Wed. 1-8-2020 family letter

MIscell - and I do mean miscell - thoughts:

Mark is such a hunk.(OK, I had to write a sample sentence for some computer testing we were doing, and he was standing right there at my elbow. So I figured to feed his - already expansive ego.)  I want a new nose. (my current one is red and stuffed up from the cold that ate Salt Lake, which I got there visiting all my kids and dear but Germ Factory grandkids for Christmas.)

Mark left reluctantly for work (wants to retire so he can stay home and WRITE/TEACH in SummaShare); I had a choice: load the dishwasher and sweep kitchen floor, or write this.)  (!)  Decided we always have dirty dishes and floors, and they’re like spider webs: constantly reproducing. A thought undocumented, however, is lost possibly forever. Which for some of my thoughts might be best - but oh well.

Later:   Just pulled my car outside the gate and left it parked there so I could close said gate and keep our three felines sort of off the road. Noticed that I have the piled- up car of a homeless person. Well, maybe I am homeless. My home is missing under piles of junk. Which aren’t junk, but legitimately useful items – which just don’t have a home of their own, so they’re taking over mine. So what’s (who’s?!) more important: the items or me? Obviously. It IS painful sometimes being the only lone Maximalist in a family of increasingly rabid minimalists (I shall heretofore take it upon myself to find all Marie Kondo books and destroy them. Except destroying things goes against my grain, So I will probably put them all on a shelf somewhere – which does not exist- where they will take up still MORE of my missing home.)

I have a daughter who has a big house with the closet space I’ve always dreamed of, and she is of course a minimalist. (Her top shelves, especially, hold a whole lotta really expensive AIR.) But that’s also because half the storage is only accessible to either NBA players with hormonal abnormalities, or else African Dinkas or Rwandan Tutsis – on stilts. What WAS that builder thinking. However, if they install a nice collapsible ladder in every – and I mean every – room, they should theoretically be able to manage. I say theoretically, because practically speaking, I doubt they’ll ever have to reach up there: they’ll never have enough stuff to stow – because they don’t want it. (Although when you think about it, it would be nice for hiding early Christmas gifts, or incriminating old High School photos, or that bag of Oreos you don’t want to share with anyone under 40.) But they have so many lower shelves available they probably won’t ever need the nosebleed ones. Because they’re just different. Even my daughter, who I swear is genetically related to me –(unless there was a switcheroo in the delivery room when I was all drugged up – which I wasn’t, so I know whereof I speak). She utilizes something called “interior design” in her living quarters. Things have to look good, and be pleasing to the eye. She doesn’t want to own one atom more than is absolutely necessary. Instead of keeping bins of kids’ artwork, she takes photos and tosses it. (A digital file requires her ideal amount of physical space.) They had a 20 yr old bathroom that had to go because it was so antiquated. (I didn’t toss her when she turned 20… Moreover, I have a 40 y.o. bathroom that is still in daily use – but we’re holding out til mustard yellow bathtubs are back in style again. Everything comes back in style eventually, right?) And take my son-in-law, now. (Please!) (JK.) He insists on parking his car(s) (cough) in his MAIN STORE ROOM (which he insists on calling “the garage”). He is a strange one. The literal day after Christmas, they were loading a truck bed full of smashed down packaging, broken thises and thats, a denuded Christmas tree, and about 980 big fat bags of trash generated by 1.5 weeks’ worth of 15 house guests, preparatory to going to the dump. Their city trashcans were overflowing and they couldn’t stand the mess. They wanted their echo back.

I happened to see a random video of Tom Hanks at the Golden Globe awards, rolling his eyes at comedian what’shisname’s reference to having his new license plates made by Felicity Huffman (in jail – get it?) Anyway, I got to thinking about how celebrities are just people like you and me. Heck, Tom Hanks and I are practically the same. We were both born in the year --. (That’s A.D., not B.C., as my youngest son might crack.) We were both shy as children. He has 4? kids. I have 4 kids – plus 2 (or 3, depending on how I’m feeling about my husband.) He’s hetero; I’m hetero. He’s been married for a long time to the same person. I’ve been married a really long time to the same person. He’s a potential SAR (Son of the American Revolution): I’m a potential DAR; we both descend from Revolutionary War dudes. He wears a cardigan; I wear a cardigan – when my house gets cold. He says it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. (Well, I could be optimistic too – with a little practice). He has facial hair; I – well, so, not all analogies are equally useful, OK.

But we do have differences: He’s rich and famous. I’m poor and obscure. (Relatively speaking, of course.) He once talked to himself – and to a volleyball named Wilson. I talk to myself, too – but if I ever start talking to a ball I will commit myself. He was really good at hitting little balls (as Forest Gump); I am really good at missing little balls. Enough about balls already. He was sleepless in Seattle; I’m usually sleepless in SoCal. He sat on a bench and shared his chocolates with somebody; I don’t usually share my chocolates. (Actually that’s not true, but it makes good copy.) He said, “Houston, we have a problem.” I say, “Mark, we have a problem.” (Mark’s my husband. And the problem is usually computer related. And only when I’m using it.) But all in all, who is Tom Hanks but some guy I coulda been- if I’da been born a guy. Somebody I might’ve even talked to in the hall. (I wasn’t a snob.) Somebody with a few more zeros to the left of his decimal point, but not a zero of a person when all’s said and done. At least not yet. (Don’t blow it, Tom. You still got a LOOONG way to go, and lots of years before you sleep. You’re still a baby. You’re the same age as me.)

PS- Mark is Soooo smart.(He was standing at my shoulder again.)