Divine intervention fail

Early yesterday I discovered that tomato hornworms, the terrible swift sword of the gardening world,  had eaten all the leaves off my yellow cherry tomato plant.  That plant represents fifty percent of my tomato crop, or more accurately, all of it.  The other cherry tomato plant is just, well, a plant.  No tomatoes.  The yellow one yielded about twenty fruit this summer.  We bought baskets of delicious tomatoes at the farmers market all summer to actually eat, while I religiously watered my crop but harvested almost nothing.

This worm is a model.  My worms are scrawny and not photogenic. You see the part on the right that looks like a little pony face?  That's his arse.  He's destroying my dreams with his other end.

I have poor luck with gardens.  This year, I prefer to think the problem was not enough sun.  I used a half barrel on the back patio, on the north side of the house, where it is shady too much of the day.  Of course I know vegetable gardens like sunshine (although even when I planted in full sun I only got a handful of produce all season. )  The red cherry is in one of those ridiculous Topsy-Turvy planters which by design has to hang from something and thus is also in the shade.   I planted a zucchini too but each little infant squash turns yellow and shrivels up when it gets about two inches long.

Some people hate vegetables--but it appears that vegetables hate me.

 The farmers market folks have the knack; I am not one of them.  Yet.

I do get lots of basil by trimming about half the leaves every week and laying them out on newspaper to dry; with plenty left to put in everything I cook except coffee.  I also have a very happy thyme plant (happy thyme; haha) that generously provides fragrant thyme leaves all year long, and more oregano  (a rampant weed) than anyone could possibly use. How much Italian food can anyone eat?  Herbs are less fussy than vegetables.

Google Images helped me out here.  But mine looks almost this good.

When the basil gives up and the planter dries out, possibly making it light enough to move,  I'll drag it over to the sunnier side of the patio and maybe next year something will decide to produce.  All I want in life (well, that's not really all I want, but you know what I mean) are the sweet wonderful tomatoes my dad grew and we ate all summer long.  He made it look so easy.  But how?

Late yesterday the phone rang and when I answered, a familiar voice said, hi, it's your dad!  For a brief moment I thought it really was my dad, calling from Heaven to explain how to grow perfect tomatoes.  But then I realized in horror that he might be calling with less desirable news, like maybe my meter had run out and it was time to...ahh...go home.

 Hey wait--no tomato advice?  Is this how it ends?

Here I am discovering that I might never grow decent tomatoes.   

After a quick metaphysical adjustment, I reminded my ex-husband that he was not my dad, Lillian was in San Francisco and to call her cell phone.  Tomato season officially came to an end.

How I spent my summer vacation

Each time I did something bloggerific this summer I'd feel guilty that I didn't peck out a snappy little essay about it.  Now summer is pretty much over, and a blog post with a numbered list is about as enticing as it sounds. So I'll hit a few highlights and call it good.

In a momentary lapse of good judgment,  Lillian signed the two of us up to model clothes for a store we like in the mall.  We suffered from almost immediate remorse; fearing that we'd be forced to stroll the store, frightening unwitting shoppers with "Do like what I'm wearing?  Would you like to buy it?", or worse, strutting on a catwalk.  (You've been to a mall, right?)  Turns out we each had to step up onto a little platform while someone described what we wore, and rows of creaky mall walkers, resting in chairs, clapped politely.

Lillian was the youngest model by decades and looked spirited and adorable but I, gray and uncertain, was awkwardly forgettable except that almost everyone but me colors her hair.  Someone thought it was a good idea for each of us to climb into the store window after we finished our stint.  That part was pretty creepy as many husbands (I hope) with cameras snapped pictures of us captive in the window.  But it was over in an hour; we had a piece of candy at See's and went home to blog about it,  promising to consider all boneheaded ideas more thoroughly in advance.

Right after Labor Day the Jeepster and I decided to go up to  Mount Lassen, a majestic old volcano about fifty miles from here.  We stayed in a rustic little cabin at a charming campground at Manzanita Lake (ManzanitaLakeCabins.com, I think, Google it) perched on the hip of the mountain.  It was cool and peaceful and the cabin was darling but the bathroom was a couple of blocks away, which is only for scale as of course it's the wilderness and there are no blocks.  A more accurate measure is,  much further than you want to walk at 1130 at night or four in the morning.

Dozens of cute ground squirrels (mountain lingo for "striped rats") scampered up and down the tall pines, dropping hard green cones on us while we tried to read and drink (coffee or wine, depending on the clock).  At high altitudes the blue jays are as big as crows and have stiff black mohawk hairdos. They loomed menacingly a few feet away while I tossed out bites of my breakfast or lunch or dinner.  All God's creatures, including numerous deer which crowded around like pushy WalMart shoppers, reminded me that it's a good thing there was a case-steel bear box to keep our food in while I turned my back to throw another log on the fire and not get complacent about who is really in charge.

A few weeks before that my high school home fries came to town and we all drove up to our other volcano, Mount Shasta.  (I'm no Fraulein Maria but I really do live near several great big craggy mountains, complete with glaciers.  It's easy to forget they are more than just a nice view out almost any window in town.)

We were only one buddy short this year and filled up a nicely-appointed (two bathrooms; soft beds) vacation home in the unlikely town of Weed.  (There actually WAS a Mr. Weed who never learned that much later Northern California would become famous for something other than logging and tourists would snicker at his namesake town, poor old Weed.)

Not too surprisingly; we ate [incredible amounts of] heavenly food and drank wonderful coffee and later, plenty of wine, from the moment we got up until we fell into bed.  I am sorry to admit this but there was also some dancing and lots of singing, which might or might not have been connected to the wine.  You may not have guessed but one denominator common to all present (except those fortunate enough to have married one of us) is prior enrollment in some faction the school music department.   It's funny how easy it is to grab a spatula and dance around in a roomful of old classmates, but merely standing upright in front of a mall full of strangers causes me to briefly lose consciousness.

Lillian and I are trying to take walks in the evening, carrying hand weights,  and limit our ice cream intake which is working great for her, but I remain lumpy and slow.  We've done a few projects but I have plenty of items on my list--including landing a job, but am not making real progress on anything.  The specter of unlimited time doesn't help--I used to paint a whole room if I had two days off in a row.  Maybe all my furniture and cabinetry will get painted when I finally do find work and have to squeeze it into my calendar.

Another summer has come and gone, reminding me that nobody bought me a big bag of new underwear and shoes and a winter coat to signal the arrival of fall.  (The only thing about back-to-school season I miss, by the way.)  For a long time my kids have been giving me Apple bucks for Christmas and birthdays and I finally got my very own MacBook Pro.  You can't tell from reading this post but believe me, Apple is the cheese.  Yet another reason to never get up off the couch and if  Mr Mac would just pour me another cup of coffee, I never would.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This post is dedicated to my high school Advanced Biology teacher, Doug Gordon, who with wisdom and unlimited good humor taught me absolutely everything I ever learned about the wonderful world of science, some of which I still remember, and for which I will be eternally grateful.  Doug passed away a few weeks ago.  Thanks, Mr Gordon.

Jury duty

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

It's over. It was over five days ago but it's been too uncomfortable to think about, let alone write about.

Also--this is a long post.  You can get back to it.  I don't mind.

For three weeks we listened to testimony.  I know more about Medicare than I ever thought possible.  I also learned about Medicare fraud, and about conspiracy to commit fraud.  I was reminded that some people will do bad things, even though most people don't start out intending to do bad things but then something changes in their heads and they do bad things.  Being bad is a slippery slope.  Once you start, it can be hard to stop.  And legally, conspiracy is an incurable disease.  You can be rolling along, la-de-da, not conspiring for a long time.  And then you do something to aid and abet a conspirator.  Goodnight, Irene.  In for a penny, in for a pound.

Now that the trial is over I can say what happened.  First--yes, jury duty is hard.  You must listen to everybody and his uncle for days and days but not discuss the case nor look anything up nor form any opinions.  And then you and eleven other reasonable (you hope) citizens get a book of instructions, fifteen bankers boxes of files and exhibits, a white board and markers, a steno pad filled with (inadequate) notes and are locked in a room until you figure out if three physicians are guilty or not.

Second--jury duty is sad.  More about that later.

Here's the situation:   A handful of sneaky Armenians (nothing against Armenians, but that's what they were) had fake medical clinics in the LA area and decided to open up in Sacramento where nobody suspected them yet.  So they set up the first one, and it looked enough like a clinic to fool people, and started rounding up elderly Hmong and Laotian immigrants to be "patients".  Each one got a nice crisp Benjamin, charts were made, and test were done.  Expensive tests.  Medicare was billed.  Money -lots of money- poured in.

Of course, to make the whole machine hum, doctors or physicians' assistants were needed to "examine" the patients and order the tests.  And key to it all, doctors were needed to open bank accounts, sign off on the charts and provide their Medicare billing numbers.   Enter, one at a time, the three defendants.

First was Dr Popov  (yes, like the vodka) who was a Russian expatriate in serious financial trouble due, apparently, to unfortunate circumstances and weak planning.  It seemed like becoming the medical director of a new clinic would be a good way to get back on his pegs financially.  All he had to do was review and sign the charts. Indeed  it would have a been good way except of course, everything was fake, and if he didn't know that right away he surely realized very soon that he was dancing with the devil.

Next came Dr Prakash.  I can't help it if he looked like the worst stereotype of an elderly Indian neurologist, but he did.  We didn't get much information about his past except that he'd never been in trouble, and he didn't testify or have anyone testify in his defense, but there was irrefutable evidence that he, too, went along with the scheme.  He conspired to commit fraud, sealing his fate.  He lay down with dogs and got up with fleas.

The third defendant, Dr LeChabrier, had impressive European credentials but we never heard a single word from her so I'm still not sure if she was American or not.  All the charts from the clinic she was involved in went missing and she never testified nor had anyone testify for her.  We spent 75% of our time trying to determine at what point she understood that she was committing fraud, although we knew she was guilty of conspiracy (that even-one-day rule.)  It was almost impossible to agree which of three counts were fraudulent, but we needed at least one to make the conspiracy charge stick, so we ultimately elected to let the remaining two pass due to reasonable doubt.  I truly appreciate my wonderful, mindful fellow jurors who felt certain she was guilty but conceded to the convictions of those who were uncertain.  Like me.

We filed into the courtroom.  There were probably thirty people in the gallery, including some of the family members we had seen during the trial, there to hear the verdict.  It was tense and solemn.  One by one, the verdicts were read, and then we were polled individually, twelve counts in all.

We had been warned that the attorneys might be waiting outside the courtroom to question us.  The judge kindly invited us to tour his chambers so we could ask questions, and by the time we emerged, everyone had gone.  Everyone except Dr Popov's attorney.  And Mrs Popov.  She hurried over to four of us women--I was closest to her. She was as small as a ten year old girl with sad eyes and brows like little black thumbprints.  In a mournful voice with a Russian accent that gave away her Soviet childhood, she said,  "Please, could I just ask you why you thought he was guilty?  I was there for the closing arguments and I thought it explained why he was innocent.  Didn't you think so too?"

How could I tell her that it took us five minutes to agree that Dr Popov was unequivocally guilty?  (To be thoroughly fair, we looked up the evidence for each of the four counts against him.  The other defendants were much more difficult.) I could not say, your husband betrayed you.  He rolled you over, and your family, and old immigrants, and the government.  So I just said,  "I'm so very sorry.  There was just so much evidence against him."  Our eyes filled with tears as we looked at each other; perhaps she was seeing her whole life.  Two other jurors took my hands and hustled me towards the elevators.  I cried down  fourteen floors.  And then we walked out into the hot, bright afternoon, and my jury duty service was finished.

To tell the truth

Here's something I did not know.  That old courtroom symbol, the venerable gavel, has gone the way of the dodo bird.  Our judge, although very judicial  in his black robe, does not bang a gavel.  His Honor looks and sounds like James Earl Jones.  On Monday morning his deputy precedes him into the courtroom and says all rise and we all rise, and then she instructs us to be seated and we all sit.  Some legal maxims get tossed out and then off we go; but no gavel.  He has three computer screens and one or two electronic gadgets and an iPad in front of him and there must not be room for a gavel, or else it's so last century.  And you no longer have to solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. These days, the plain old truth will do.

We're in our third week of testimony and have perhaps three weeks to go.  The wheels of justice grind slowly here in the big tomato. The prosecution has called their last witness and now we finally get to hear from the defendants and their witnesses.  Some are more interesting than others, and though at this time it is not a federal crime to be tiresome, the jury can't help but think it ought to be.

It's not like television.  Well, parts of it are--both the prosecution and the defense look like central casting assembled them--but the case itself is rather dull.  Important, absolutely, but dull nonetheless. The other thing that's dull is my hotel room.  Today it rained and rather than explore the waterfront for a charming restaurant I waded over to Denny's next door, inspiring me to plan some provisions for my little hotel room fridge.  I also plan to remember to pack more than one pair of pants--I had to wear my jeans which is not forbidden but it IS federal court and I feel compelled to dress better than a trip to WinCo.  And speaking of Winco these last few weeks have been a little hard on my resolve to eat better, without much relief in sight.  I dream of chocolate to soothe my anxiety.  Oh, WinCo--you don't care what I wear, do you?

Any of you have jury stories to tell?

* * * * * * * * * * *

6-29-11 Breaking news:  Today, after several mysterious delays, His Honor explained that they had all agreed on a number of issues and that next Tuesday would be closing arguments and then jury instruction. We will then begin deliberating.  Although good news in the general sense, I personally am dismayed that I won't get any more information upon which to base my decisions.  I was really looking forward to having half the testimony come from the defense, rather than about ten percent. Two of the doctors have not spoken a single word--not even "I swear on my babies' heads that I am innocent of all charges".   Can't they come up with anything to make themselves look less guilty (Like, not sporting that criminally ugly black-and-white patterned leisure jacket--are you listening, Dr. P? )  That fact alone makes me feel much less charitable. I get the whole "reasonable doubt" rule--but if they were trying to send ME to federal prison you can bet I'd be arguing until they hit me with a hammer to shut me up.  

So help you God

What am I doing with my summer vacation?  I am a juror in a Federal Court case.  The big leagues.  How, you may understandably wonder, did I earn such a prestigious honor?  Easy: I registered to vote when I was eighteen.  If you also registered to vote, you too could receive a summons to serve in U.S. District Court.  For me, this means traveling to Sacramento three days a week for a few more weeks and then, when we begin deliberations, five days a week.  I hope we can come to a verdict quickly because I suspect that five days a week of arguing discussion with thirteen other grownups (I feel sorry for the two alternates; how exasperating would that be?) might be a little tedious.  Unless they agree with me; because I'm sure I will be right.  Then it will be a piece of cake. And speaking of cake the government reimburses me $160 a day for hotel and food, 51 cents a mile to drive both ways (330 miles round trip) and $40 a day salary for my stellar verdict-rendering skills (although that part is subtracted from my unemployment benefits which are now, coincidentally, being paid by the federal government because I've used up my state benefits.  Having never been unemployed this long, I was not aware of this wrinkle in the ledger sheet).   At any rate I can't say what the trial is about but when it ends, I will.

This is not actually my jury.  Mine has seven men and seven women who dress more casually than this group.

In other news--something I can talk about--I finally after months and months got my new teeth!  What do you think?  I know, right?  Now you can understand why I was so crabby about the expense.  When I got braces on the bottom teeth about six years ago (a relative pittance) I impatiently waited fifteen months to finally see the results, which were beautiful, and then the moment I walked out the orthodontist's door my teeth practically knocked each other out scrambling back into their familiar crooked positions.  He rigged a cable to the tongue side of my teeth to try to force them to stay where he put them, but it's a constant struggle to avoid anything crunchier than bananas.  I really had no choice--those teeth were determined to lie down on their sides like tragic dying animals--but the results were much less permanent than I had bargained for.  These new implants--the four front top teeth--are now an integral part of my skull and will last longer than my grandchildren will live.  If you are very wealthy I recommend getting all your teeth replaced with dental implants.  If you are a little kid with your fabulous original teeth I recommend never ever riding your bike downhill.  Trust me on that one.

And even more news:  Lillie has wrapped up her Chicago adventure and is home again and job-hunting.  I am ashamed that she has several prospective positions to choose from while I have none; but when the trial is over I'll put more effort into finding something.  We've been putting her room together and painting our toenails and having a great time. When I picked her up in Sacramento we went to IKEA and I bought this coffee table which is practically perfect.  I love IKEA.  We built this table (using instructions with no text, only line drawings) in about forty-five minutes.  After years of laboring for hours over Sauder's translated-from-pig-latin instructions and having the resulting bookshelf or TV cabinet still look wonky and home-made, IKEA  has ruined me forever.

Lottie the Carnivore has been busy.  Two large scrambling reptiles in one hour.  A week or so ago she captured two lizards which were each freed at least a hundred feet from the house, with the assumption that they would set up housekeeping further from Lottie's prowl zone.  It is difficult to determine if these are the same monsters who returned to their ancestral home or new creatures who have not learned (nor will ever learn) to avoid her.  All had had their tails amputated at some point and sported freshly sprouted new tails.  Our domestic catch-and-release program continues (even further afield).   Either way, ick.

Have a terrific week.

Hai! Git ur own lizerd dammot!#%$r

If I should die before I wake

I don't mean to sound forlorn but I am tired of being sick.  Yesterday I rallied and felt game enough to paint a big oak bookshelf black (sanded/primed/painted, actually) and thought that surely today I'd wake up feeling good as new.  But instead I am quite tubercular with a side dish of bowling ball head.  When Lillian was in middle school she dragged around with actual pneumonia for months (another reminder not to leave me in charge of your children for more than a day or two) before I took her to be diagnosed.   Which qualifies me to know what pneumonia looks and sounds like. I'm not quite there yet.  (Which is probably what I told her.)

The convenient thing about not having a job right now is that I don't have to go to work sick, which is what I would have done because it's what everyone does, whether we admit it or not.  You might call in sick  for a day or two but then you surrender and drag your puny self in and try to appear well and not cough or sneeze on your unwilling colleagues, who wish you would stay home but come to work when they are sick too.  You know how exasperated you get when coworkers call in sick and you imagine them nursing a hangover or entertaining company?  They think that about you, too.  Unless you were like I was and only missed a few days in years and years of work.  She must really be sick, they would say.  Plus they knew I had a pretty dull social life and those other scenarios were unlikely.

So today I fiddled with my blog background and poked through the bloggers that MY bloggers like; even finding a few to add.  Who are YOUR favorites?  Kindly share; I've got nothing but time these days...

I totally get it

Its the one on the right

So, a little background.  Last week A and I went to Reno, where my sister lives.  All five siblings, my mom, and a few other relatives gathered for the annual ski n' fabulous food fiesta.  It was wonderful, but because I have to balance the bitter and the sweet, this morning I stepped out into what had been my garage but was now a bayou.  Water squished into my socks and I instantly determined that my day was going in a different direction than originally envisioned.  I saw an alligator.  My inclination was to take a shower right away because it was conceivable that there wouldn't be hot water for long.

But I really needed a plan.

Obstacle!

Calling on my homeowner/McGyver heritage, I made a funnel out of a plastic bottle so the drooling water went into a bucket instead of soaking the plywood wall and the rug.  That bought me a little time.

I had to establish where the water was coming from.  Determine how fast it was coming.  Notify A who has more tools and fewer plumbing nightmares than I do. Go online and see what Ask.com thinks the problem is and what to do about it.  Drag the sopping rug (a hand-me-down 5x7 that substitutes for a doormat, which is only practical when dry) out onto the sunny driveway to drain.  Make and consume coffee.  Wonder if I have a real cold or just rampant allergies like everyone else in this county.  Worry about what to do if it IS my ten-year-old water heater. Could I afford a new one? What about tankless?  Weigh my fears about exploding water heaters that rocket up through two floors and a roof, which appeared on Mythbusters as recently as LAST NIGHT.  Remember (from journalism class in eighth grade)  to ask Where, Who, What, Worry,  Wonder, and Weigh.)  I forgot When! It might have started while I was in Reno and been dribbling away quietly for days...But I think it must have only been a night or two.  Just long enough to swamp a big carpet.

Ask.com  cheerfully explained what to do, emphasizing how simple the solutions were.  It also said that sometimes a water heater could explode or scald me or render me penniless, but not always. So A and I gently drained and flushed the tank.  A tapped on some things with a hammer. We carefully loosened and tightened and squirted WD40 and made sure everything looked like the diagram only better.  And now it's out there, full and warm and dry.

Mocking me.

Perhaps because of the cold/allergies, I should feel triumphant, but I'm discouraged.  My worldly goods are crumbling; wearing out; wearing through.  My body gets lumpier and  slower.   I try to eat eleven hundred calories a day and I'm hungry from dawn until  Jay Leno.  I don't have a job and can't remember how to do anything anyway.

I have this. Except instead of being itchy, I'm wheezy.  

But tomorrow, as Scarlett insisted, is another day.  I have projects enough to last through infinity.  Someday, eating like a refugee will chisel off ten pounds gained from menopause topped with eight years of irregular meals and perpetual weariness.  Good things are coming, even if I don't know when.

Don't look for me.  I don't ski.  I eat.

I can see clearly now

Today I got a box from Amazon (the North Pole for grownups except they send things all year long; all you need is a list.  And a charge card; unlike Santa who only requires a chimney and blind faith.) Amazon sent me a five pound tub of food grade citric acid powder.  In the past, Amazon has sent me diapers, peanut butter, silver earrings, Bare Minerals, books, and more.  They always know what I want, and they send it to me.

You may not think that you need citric acid powder but you are wrong.  This is why.  Region by region, dishwashing detergent has been begun appearing on store shelves without phosphates.  I'm sure those demon phosphates are just terrible; Google will be happy to explain it to you.  But phosphates do one thing very very well.  They make your dishes and glasses and silverware sparkle.  Without phosphates, everything comes out of the dishwasher looking like you threw a cup of milk in the rinse cycle.  If you have hard water, make that two cups of milk.  Cloudy dishes are coming to your neighborhood soon.  It's not easy being green.

Then I learned about a product called LemiShine which is citric acid in an adorable little canister with a price like a Starbucks grande.  But Amazon, who has EVERYTHING, has plain citric acid powder in a big white tub for cheap.  I'll have sparkling glassware until I die of old age.  And I can make homemade fizzy bath bombs with epsom salts.  Oops--now everyone knows what they're getting for Christmas.

Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows

I've been rethinking my approach to posting lately.  One aspect of being unemployed is having endless plenty of free time to [insert anything that doesn't require funding] read a lot of blog archives and links.  I have a few favorites, and the thing I like most about them is that they post often.  Sometimes just a quip or a picture, sometimes a story, but they provide something for the unemployed and dreary to look forward to.  When they don't post I get anxious.

Where's my message?  What are you doing?  Why are you ignoring me?

Bloggers trying  to please each other

I had been thinking of my posts as assignments.  Essays. With a theme; a message; a topic. If I couldn't come up with something great I should just ruminate until something happened worth writing about.  I started thinking that my followers (sounds too messianic)  readers might just want to touch base to see what's what.  Maybe we'd just bump elbows; maybe I wouldn't even make them laugh that day.  Making people laugh is the gold standard (youngest child issues--entertain or scram) but maybe I don't have to do that.  How long does it take to read the blogs on your list? Not very long.  How long would it take me to write something if I DIDN'T endlessly edit and ponder and try to get it just perfect?  Not very long.

So. I still  want my blog post to be the best thing you've read all day.  If everything goes my way and you've only read the local newspaper and a cereal box that morning, I might hit the mark.  Otherwise, maybe my blog will just say that I'm still here, waving at you over the interwebz.

Today we've had about five kinds of weather.  It's sprinkled, poured, hailed, thundered and lightning-ed.  It's been sunny.  Cloudy. Cold. We've had rainbows.  There was wind.  Over and over.  The only thing we didn't have was heat, and this town makes up for that in the summer when its hot night and day for weeks and weeks.

The view from my front porch

Yesterday the rain held off until after my appointment at the oral surgeon--oh, you thought I was finished with that?  I am not.  Why, just two days ago he pared some wayward lumpy gum tissue off the spots where my new implants will go.  I've been waiting, unable to bite, since September to finally get my teeth but naturally at the last minute Dr P decided I needed a temporary set for a few more weeks, lucky me, so my gums could fill in obligingly and look natural and not freaky, which I am sorry to report, they do.  I  begged for some input into the appearance of these temporary teeth but Dr P just scoffed.  The lab would make them look great! Better than that ugly space holder (denture) I've worn for six months.   As you have correctly guessed, this was not the case.  Not great.  Not better. Worse.  Horrifying.  I look like a hungry vampire.  These teeth are short and square and their tall neighbors loom threateningly on either side like a  close-up of Dracula. But  in typical nightmare fashion, I have no choice but to wear this wolfish face for two months.  And pay cash; this is all extra.

My hair looks dark, don't you think?

Dr Z is the boss of the permanent implants.  When it's finally time to decide how those will look, I'm insisting on some creative control.  Dr N (I know an awful lot of dentists) loaned me books and walked me through the process of crafting my smile; armed with my new knowledge we'll pave the path to a lovely trio of permanent implants.  It reminds me of when my house was being built and I dropped by every day to check up on the contractor and subs and force them to change all the things they'd built that day, flagrantly ignoring  the plans, my careful instructions, or building codes.   I kept telling myself that they didn't have to like me (they complied with that part) but this was MY life savings and they had better get it right.  And for the most part, they did.   The dental situation is kind of the same:  It's a lot of money, and I have to live with it, and like it, for the rest of my life.

So much for a quick hello.  Oops.  Hello!

how much a kitten costs

I was looking at an old essay I had written about putting our cat to sleep, but then I decided Joey deserved his own post.  If you do not want to read about death, stop here, and come back next time when I will try to write something more cheerful. I also apologize to anyone who has Googled "how much a kitten costs".  Sorry!

This cluttered coffee table is going to drive me to my grave.

He said that. I am not making it up.

Once when Lillie was much younger she went to visit her dad for the summer and he, against my specific instructions, got her a kitten.  Not just any old kitten, but a feral kitten, one virtually guaranteed  never to mesh with the domestic cats at either his house or mine.  Of course Charlie came home with Lillie and, like most of of us do, we tried to make him fit in and feel welcome.  Without success.  So when she decided to try living there for a school year, I forced her to take Charlie with her so her family there could have as much fun as we'd been having.  He was immediately dispatched to a "foster home" where he was "socialized" and eventually placed with a "little old lady".  (If she lived "on a farm", the picture would be complete.)

Once again, against my specific, unequivocal instructions, Lillie was given another kitten.  I'm aware there was a lot of psychological flotsam and jetsam floating around, and that there were a lot of hurt feelings up ahead, but what did I say when Lillie wanted to cancel the experiment a few months in and move home? Joey must stay behind.    Even though I had allowed Annie to bring home Charlotte, a kitty facing execution because she was a female ("and would just get pregnant."  Now there's some effective family planning! We had her spayed which is also effective family planning).  Next, Annie moved out and adopted still another kitten (she will deny this now, I am sure) which she toted home when she moved back in.  This [pregnant] adolescent cat Lucy, much to the utter horror of our resident cats, produced three kittens.  That storyline gets even more sordid, but I'll save it and get back to Lillie's cat.

Because I'm so stubborn (!) I made Joey stay with Dad's family, but when they had to...let's say, leave town very quickly in the night, Joey was no longer welcome.  So much for stubborn.  He came home to our house.   He was shy, silent, and unobtrusive from the beginning, except for some peculiar beef with fat old Catch, and drifted around  like a large gray shadow for about six years.  I've already described his mysterious decline, but this post is about his death.  And what I chose, not about what you choose (although I hope you'll at least consider my convictions.)

I've always struggled with the decision to allow a new pet to come into the family because it's so intertwined with the decision to allow that pet to leave.  That silky romping smidgen has a price tag.  You can't bring him through the door if you can't agree to handle the other end of life with the same commitment.  It gets even stickier--how much intervention you can afford, both financially and emotionally--but you have to decide.  And then do it.  For me--for us; Lillian was the decision maker; I was the operative--it meant trying different food, ruling out simple fixes, and then admitting enough was enough.  Today, sweet, skeletal Joey went peacefully to sleep.  I knew in my squeezing heart that it was right.  No more barfing.  I don't know if he was in pain, but it was either avoided or ended.  He was free from suffering, or the potential to suffer.

It was my responsibility.

We, fellow fumbling humans, are their stewards on earth.  We have thumbs, educations, and resources.  Because they can't do it, we must.  If it makes us cry, or hurts our hearts and makes us sob and snort in front of the [very sweet] staff at the vet, too bad.  It's what we signed up to do, even if we didn't read the fine print at the time.

That's how much a kitten costs.

Joey.  He did have feet, see?

Jack Spratt

And so the days fly by and I have nothing to show for it except a big fat load of ennui.  I accomplish far less than I could, so rather than feel proud of the few projects I've completed, I feel guilty for all the hours I've squandered.  If   When I do find a job in this decade, I will undoubtedly kick myself for wasting weeks of perfectly useful free time.

Most recently, though, my thoughts have centered around (what else? They're my only companions) the cats. Specifically, Joey.  Poor Joey.  He joined the family as a young adult with nowhere else to go.  Our current cats were Chase and Catch, who had been here since they were fluffy little kittens.  Also present was Lottie, whom they tolerated because she arrived as a little girl ,kitty. (After Catchy died Lottie and Chase became inseparable).  Several others came and went, but that's another post.  Anyway,  Joey broke the cat-adding rules: he was a boy, and an adult.  Two strikes against him.  He and Catch rubbed each other the wrong way from the get-go and even fought in the early days; as icky old Catch declined the tension faded.  But nobody made any friendly overtures.  Joey had a capital L on his forehead.  He ate lunch alone.

At Christmas, Joey asked Santa for feet. And one friend.

Somewhere along the way, Joey began to barf.  Often. Like, daily.  Or more often than daily.  On Dr L's advice, we found a no-corn, no-chicken dry food they all agreed to eat.  In two months, the hurling is down to almost nothing.  A few weeks ago, though, I noticed that Joey had become much thinner.  He had managed to puke continuously for months  and remain very solid, but now, his stomach settled, he is wasting away.  Shiny, bright-eyed and serene, but emaciated.  Skeletal.  If he had no fur he would be too awful to look at.

How bad could this duck-and-pea crap taste?  Lottie shrugged and ate it, and remained fat (She eats birds, for crying out loud).  Chase shrugged and ate it, and remained thin.  Joey shrugged and seemed to eat it. And lost three pounds.  That's a lot, if you're a cat.  Today, in desperation, I found some canned cat food with no corn. (They all relish canned food but it's a smelly nuisance that makes them pester me all day long, and I yanked it off the menu several years back) Joey ate an entire can; as ravenous as if he'd been trapped in a mine for several weeks. Now, he's sleeping; sated.  I fear waking to the sounds of imminent disgusting cat vomit.

I can't let him starve.

you can say that again

So we went to see "The King's Speech" (the title of which, it appears, refers not to his actual impediment but rather, to the important radio address he had to deliver to those countries of whom he was king, when Germany declared war on England.  Which you will understand when you see the film.)  Anyway, as always happens when I see a period piece, I was struck by how many things are nothing like we imagine them when we're being all misty about the good old days.

It was the only warm day of the year

For example:  It was terribly drafty and cold.  Everyone wore sweaters, jackets, mufflers, and gloves, all the time.  Even in the palace (those Windsors had many palaces, each more chilly than the previous one) woodfires crackled to keep frost from forming on the fingertips of the princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.

And speaking of princesses, royal life was  unbelievably complicated and the average citizen drifted through life gamely declaring either "God Save The King" or "God Save the Queen" because the gender of the reigning monarch was the only rule that was clearly apparent to all.  When dreadful old King George V finally died of confusion, his eldest son (whom you remember as Edward VIII) became king but, because he loved and was determined to marry an unattractive American divorcee with the horrid name of  Wallis, he was forced by the rulebook to abdicate the throne to his previously invisible brother, Albert.  It gets even worse:  Albert (whose nickname, I am sorry to report,was Bertie) was a stutterer (thus the movie, which I won't spoil for you), was forced to choose  a less Germanic official name (All European royalty, although kissing cousins in the hillbilly sense, were thanks to Hitler not allowed to be friends with Germany anymore) so he became the remarkably unimaginative 'King George VI'.  You thought choosing your child's name was a chore! You at least had "Beyond Jennifer and Jason"; they had to struggle with "Burkes Peerage and Gentry"   Promise me that you will never ever name your daughter Wallis. Ugh.

Two pieces of very good news: you are no longer required to identify or write roman numerals, also, the invention of tweezers, and not a moment too soon.

The olden days were a terrible time to have any type of affliction: syphilis, diabetes, cavities, acne; pretty much anything that was wrong with you was a really big problem. I just love modern medicine; say what you will about the health care crisis; in my opinion things are a hundred times better than they used to be.  Ever met anyone who's had dropsy?  Consumption?  Piles?  Of course you haven't.

I am not sure where the top half of this patient is.
 However, I like the sawhorses, as do all the support staff.

I won't tell you how the movie ends because I want you to see it.  As a consolation prize I'll tell you about the beef stew A made.  Determined not to repeat the chopped orange kerfuffle, we started with the most basic Betty Crocker recipe, to which I added a few extra ingredients like ginger, a slosh of red wine, a splash of soy sauce, a little black pepper, and a scant sprinkle of something labeled "Kansas City Seasoning". I was there, I saw everything go into the crockpot without incident. Hours passed.  We served it up.  It was so fiery our noses ran and our eyes watered but we ate it. Somehow that dash of demon seasoning had morphed into a shovelful of glowing goals. My mouth was galvanized but I managed to gasp my apology; now we were even.  Who knew dinner could become such a war zone? I'm going to go look at traditional English recipes, which have not improved over the years,  to make myself feel better.

What did you make for dinner? Reservations!

I have permission to tell this story.

A likes to cook for me and has good ideas; I also like to cook and have good ideas.  As the old saying goes, there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip.

Yesterday we had several projects going and time got away; soon it was late and no dinner was ready.  He had planned to make tequila lime chicken in the crockpot but of course that requires putting everything in the pot early in the day.  Fortunately there are a million recipes on the internet and oh boy here was a recipe to make tequila lime chicken in a skillet.  There were some differences, so before he put it in the pan he showed me a plate with  the ingredients prepared and ready to go.  Chicken, mushrooms, garlic, and a chopped orange.  Excuse me?  With the peel.  Chopped. Hmmm.

I tend to be a little critical and gently suggested he read me the recipe. (His version might read: She rolled her eyes and insisted I read the recipe)  Chicken. Mushrooms. Garlic. One orange or yellow bell pepper, chopped. He didn't have a yellow bell pepper but he did have an orange, wasn't that lucky?  Indeed.  We agreed to try it without the orange this time.

new year, new chapters

2011 begins and I have plenty of time on my hands for all those projects that seemed so pressing, back when I trudged off to work every day and wondered how I could ever fit them all in before I expired. In six weeks, I could reasonably expect to have cleared my entire house and garage of clutter, painted all the remaining wrong-colored walls, painted the baseboards and my old bedroom furniture, built a new headboard, and read half a dozen books.  It has, however, become paramount that I spend hours each day watching HGTV, TLC, and a little bit of Discovery, MTV and the History Channel.  Anyone who has ever had a vacation understands this, but that doesn't make me feel any less discouraged.

Instead of new years' resolutions, I have ideas.  My idea is to do all the things in the previous paragraph, and look for work, and limit how much cable distracts me.  Can't you see the lightbulb illuminated above my head right now?

Today's idea is putting away Christmas.  I will pull everything out of the bins, set aside the items I love and want to see next year, and give away everything I don't love.  That's always a good guideline when deciding what stays and what goes.  Do I love it?  Naturally love (of people as well as objects) is one of those emotions that gets colored by the glass through which we look; it's seldom black and white.  Sometimes the keep-it criteria defaults to "do I need it" or "am I keeping this because someone else will need it"?   Someone being, of course, my children, who might eventually need this or that item.  I've got something I didn't have before: endless shelves!  I could keep it all, but I must not bend to the extravagance of storage space.  Amended idea:  keep the things that I love or one of them loves.  Or needs.  See why this is so hard!

Snakepit update:  No evidence of snakes in the house. So far. We have a lot of ants, however. Coincidence?

Cat update:  Joey throws up about half as often as he used to.  My wisest friend, conveniently a veterinarian, says a cat's favorite pastime  is wretching, and that  the idea (yet another!)  is to minimize it as much as possible.  We switched from Iams (Iams  has no dye,  which makes barf stains more manageable, if not more inviting) to duck-and-pea, which has no grain or chicken, common allergens and hurl-triggers. Another ingredient is, apparently, gold nuggets; their glow reflected in the price.  Doctor L recommended I wait until Joey arrived at some level of homeostasis:  no further improvement in his bailing frequency, before changing foods.  The next idea (!) is lamb-and-rice, which is priced  higher than Iams but lower than duck-and-pea.  All three cats eat out of a common dish on the common floor.  A cheaper plan would be to isolate them at mealtime and each cat gets something off the menu, but that's a little much for me.  One needs duck-and-pea, everyone eats duck-and-pea.  I might add I must prune my already frugal lifestyle by $100 a week. They should eat snakes and ants.

An unanticipated surprise is coming on Friday: PG&E, because I have a gas furnace and water heater and am also now officially poor,  offered to send a contractor here, for free, to make energy efficient changes to my house.  We shall see what those changes are. Insulation? New appliances? A Snuggie?  They said the contractor gets paid with grant money and is not selling anything.  I expect some sort of sales pitch--that's how the world works--but I am made of steel, remember?  Free or nothing. Someone gets it; so why not me?

Remember the guy who offered to mow my yard for $15?  That worked well for a while; even when I agreed  (prior to being canned) to give him $20 and get a little more work done.  Haven't seen him in a month.  I save money, but if he doesn't ever come back I'll need another plan when the grass starts to grow in the spring. It's always something, isn't it?

Back to the Christmas bins.  With the television on and facebook open in the background...

Let nothing you dismay

I was making soup out of the turkey's  corpse today when Lottie suddenly started digging at the closed door of the blue bedroom.  She doesn't usually give a fig about doors, in contrast to Joey, who frets about closed off rooms.  Then Chase also started scratching at the door.  What is it, Lassie, Timmy down the well? In light of our recent adventures with wild things, I was a little nervous, but I opened the door, fearing another spider or even a lizard who had grown tired of having a tail and was searching out Lottie's Mobile Tail Reduction Service,  generally headquartered on our porch.  Both cats barged into the room and Lottie dove headfirst under the desk, and  pulled out --what else?--a writhing SNAKE.

I snapped a photo as evidence, although we both look more imposing here.

Why me?  Come on, Fate, you took my stinking job.  Is turning even a tiny SNAKE loose in a small bedroom crowded with furniture, boxes, yet another sorry television and the Christmas bins your belated Christmas gift?  But I was bred with a steely Scottish gene (depicted above).  I am not a screamer or a fainter.  I snatched up the nearest plastic cup and a calendar and scooped up the serpent and flung him out the front door onto the lawn.  I didn't see him land or slither away in the grass, which was a little disconcerting, but the cats turned over everything under twenty pounds in that bedroom and we are all fairly sure I dispatched him. I mean really really sure.

But here's what I want to know: how did an eight inch snake the diameter of a pencil get INTO my house? The windows are all closed  and the doors weatherstripped.  It's a six inch step UP from the garage, although perhaps there might be a tiny gap where a scaly intruder with strong resolve and a wee stepladder could squeeze in. Possibly.  But why?  Is this the same varmint I hosed out of the garage  weeks ago?  Why would a snake  want to visit my garage or, more troubling, my house?  Neither venue represents what I imagine to be a desirable habitat for snakes.

Do spider gangs use snakes as protection? Is my foundation hosting a nest of vipers? [Will I ever have another chance to use the phrase 'a nest of vipers'?]  Will I have to drink myself to sleep forever?

Always something to keep me from my rest.  But anyway, back to the soup.  It turned out yummy because the original turkey was delicious.  A was determined to fix a full Christmas feast and since nobody was getting any gifts from me this year, I felt like I should step up to the stove (the one in my kitchen, a critical element). I brined the turkey (the only way, in my opinion), made sourdough-mushroom-artichoke dressing, pumpkin cheesecake with caramel sauce, potatoes and sweet potatoes, fried onions and pan gravy.  A roasted asparagus and the turkey.  His kids, one kid's boyfriend, and his dad attended and, if you threw out the top and bottom scores, the meal was a solid winner. It was a high point in this rather uneasy holiday.

Here we are serving a delicious Christmas dinner.

I haven't yet put away the Christmas decorations or dismantled the tree.  In a few days I'll go see my grandsons and give them their presents.  When I get back I should probably give some thought to my future, like, can I live on even less money than unemployment insurance? (Hint:  when pigs fly.) I'll go back to worrying about Joey, whose digestive/social problems plague our household.  I may even get better at blogging, like making the caption stop and the text start where I want it to, not like this. Things will return to what passes for everyday life here at the wild animal park.

Tis the season

After Thanksgiving we took a quick trip to San Francisco; here's me finding my heart in Union Square.  

We reassembled the shelves in the "library" and I put as many books as I could fit on the shelves, along with the pictures I like best.  One of the raggedy plaid chairs is in the corner by the window, the ideal spot to watch tv, blog, read, and look out the window.  I LOVE THIS ROOM.  It is perfect.  We put two recently acquired slate leather chairs (from a defunct office lobby) in the window bay in my room; although we had to remove two interior doors to get them in there.  Office chairs are not scaled to fit into residential buildings!  Which is funny because my sofa and loveseat are very stout and they came right in.

So remember when I said there was a light at the end of the tunnel?  Well, there was, it was an oncoming train.  I lost [clarification--they took back] my job the week before Thanksgiving.  Aaaack!  But you know what?  Aside from that gruesome  sensation of the floor collapsing under my feet, another sparkly, sunshiny feeling of relief flooded in like the tide.  As the grim reaper HR Manager was explaining why they stopped loving me and were kicking me to the curb, I wanted to shout Yippee! and jump up and dance around.  I suddenly realized how stressful the previous year had been.  Nobody just quits, in this economy, but now I didn't have to.

When life gives you lemons, make thanksgiving dinner

I'm no dope.  I know I face terrible odds and an uncertain job market.  I am unlikely to find the very good wage I earned during eight years as a phlebotomist.   And I seriously miss my coworkers, with whom I spent so much of my life.  But I can't change that.  Somewhere out there, a better job is waiting for me.

This weekend we (actually A.; I kept both feet on the ground near the cellphone so I could shout encouraging things up towards the roof and call the ambulance if he fell off) did two important things.  Saturday, he cleaned out the rain gutters at both houses which was necessary but invisible.  It rained.  Sunday we hung Christmas lights at both houses which was also necessary but -bonus!- beautiful.  It rained.  But it went a long way towards making me feel better about it being Christmastime even though I am unemployed and feeling rather dreary about the future.

As they say; keep calm and carry on.  I'll try!

Measure twice. At least.

I haven't written a post in six weeks because #1 I've been busy, and #2 I haven't been any fun.  Posts are more fun to read when I am fun to be around. In October I went to Chicago where I was a barrel of monkeys, but I was busy, so here we are back at obstacle  number one again.  Lately work has just been one long dark coal mine with no apparent light at the end of the tunnel. Without too many depressing details, lets just say things have a slight possibility of looking up.  I hope.  If nothing else, I have been reminded that I have a good team who are supporting me.

So through a long series of card tricks, I have become the proud owner of shelves.  Lots of shelves.  Two are elegant white laminate commercial display shelves, six feet square, with twenty-five square boxes each.  They are beautiful (and enormous.)  The other two are rough wood, sturdy and homely, and will live in the garage as a workbench and storage area.  I couldn't be happier. Well, turns out, I actually could be a little happier.

One set of white shelves MUST live in the garage.  They replace a few flimsy old Sauder wrecks filled with crap like catfood and potting soil and paint. They really are too lovely to live out there but  as you have read here before, my house is already quite full.  The only way the other set can move in is if  [many many] more items move out, which is a someday goal, so the garage is their new home.

Sam's old lair, the cutest of the three small bedrooms, is just begging to become a library full time and house all the books, the loveseat, and a TV. (There are four TVs in this house, only one of which I purchased.  TVs are like cats; and like cats, some are better than others). The giant white shelf is idling in the living room (it weighs as much as a refrigerator, more or less).  The old PC resigned itself to a trip to the dump a farm.  I am saving up for a Mac, really and truly.  A. and I had planned and measured the final location and at the last minute, decided to measure the doorways and hall, just to make sure.

And now you know WHY I could be a little happier.

The shelves would fit through the door of the gray bedroom, now a spartan guest room.  They would also slide right into the blue bedroom which is filled with miscellaneous items and will eventually be painted the same pale cocoa as the hall bath.  But neither room sings 'I am the perfect library and you want to sit in here all the time!' like the brown bedroom. It has to be that room.

A. is a good sport with a fine imagination and promised that he could disassemble, relocate, and reassemble the shelves in the room where they will live until the end of time.  He recently went on thyroid replacement and has more pep than a water polo team.  My original complement of thyroid provides just enough energy to complain and procrastinate, but he believes this will work.

So that's where things stand.  Highlights: Hauling a truckload of wobbly, puckery home-assembled shelves AND Sam's old captain's bed (which stood on its head for ten years holding up boxes) AND the old hand me down PC to the transfer station. Hosing down the garage floor and displacing a snake, which I had not noticed before because I was covered with spiderwebs and, possibly, spiders ( I have reason to feel vulnerable around vengeful spiders). Flying to Chicago for four days with Lillie and Sam.  We saw Billy Elliott, our favorite movie-turned musical.  We shopped and wandered and had the Best.Time.Ever.  Lillie and I had birthdays.

    Sam and Lillie live in this house in that town

And as soon as we get those shelves moved, I'll report back.