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Don't Waste Your Time

Don't Waste Your Time

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Özet
 Drop us a line or two . . .We open in the dark at 7 a.m. California time, because TT is visiting her friend Marianne east of San Diego — and she is *living* for it. Mountains, cacti, endless sky, and a wildlife sanctuary that made her feel like she'd accidentally wandered into the actual wilderness. Queenie, tuning in from wherever it is decidedly *not* that scenic, is living vicariously and doing a decent job of it. The two bond over the shared knowledge that Southern California rain is, against all meteorological logic, more dangerous than ice. Nobody slows down. Nobody adjusts. Marianne confirmed it. Liz confirmed it. Moving on. The San Diego tour continues — Point Loma, Shelter Island, the yachts, the cantilevered houses on cliffs that made TT actively nervous just *looking* at them. Old Town gets a visit too, and TT does a quick existential inventory in front of a covered wagon that apparently made the trip from San Francisco to San Diego on one axle in three months. One woman. One axle. Three months. TT's verdict: she would not have survived frontier life, mostly because she was, in her own words, blind as a bat and would have been staggering around with a tin cup. Fair. The real highlight of the stay, though, is Marianne herself — cooking fish every night because she knew TT doesn't eat meat, making homemade pizza dough from scratch ("the best pizza I've ever had in my life"), and sharing family stories about TT's grandmother that TT had never heard. Marianne knew her as Aunt Tina. Stories about Italy, about being the oldest of nine kids, about stepping up when the great-grandfather died. The kind of family history that only surfaces in the right kitchen, at the right table, with the right person. TT is visibly moved even through the audio. Then — the news. Queenie sets it up diplomatically. TT delivers it like someone who has been sitting on the best secret and can barely contain it: she's going to be a grandmother. Her oldest son, the one she was *convinced* would never reproduce, is expecting a boy with his partner Lisa in May. TT cannot find a word other than "amazing" and she owns it completely — "I keep repeating that word, amazing, but I just can't come up with another." Queenie, who met Lisa once on the Cape and immediately clocked the rightness of the pairing, is thrilled. Honey, TT's husband, is also thrilled — he thought the family name was done for with his branch of the tree. There's a twig now. A boy twig. The name lives on. The due date is May the fourth, and both Queenie and TT are *fully* aware of what that means. Star Wars geeks, the two of them. Luke gets floated as a name — sensible, not too on the nose. Queenie pushes for Anakin. Possibly Darth. R2-D2 gets mentioned. TT draws a line at Luke with Skywalker as a middle name and then immediately clocks that a kid with that middle name is in for a lifetime of explaining himself. From there, the pod pivots to its "Wait, What?" science segment, which this week earns its name with full commitment: scientists put human poop into concrete and let it sit for 91 days. The compressive strength jumped 42%. Queenie walks through the actual science — wastewater sludge gets heated to 660–1400 degrees Fahrenheit with no oxygen (pyrolysis, not peristalsis, though TT's confusion is understandable), becomes biochar, and gets mixed into cement at different percentages. The 10% mix turned out to be the sweet spot for strength and stability. TT immediately coins the phrase "shitty roads" and this is the high point of the segment. The conversation spirals out into a genuinely enthusiastic exploration of poop-as-resource. Dog poop collection services. Septic tank trucks. The agricultural and composting uses of biosolids. The question of what happens to the sludge that *doesn't* get pyrolyzed — landfill, incineration, spreading on crops, apparently. The study of all this is called, after some collaborative Googling, *infimo* — from the Latin *fimus*, meaning agricultural manure. TT endorses the whole enterprise. "I think it's a great idea. Why not use this stuff we consider to have absolutely no value?" Exactly. Either/Or time. TT picks number 38: a toxic friendship that's endlessly entertaining, or a perfectly healthy one that's kind of boring. TT goes healthy without much deliberation — she's been in a toxic relationship and knows the word "entertaining" doesn't belong anywhere near it. Queenie wrestles with it a little more, softening "toxic" to "challenging" before admitting that at this point in life, with a shrinking social circle and a clearer sense of where time is going, she doesn't need or want that either. They land on the same side: at some point, being selective with your time and your emotional energy stops being selfishness and starts being sanity. There's more life behind them than ahead, and neither of them is wasting the good years on someone who drains the tank for sport. The Fuck It List makes its ...
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