nowhere to be seen and a series of it's-around-where-somewhere noises from the cargo section.

      Pretty soon the driver appeared and carried the big box towards our porch, out of my line of site.  Setting-down noises followed and after a short pause he said, "No, I'm an idiot."

      Driver and box reappeared and went back into the back of the truck.  Then he showed up with a much smaller box and dashed up our sidewalk again.  I went to the door and took it, thanking him.

      It's not just you, delivery-truck driver.  We're all trying to keep up and dropping the occasional stitch.  You're not an idiot, only human.

The Universe Is Not Locally Real

      At least at a certain level it's not "real" in terms of having inherent characteristics until you measure it; and it's not "local" thanks to quantum entanglement: stick a pin in a photon here and one waaaaaay over there says, "Ouch!"

      What this means is the physics insights of the philosopher Charles M. Jones were correct: when Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff, he is perfectly safe until he measures his state by looking down -- and then it's too late.  It also explains why the Road Runner can anticipate the coyote so well, and make things go wrong for him with nothing more than a quizzical look: the "spooky action at a distance" the theory implies (and which everyone suspected all along was breathing on the dice and making toast fall butter side down) is hard at work.

      This now joins the Frederic Bean "Tex" Avery theory of subjective reality, in which our perceptions show us not the real world as it is, but an image of it deeply affected by our own notions.  Maybe you did jump out of your shoes with fright (and right back in).  Maybe it only felt that way.  Maybe you'd better check.

      Just don't look down.  You may be higher up (and less well supported) than you think.