Missing in action

My Mac and I, usually the best of friends, have been on the outs lately. Thoughts of our relationship tend to bring on a dull headache.

It's not really the computer, but what it brings into my life that has me grumpy. This morning I spent a half-hour ridding my spam mailbox of thousands of spam emails offering me enhancements for body parts I don't own and millions of dollars if I'll only provide all my private information.  I try to imagine the sort of person whose job would entail spewing out this useless drivel into cyberspace, but then most of that work is probably done by a machine that doesn't care what information it disseminates. I don't really want to look into it, so I'm grateful to those who do, such as Spamhaus, which has issued a whitelist of the 200 biggest spam-producers in the world so those so inclined can wreak vengeance on them, hopefully without death threats (see below).

Even worse are the pseudo "comments" that start off sucking up to me with lavish praise and then segue into what they're selling, everything from fashion gear to dental appurtenances and photos of subteen Asian girls. And then there are the well-intentioned chain emails that promise phenomenal good fortune if I participate and hint at an evil fate if I delete,  from friends I'd really like to hear from, if they could bestir themselves to send a personal message.

Gearfuse

It's not just the spam that's getting to me. A few weeks ago I read a New York Times series on the downside of long-term intensive exposure to digital devices: impatience, forgetfulness,  impaired learning... not to speak of the physical effects of all that sitting. I started thinking about how many times a day I check my email and blog comments, like a lonesome little kid looking for attention. When I'm surfing the Net, I've been noticing how my body shuts down, my metabolism seems to be on low-burner and a fog sets in, closing off the world around me until all I want to do is go back to bed.

Now that most of our computer work is done for the season, it seems ludicrous to be so bonded to this machine. I just got my bicycle fixed. The pool, contaminated by the flood in September,  has been cleaned recently.  More than a dozen empty planter pots await new greenery in my little garden. Cooler weather has been beckoning me outside for long walks. Two dogs watch me hopefully for a hint we might be going out: my Chica and the neighbors' Akira, a Yorkie who spends the days with us so she doesn't have to be locked in an empty house while her owners are away on their 12-hour workdays.

My guitar sits waiting, and I'm reminded of Keith Richards' remark in his new biography, "Life,"  that every moment spent not learning the blues is a sin. Keith's not a good influence,  but he might have a point there. The computer is my source of lyrics and chords for each new song I learn, but only until the song's printed out.

So I'm doing a 180 from my mindset of September, when I was thinking of blogging every day for a month, just to see if I could do it. My blog posts may be somewhat sporadic now, while I'm missing in action, out seeking some balance. I may lose the few faithful readers I had.  I may miss out on some astounding news.

So be it. Life beckons.

We get our life back

Every year since the Capt and I have been together (22 in all now), we have dedicated a portion of each year to a publishing deadline, which usually falls in the fall. (It used to be worse: I remember when it fell right around Christmas!) Without fail, as deadline approaches, there's always an annual series of mishaps to slow us down, jack up the stress level and make us grumpy. This year, we had a flood and then almost-hourly Internet failures and a Vonage phone that would capriciously cut off crucial conversations with clients. This after upgrading our service with TelMex, with additional monthly charges, which was supposed to increase our speed. Carlos Slim gets richer, we buy more frustration.

But last night we limped to the finish line, uploading the entire publication (an annual map guide to antique stores in the western US) via email to the printer in Oregon. To celebrate, the Capt baked a double recipe of Deadline Ginger Cookies, while I bestowed a pedicure on my neglected feet, which still showed traces of flood mud after three weeks.

Now it's a done deal: any errors or typos or "stupids" as I call them are set in print for the year. So be it. When we upload the whole book onto our website next month, we can correct the booboos, which is some consolation.

October 15 is the official beginning of autumn here, and the weather never lets us down. Presto-change-o!  Temperatures magically drop to just about perfect. We can sleep comfortably with just a couple of fans. Go outdoors and enjoy the sun on our backs.
Today at the library, where I volunteer every Friday, several snowbirds I hadn't seen in months stopped by and the two hours flew by while we all caught up with each others' lives. Then I came home and walked the dogs, and noticed that the world just seems somehow brighter and more colorful. 

Speaking of colorful... I gently scooped up a designer grasshopper and brought him back home where I could photograph him, an exercise in using my closeup lens. He's almost three inches long, decorated in patterns of teal, green, yellow and coral. The Capt grabbed his camera too and we snapped away like a couple of papparazzi. He accommodated us by holding still for a bit, and then went his way, no worse for his 15 minutes of fame.

Notes from the aftermath

A full two weeks since our casa was flooded, I'm still cleaning up. That's not all I'm doing, we are in the last weeks of an annual publishing deadline and that takes priority, but there are still papers to dry out, objects to clean and surfaces to spray with vinegar in hope of fighting off mold. There are happy discoveries: yesterday my iPod turned up, long after I'd given up hope of finding it. Our checkbooks got wet, but I was able to dry them. The Capt has been able to save all his hand tools, by soaking them in transmission fluid.

Though we're not likely to be inundated again this season, we went ahead and raised the two-foot stone wall in front of our place a couple more feet, and a strong metal gate is going to be installed. This was part of the plan that we'd put off until next year. Ironically, much of the water seems to have come in from the front door, after we spent considerable time and money fortifying the back.

 The stonemason, Ivan, has been toiling in the hot sun for a week and is almost finished, having topped the wall with ceramic tile yesterday. Next we're going to look into getting a pump installed in a concrete-lined pit in the front yard; we may even be able to use one from the boat.

We replaced our now-defunct washer and dryer with a stacking set we bought used, which entailed bringing in electricians to install 220 wiring. Nothing is ever simple, everything requires unforeseen preparations. Part of the learning process.

We've been busy learning about living in a flood zone. I've vowed not to put any valuables on any bottom shelves or in bottom drawers. I'll use baskets to contain objects in low areas, so they can be more quickly swooped up. Next time I hear of a hurricane that's definitely expected to affect us, I'll probably just remove any bottom drawers, since they get warped and need work to fit after they get wet. We are going to fill those 15 sandbags that had been stuffed in the back of our closet, just to impede the high water long enough for all that swooping.

It's also been a time of choosing what I can live without. Forgotten things I spent good money on and never used, as though I bought them for someone else with more creativity and time than I have. Someone living in an alternate universe or dual realities (you can tell we've been watching episodes of "Fringe," the Capt's new favorite sci fi show).

 Joshua Jackson as Peter Bishop, investigates on "Fringe" (Fox)

Either I need to make time to take up the activities they represent (what? give up "Fringe?") so I actually put these things to use, or I need to toss away my illusions and lighten my load. I've already started, by giving a huge bag of wet yarn to a friend who knits doggie sweaters and scarves as part of her livelihood.

There's a big box of beads, thousands of them. Fabrics I've hoarded for over a decade. Art supplies in a wooden box that somehow kept them dry, and sketchbooks that sadly got soaked before I ever made a single drawing in them. Dozens of skeins of embroidery thread and several embroidery hoops now in danger of rusting. A whole file box full of songs I used to sing, now a sodden mass of paper. A whole collection of books on the craft of writing, half of which I've had to toss.

Hard to believe, but the paragon of creativity who used all these things was yours truly, at one point or another in her life. This excavation has turned out to be not only one of material objects, but old ideas and urges that just may not fit me anymore. So why are they so hard to give up?