Nematode

They're wild for me in France.

Because nearly every utensil I own is being corraded in the miniature dishwasher below the two burners, I use the handle of a large slotted serving spoon to stir almond milk into my dandelion root tea.

I have been thinking about it and I don't think I can forgive that easily, even though I have tried on several occasions. It isn't sticking and I'm still really mad.



Last night I dreamt I was a child and I was with a couple of other children and we pushed open the door of the darkened dispensary and ran about reading labels and exclaiming over fantastical products. Then I was my adult self again, and I was quietly placing a few items on a high rotating shelf so that I could come back and purchase them when the dispensary opened again tomorrow.

What I remember next is shopping in a large, fluorescent-lit shop and then being harassed by two young boys as I exited past the red plastic carts. One of them threw something at me, and when I turned to admonish him he rammed a cart at me, full speed, while his friend laughed. I barely managed to swing my ankle away from the cart, and the boy continued trying to ram the cart into my legs even as I exclaimed that I was recovering from a severe ankle injury, and could he please stop.

Next he and I were walking across the moving bridge, only he had not warned me it would be moving, such that I stumbled and fretted with my heart in my chest as steps inexplicably dropped out from under me. I paused and reached for the railing to catch my breath, only to have the whole railing drop away in the split second before I leaned all my weight on it. At that point I started to yell at him--for taking me on this bridge, for not informing me that it would be moving, for not warning me before the railing dropped away--but before we really got into it the section we were on shot up into the air, leaving my stomach somewhere on the grass hundreds of yards below us.

I don't know how we escaped that contraption, but somehow we were on the ground and the dispensary owner--a woman, around my age, dark-haired pixie cut--was hurrying across the field toward us. She gave us each an envelope containing large checks and I don't remember what else, as well as a gigantic, hunter-green sled-bike with a metal basket. I placed my envelope into the basket right before the sled-bike slipped our grasp, careened across the snow, through the busy intersection, and into the parking lot on the other side of the street. I was relieved to see that no one had been hurt--including the sled--but my relief came too soon. As I waited for the light change that would allow me to cross the busy intersection, a young mother hustled her daughter up to the bike-sled, climbed aboard, and started peddling furiously up the road.

I took off after them on foot, calling out to them to stop! stop! The light saved me--she had to pause and I reached the bike-sled and grabbed its basket just as the light changed to green again. Please, I said, just let me get my envelope out of the basket. She had placed reams of her own papers and envelopes in the basket, which made finding my own more difficult. As seconds ticked on and I still hadn't found it, she started trying to peddle away. I grabbed onto either side of the basket, shoved backward, and told her this was my sled-bike and if she didn't want to deal with me, she could deal with law enforcement. She got significantly more agreeable after that and, if I remember correctly, she may have ushered her daughter away from the sled-bike. I don't recall ever finding the envelope.

Nude descending a swimming pool

Last night I dreamt I was a teenager again and that I showed up to swim practice without my suit on. I got into the pool stark naked, with the nagging feeling that something was off. When I realized the issue--that my co-ed teammates were all wearing speedos and I was completely nude--I sidestroked over to the coach to let her know. She said so long as I was comfortable I was welcome to stay for practice. I said I was perfectly comfortable; I just didn't want to make any of my teammates uncomfortable. So she told me to stay, and I did, freestroking and flipturning with the best of them, only I remained completely naked and they all stayed in their swimsuits.

At one point the coach asked me to pause my laps so she could point out an alignment issue with my shoulder. She pressed into the tight spot above my bare left breast that has been tender ever since my lung collapse. I thanked her for the adjustment and swam on. As I and my lane mates caught our breath in the shallow end, the nasty adolescent girl (who had witnessed the coach's adjustment) accused the coach of pedophilia. I said, Listen, I am a survivor of child sexual abuse--in response to which the nasty girl's eyes lit up, and she demanded, WHO? I told her, It was more than one person, and I'm not going to say who. I am also a certified rape crisis and domestic violence counselor. And I can assure you that our coach is not acting like a pedophile toward me. I guess that shut her up, because the next thing I remember is kicking off the shallow end's wall and hoping the cute guy from the boy's team noticed that I made it the whole way across the pool without coming up for air. 

Gradually the water started to go out of the pool, such that I'd swim to approximately 10 feet away from the deep end's wall only to discover the water level was several feet below where it should be. I'd kick with all my might, launching myself out of and above the water and propelling my arm into the wall.

I wanted to keep swimming even after the rest of the team had pulled themselves dripping from the pool and headed to the lockers, but when I turned to face the lane there was nothing but a few inches of water left in the pool. The coach pulled a cleaning cart up to the edge of the shallow end and informed me that I and the cute guy from the boy's team would be in charge of cleaning the locker rooms. This didn't seem to bother me; I asked a few clarifying questions, pulled my naked body from the pool, and went to survey the girl's locker room, my heart beating in my chest as I anticipated the arrival of the cute guy, who seemed equally enthusiastic to help me clean up.

River Road Feather Braid

We snowshoe into the backcountry and saw down our Christmas tree at 11,000 feet.

Now it stands by the doorway decked out in lights, golden garland, candy canes, and so many colored balls. At the tops sits the star he made out of cardboard and aluminum foil.

Raffi is singing Christmas songs, Hanna is sleeping by my legs, Wilson is dozing in the crook of my arm.



I crack two eggs into a pot and fry them, place half of a gluten free bagel in the toaster oven and turn it on.

Everything is going well until it is time to flip them. There's not enough room in the pot, so instead of flipping them like pancakes from one side to the other, I must mush them into a jumbled mess in order to cook both sides. The trouble is that I did not feel like washing the frying pan, so I tried to cook two fried eggs in a small sauce pot.

While the eggs finish cooking I put on the water to brew dandelion root tea.



Today it was freakishly warm, to the point that I pulled off my coat while I was walking Hanna and on the phone with my dear, dear friend (for lack of a better word) and I tied the coat sleeves around my waist so that I was wearing nothing but jeans and a sweater.

Meanwhile last week was so cold that every day I wore two pairs of pants, long underwear beneath a wool sweater, a down parka, gloves, a scarf, and my bright red beanie from the tree farm.

I am so sick of this basement apartment with the fighting always overhead. I wouldn't mind living in the poolhouse.