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.

where there's a will

A friend shared this story with me today: last weekend her son married a lovely girl in a meadow in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The bride had lost her beloved father when she was a teen and was very sad that he would not be able to walk his little girl down the aisle on her wedding day. Her stepfather of ten years had the honor of escorting the bride to meet her new husband at the altar. My friend noticed, as he went by in his tuxedo, that he was wearing a pair of rough brown cowboy boots. She thought it might be about the meadow, but later that day she was told the real reason. Those were the bride's late father's boots. Dad walked her down the aisle after all.

Along came a spider

A few nights ago the cats and I were watching reruns on cable when an incredibly large, blazingly fast spider raced between me and the tv. Far from brave, I am the designated family spider eliminator, as all of my children sob and shrink and run when confronted with even the tiniest, slowest, shyest spider. I have a game plan in place: QUICKLY get between the spider and the hiding place and QUICKLY whack it with something before I overthink the process and miss my opportunity.

But THIS guy was way ahead of me. It took a moment for my misfortune to register and by the time I got to my feet, confused cats spilling onto the floor, he had scuttled under the couch. I never had a chance to pick up a flip flop. Aack! I swept the broom blindly around under there, feeling ridiculous. Did I really think he'd grab on and ride out into the room where I'd have a clear shot at him? I spent the rest of the evening uneasily in the furthest chair, afraid to take my eyes off the couch. I pictured him sneaking around behind the furniture, tiptoeing stealthily up behind me, and droppping gleefully onto my throat. He knew I'd kill him unless he killed me first. I went to bed, miserably aware I might not live until tomorrow.

Then last night, while I was occupied in my bathroom, something horrifying moved in the dim bedroom. Oh yes. The spider was coming to find me. He was inches from the bedside table, and if I didn't get over there quick with a flip flop, he would escape, so help me God, UNDER MY BED. With one second to spare I grabbed the only available weapon, a squirt bottle filled with not-very-deadly rubbing alcohol, vinegar, and the magic killing ingredient, a few drops of dish soap (Hey, it does a good job and it's really cheap). I aimed and pulled the trigger but unfortunately the nozzle was on springtime spray instead of laser blast, so I only dampened him and probably made all eight of his eyes sting, but he had enough steam to stumble blindly around the lamp base and behind the headboard. In a panic--he was getting away--I continued to mist him with bathroom cleaner, but then he disappeared. UNDER MY BED.

Aside from realizing that I need to use the vacuum attachment to suck up the dustbunnies back there, I now know there is a massive, dizzy, desperately angry (but sanitary) spider somewhere under my bed, who may or may not have succumbed to the effects of homemade bathroom cleaner. If I could lift the bed and look, I would. He could kill me tonight. Or not.

I don't think this living alone thing is working out so well.

The teeth post

Well, the deed is done. My old failing bridge, the third incarnation in thirtysix years, is history, and in its place are two thick titanium posts, a pinch of powdered cowbone, and a handful of sutures, mostly covered up with an ill fitting temporary partial denture and decorated with a big fat lip. I've had cuter weeks.

The surgery went as expected, mostly. My surgeon, Dr P, implanted the posts, I dutifully got sick, and now I look dreadful. The bonus (isn't there always a bonus?)is that when I got home and recovered enough to feel around with my tongue, something was very wrong with one of my teeth, an innocent bystander caught too near the drilling and chiseling. A decent crown broke apart--the whole rear surface sheared off, and the bottom corner was gone. As I said, I've had cuter weeks.

I went back to see Dr P, who said the tooth was fine when he left the room, implying that something happened to it while I was sleeping off my anesthesia. He wasn't having any of the old retail adage 'you break it, you buy it'. Since he got all the money I have, now we have a problem. Tomorrow, I go see my reliable longterm dentist, Dr Z, so he can weigh in with his opinion. I may need to wait until January when the new teeth get attached to the posts, so the whole set will match. He also has to do something with the partial, which at this point is so thick my back teeth don't even touch. Soon I will be ready to eat chewy food but am hampered by the shortage of teeth with which to chew. I will also be counting on him to strike some sort of deal with Dr P.

On the homefront, A. replaced the punctured garbage disposer and also defragmented this laptop and struck a peace agreement with the router, so I'm back on the couch where I belong. His meager salary: a batch of cookies and some lunch. I win!

So that is the whiny story of having my teeth pulled, as promised. My nightmare wasn't too far off the mark, but I am still hoping for a happy ending. In the meantime, I really need to have a flatter lip and some mealtime options by Saturday, when I premier my new puffylipped, snaggletoothed look at work.

Postscript: Today, Dr Z took care of the wonky partial, smoothed the ragged crown, and assured me that I would not be charged for the damages. I love Dr Z. I see a light at the end of the tunnel. Its a long way, though, until January.

And you shall have no pie

A few nights ago a little kitten appeared outside the screen door, peering in, sending indoor cat Joey into a panic. I assumed a neighbor had acquired the kitten and shooed him away, and all was well.

Until the next night. Kitten number one, the leader of the pack, had returned. With his brother and sister. People might get ONE kitten. People do not get THREE kittens. What happens is, I get three kittens that someone with no soul delivered to my neighborhood with no mother, no luggage, and no address. My feline problems were about to escalate.

They were very hungry, of course, and because I couldn't NOT feed them, I fed them, and they were pretty happy about that. Also, they were adorable. There are no nonattractive kittens. Kittens have to be cute to insure the survival of the species. No one really wants cats but because of the impossible sweetness of baby kittens, we enthusiastically bring them home and later, when they are grown and no fun or worse, we have become attached to them and decide they might as well stay for the next ten or twenty years because that's just how horrible it is to take them to the shelter, which is the only way to rid oneself of an otherwise healthy, but no fun, cat.

Well, there are two other ways. One is too gruesome for the average person to contemplate, even someone who really does not care for cats. The coward's way out is to drop them off in someone else's jurisdiction, consoling themselves with the boneheaded notion that SOMEONE ELSE would love to have as many cats as possible and what do you know, here come three more! Lucky! Thus solving their cowardly cat problem.

After I fed the poor little babies and put the old cat-carrier under a tree so they wouldn't get rained upon (of course it just HAD to rain), I had to wait until the humane society shelter and I had overlapping hours. In the meantime, three pairs of big round eyes followed my movements as I came and went inside my cozy home with my previously acquired cats, studiously avoiding looking at them until I couldn't stand it any more and went outside to pet and cuddle them. My cats (grown, minimally fun, not chosen by me but here for life) had absolutely nothing to do with the kittens and only went in and out through the front door or hid in my room. They were terrified. Once when the back door was open Lottie came tearing around from the front porch, jumped wildly over all three and landed inside the house. I wonder if they were worried about being replaced? Not idle fear--these kittens were seriously cute, and my cats left cute somewhere in the misty past.

But I, reluctantly possessing a few shreds of character, hurried home from work, stuffed them unprotesting into the carrier, and delivered them to the grim reaper. I mean the animal shelter. I would love to believe that because they are so darn sweet people will be fighting over who gets to claim them. I know, however, that spring kittens are as numerous as spring pollen and their chances of finding a loving home are very slender. At least, while they await their uncertain fate, they will be together, dry, fed, and ignorant. Kind of like the folks who scattered them in my alley.

Please, please, neuter your pets. If you don't see why this is important, drop off a batch of babies at the shelter and you might change your tune. And now I have to go get the empty dish from the backyard and try to remember a time when my cats were featherweight balls of fluff and mischief. They hope I can.

how the Grand Canyon was formed

Once upon a time Mrs God noticed a leak under her kitchen sink and pointed it out to her husband, but hey, he was Mr God for heaven's sake (haha!), kinda busy if you hadn't noticed, and he promised to get around to fixing it, and Mrs God said good grief, she'd figure out how to do it herself, but Mr God hadn't made Home Depot yet nor had he made Google or YouTube or AskHow; so the leak just got worse and worse and now people go marvel at the Grand Canyon and as the family lines up for photos in front of the spectacular view, back home water is dripping under their sink.

What do you have to stuff down a garbage disposer to gnaw a hole through the side? I don't know either but my ten-year-old garbage disposer developed an actual hole in the back wall, near the top. It looks like a tiny spot just dissolved, as though acid ate through it or something equally unlikely. Speaking of looking, it is virtually impossible to look at the back side of a garbage disposer. It's pitch dark and also, literally, over my head when I am crammed in there with both a flashlight and a negative outlook.

Recently, I noticed some little puddles under the sink and supposed the water splattering around under there was coming down that mysterious hole where the sprayer hose lives. A while back, feeling very virtuous, I cut up the leftover piece of vinyl flooring from the builder and laid it under all the sinks so it wouldn't die all curled and wasted out in the hot garage. This speck of foresight prevented the scummy disposer drool from ruining the particle board cabinet floor; I wholeheartedly recommend that you also put something under your sinks in case your disposer, in solidarity with mine, gets a hole in it.

Anyway, once I discovered the gruesome little wound and covered it with duct tape (thumbs up on the duct tape, God) while I pondered my options, I watched the Home Depot DIY video and decided that, although I am certain that replacing a disposer that lived ON TOP OF the sink would be well within my plumbing expertise, actually installing one OVER MY HEAD and UNDER THE SINK was pushing my skills, and my biceps, where they will not go.

An extra workday option appeared this week; which I elected to see as a divine nod to buy a disposer. A. bravely volunteered to install it while he is here making sure I don't die after I have my teeth pulled in two weeks. (Naturally I don't anticipate dying, but somebody has to call the coroner lest I end up like that poor woman buried under mountains of refuse in her house for three months while everyone, even her husband, hunted for her. Even those search dogs couldn't find her. But anyway, where was I?) My mom and grandma fixed their own broken crap and built the structures they needed and I appreciate the legacy, but I surrender on this one. I'm sure another chance to wield my homeowner skills will appear next week to test my resolve and prove that each successive generation is indeed weaker and less resourceful than the last.

Dancing on Sunday

I have not read the whole constitution since the eighth grade. I passed the test, so I must have absorbed some of it. Now, I only read the parts that are relevant to whatever issue is at hand. So I am not an expert. Don't start with me, I'm only writing a blog about what I think, not debating constitutional law. I understand there are a lot of ways to interpret what was written then. We don't talk like that anymore, so it's hard to get through.

I have not read the whole bible. I have read parts of the bible, but I am not a scholar by any stretch of the imagination. Obviously, various religions claim the bible insists they conform to this rule or that one, and it is clear to most that there is much disagreement among the faithful. The world would be a much more peaceful place if all the religions of the world agreed. And if you thought the constitution was a tough read, dip into the bible.

I have, however, read US District Court Judge Vaughn Walker's decision overturning Proposition 8. I know we tend to vote with our hearts, but I can't understand how Proposition 8 passed. My heart doesn't get it. Apparently the majority of voters felt in their hearts that the marriage of two men or two women is just plain wrong and it didn't matter what the constitution says about that. Maybe it felt icky or dangerous or something. Maybe it threatened their beliefs about their own marriages, or their children's marriages.

My dad used to say, what do you know for sure? In truth, not much. You never know what anyone thinks: If I hear myself saying "He thinks he's the smartest man in the w--" I make myself STOP and start over. "He seems to think he's the smartest man in the world" because I don't know if he thinks that or not. He sure seems to, though.

Voters seemed to think that gays were not constitutionally permitted to marry. Judge Walker looked it up: Oops, that's not in there. Looks like you can get married if you want to. Will this negatively affect the marriages of straight people? How? Will it shrink the pool of eligible bachelors itching to marry me? Not likely. Will it tread on the beliefs of many who interpret the bible to say same-sex couples can't marry? You bet, but now we're not talking about the law anymore.

The bible might tell me not to dance on Sunday, but there's nothing in the constitution that says I can't. Strike up the band.

Culture tantalizes the working poor

Sue,  Pam,  Patrick,  Mom,  Mike and  me at Lithia Park in Ashland, Oregon

So this weekend, all five siblings, my mom, and my lone maternal cousin visiting with his wife (plus numerous supporting cast) gathered at the Shakespeare Festival to see some plays, eat, and visit. Like our annual spring ski trip in Reno, we love to all be together when we can but our homes are all spread around now and it can be a challenge. One by one, retirement is creating more spare time. I am reminded that many families don't get along as well as we do. If they were as lovable as we are, though, they would.

It's a little cumbersome to all eat together but it helps that there is SO MUCH delicious food in Ashland. Highlights for MY palate: chili-lime shrimp; browned butter and sage ravioli, remarkable risotto, tapas including some fabulous ribs, chevre mushroom somethings, a ginger citrus martini, dreamy truffle ice cream...heavens, it was all so good. We walked everywhere we went but unfortunately not nearly far enough to compensate for the triple dose of calories.

One brother and his wife always read and study the plays and are well versed in plotline and characters. I didn't pay enough attention beforehand so Twelfth Night was a little blurry for me but as there was no essay test afterward, nobody cared. I already knew the story of Pride and Prejudice which was laugh out loud funny and romantic if the modern gal in me overlooks the terrible burdens of marriage and class in that era. I wish I could afford to see all the season's plays but as tickets cost a bag of gold I'm lucky to see two.

The last time we had real photos taken was [never mind how long ago] when my eldest sister turned fifty. Lets just say, we ALL had much browner hair then. A photographer met us in gorgeous Lithia Park where even the sorriest subjects cannot help but look much lovelier. Our family all looked just fine going in, so our coordinating blue shirts must have tipped the scales; I think the finished pictures will be wonderful. Plus, our hair matches now. We looked rather like folksingers playing a county fair. A senior bowling team. Aging, but not crumbling.

When I got home last night my laptop had decided to be ON all weekend (it has a penchant for not shutting OFF when told to do so). It was hot as a pistol and refused to connect to the wireless internet. The very patient Charter technical support rep would not walk me through all the steps that Lillie performed last time that happened, but he helpfully told me how to bypass the outlaw router and connect to the Charter modem which I don't even remotely understand except that now (if I want to use it) the laptop has to sit, essentially, on top of the old PC, a few inches from the modem. I can't lounge on the sofa with my laptop in my lap, now sporting a redneck, portable-tv-atop-the-busted-console-tv feel. Before long, someone who knows what to do will stop this jury rigged nonsense, but last night it had that algebra-class, I'm sorry but I can't follow anything you are saying, sensation. I was very grateful that the rep and I will never meet in person. I guess if I had to send letters back and forth like Elizabeth Bennet, this might seem less pathetic.

If there is a way to (that is, for ME to--different issue) post a picture of how adorable we looked this weekend, I will do it. I know you cannot wait.

lazy is better and here is why

When Lillie was still home we started making smoothies with all the fabulous local strawberries. Then my niece went on some goofy health kick and told everyone about all the raw vegetables she crammed in her blender and I was inspired to started adding some spinach to our smoothies. (If you microwave it briefly, it collapses down into the blender better). Then I added cooked sweet potatoes and carrots. You would think those would taste terribly farmy, but they don't. The strawberries are almost gone from the local scene but I froze up a gallon, and a gallon of cut up peaches, ripe bananas, blackberries a friend picked...Add a little plain yogurt, any kind of juice--heavens, they are so good I eat one every day. If I'm really hungry I'll crack an egg in there.

No, I'll never pass up a steak and mushrooms, and yes, if there is any ice cream I might add a scoop sometimes, but I'm eating 90% more produce than I generally do, and it's so easy I might forget how to cook. Last weekend I was reminded how much fun it is to cook (and eat!) when there is an appreciative crowd present, but there isn't one of those here, so it's just me and the blender. Bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, smoothie for dinner, nom nom. By the time all the good summer fruit is over, maybe I'll be tired of smoothies, but in the meantime, it's all good. Literally. And handy for September when the teeth get pulled and I'm not inclined to bite anything.

old friends, old teeth, new teeth,and paint.

For about five years, about a dozen former childhood friends who remain friends in our second half, have assembled annually to catch up, commiserate, eat, and adore each other. There is no other way to explain it--nor is there any other common denominator except knowing each other from an early age. Some of us met before we were conceived (yes, they win), most met in grade school, with a few add-ons by high school and later, marriage. The bulk were in the music department, but not all. We knew each other when we were simply children. We live all over the place. A few no longer have parents in Redding, and it can be hard to get together.

This summer we could only gather about seven or eight, but it was still great. We did a lot of talking. Saturday night we talked about: Food, children, parents, dementia, song lyrics, wine, the weather, fat, shoes, hair, the official class reunion, marijuana, child abuse, love, teeth, work, the Chronicle, fruit, the Searchlight, feet, the Daisy, vomit, horses, fractures, siblings, bicycles, and then we talked about it the next day, too. It was great. My cup runneth over with love.

Update on my teeth: I have started the arduous process that will end, I hope, with a nice looking smile that will last until I no longer care, or need to chew, or both. The first step is bleaching my dingy lower teeth to match what will be creamy white top teeth (half implants and half bleached resident teeth). This is not a comfortable process but I suspect that extracting three teeth, drilling out the old root canals and installing some cow bone and the bolts to hold the new ones, and dealing with a partial denture for three months, bleaching will feel like a footrub and a glass of white wine. (Red wine cancels my progress, as does coffee, but come on now).

Update on paint: My laundry room looks like a hotel lobby. It matches the adjacent hall. In a fit of creative usefulness I mixed up a sauce of Orange Glo, Scotts Liquid Gold and Old English Scratch Cover and polished the oak cabinets in the laundry room and both bathrooms. For some reason the finish had never adhered well and/or was applied incorrectly, which is odd because the cabinetmaker did a beautiful job otherwise. Anyway my arms were so sore afterwards I could hardly eat my ice cream, so the maple kitchen cabinets will have to wait for another day off.

Today I had to attend a workshop on storytelling (one more thing to do at work--do they know me?) where I learned that good stories have a plot, and also a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Apparently I did not learn anything.

hello in there

SO Lillie's room is empty, painted, the carpet cleaned. I still plan to paint the inside of the closet and baseboards Friday, but now I am wondering, what should go in that room? Someone at work is marketing her house and might need some space to keep things until it's sold, but that's not a done deal. I was thinking of making it a very sparsely furnished guest room--like Lindsay Lohan's new digs except without a stainless steel toilet.

It's still officially Lillie's room until she is really permanently settled somewhere (yes, I know Chicago is where she's sleeping RIGHT NOW but I want her to feel like she can come home SOMEDAY. Even though there are no jobs in this town, and a job is a prerequisite for living here unless you are retired, which I precludes both me AND Lillie). I could also rent it, but that has all kinds of baggage. Yes, I need the income and yes, a four bedroom house is more than I need just for me, Chase, Lottie and Joey, but I LIKE it here by myself. So far.

Sam's room has the old computer in it (I use the laptop now, also a hand-me-around but better than the PC), many books in a castoff bookcase, an old loveseat, my old oak rocker which Annie wants, and Annie's antique baby dresser which we love too much to get rid of. I painted the walls a tasty taupe when he moved out but the decor ruins the look.

Annie's room has a twin bed, a niece's old crib, my grandmother's desk, my grandson's plastic party kitchen, more books and two tvs, one of which is trash but I can't lift it, and one of which is nearing trash status but I can't lift it, either. It features the ocean blue color Lillie chose when it was her room but I plan to repaint with the bathroom's new latte color if I can get some of the stuff out. Both of those rooms, of course, have a lot of other crap in them, not quite up to "Hoarders: Buried Alive" level but miles from "Designed to Sell".

My room has new chocolate brown paint, although all the furniture still needs a unifying coat of cream paint. This reminds me: The newest thing in there is a particle board filing cabinet with a cloth over it! My bed (which Annie would take if we could get it there) and two lamps are out-of-date brass (purchased early in my long defunct marriage--although the mattress is much newer and wonderfully comfy). The dresser is my ex's childhood possession and too tacky for my replacement to take in the divorce agreement (I got the better deal). One end table is from my college house. The bookshelves and another tiny dresser are decades old. Two armchairs, covered with sheets, win the fossil prize--they graced my former mother in law's bedroom forty years ago. (I actually like them very much except for the ugly orange and gray plaid upholstery, thus the sheets--which also make it look like I will be painting any minute now or worse, that I neglected to remove the sheets after painting a year ago).

Where is this going? I forget if I was seeking decorating advice or moaning that virtually everything in my house is mismatched and OLD, including me. I suppose I would welcome suggestions on what to do with these various rooms. I would also be willing to part with most of it, so make your bids!

In the meantime, I'll keep painting, sorting, and pitching.

Nineteen seventy five

...Is when I graduated high school. I'll do the math for you: that was thirty five years ago. With the advent of facebook and Classmates.com, we cannot hide. We get invited, and we have to go. Well, I do because I managed to move back to my hometown, and only recluses or people with far more options than I can beg off. So what now?

I do what everyone else does--try to find a former classmate to go with me so I don't have to sit by myself OR make introductions all night. I have a handful of truly wonderful old friends who have in the past few years gathered annually, including the official reunions; which has been so much fun and also, parenthetically, kept us from having to sit alone at the lunch table--er--banquet table. This year, unfortunately, we were unable to pull together a quorum to attend the reunion. It threatened to be just me. Alone. I imagined crouching in my car identifying carefree classmates as they entered, laughing and yoo-hooing and hugging and confident they picked the right outfit and have cute hair and great shoes. (Actually, though, I remember entering the venue at our 25th reunion and being mystified that someone had invited all our parents; which of course was not the case. And then at our 30th reunion the chairperson [whom I will not identify] scoffed at the notion of photo-nametags. Some of us desperately wrote our names on our shoulders or throats with a Sharpie so people wouldn't avoid saying hello because they had no idea who we were. I am not making that up.)

I pulled out my stash of dresses, all a little dusty on the shoulders, and tried them on. I came up with just two possibilities --they fit, don't make me look too lumpy, and I have shoes that go (I've surrendered to the sorrow of having to wear flats--heels are no longer an option, but that's another post). Then I turned around to see how I would look as I crashed frantically out the exit. What happened to the other side of me? Who's fanny is that? It looked like I had on a full money belt, but I did not. What is that hump on the back of my neck? I thought I was taking some expensive drug to prevent me from becoming Quasimodo. I flapped my arms in horror and recoiled as my heybabies (think offspring of a flying squirrel and a camel) wobbled and shook. I wished it were next week. Next week is my vacation.

The closer it got the more excuses I thought of and the less appealing the idea of witnessing the sad decline of all those formerly vibrant children became. But the fifty dollar ticket won and I went after all. And as soon as I went in, two or three friends whom I was certain would not be there WERE there, and people were cheery and chatty and said I looked young and my newly silver hair was striking. A handful of compliments is great medicine. There were photo nametags. There was not, however, dinner, despite the fifty dollar dinner ticket. There were several tables of tasty finger foods, drinks IF you brought even more money, but no dinner. We went around the tables a few more times to fill up, said our goodbyes, and the reunion was over for five more years.

I'll start saving up.

where the cat lady lives

I have arrived. I am the cat lady. With Lillian's departure to the windy city, the cats and I are the sole occupants of this house. Add a few dozen piles of tight clothes, old magazines, useless electronics and castoff furniture and there you go: the cat lady.

For the last few weeks all I could think about (except my teeth) was getting her out of the state with everything she needs. She left behind everything she doesn't need, some of which she thinks she might possibly want someday, and the rest of which I am free to discard. Enter my first project: discarding things! Some can be dumped and some can be passed along to charity so someone else can bring it home to clutter and clog another house. Someone else's house.

If, after that, I'm still boiling with the urge to jettison unnecessary junk, I personally own about twice as much stuff as I actually need and use. Out it goes! Whee! I can see the spare, organized rooms now, and they are beautiful. Not like a foreclosure with a meth lab in the yard.

The cat lady has a whole list of projects; but let's start with this and see how it goes. I'll try to be done by the end of the summer! Hey-the cat lady works terrible hours and needs to rest and read so don't be critical of my timeline.

Hot lava is everywhere

I know why we still have that useless house phone. Same reason as you: I always know where it is. I do not always know where my cell phone is. I try to keep track of it but as everyone knows, cell phones are too small and too slithery and get lost all the time. I know I am not the only person to use the hot lava rule: you can put your phone HERE or THERE but everywhere else is hot lava. My phone is permitted to go in my purse, in a suitable pocket on a garment I am presently wearing, on the bathroom counter, on the coffee table, or in the cup holder in the car. Period.

There is a perpetual series of events in my life that make me certain I am gradually losing my grip on reality. The unreliable whereabouts of my cell phone is one of them. In order to help me maintain a little control, there is a list taped to the door to the garage: Phone, lunch, glasses, nametag [needed to get into my building], coffee, other. I'll bet you have a list, although you may foolishly believe you can have a mental checklist that works just as well. Of course it does not, so write it down. You're welcome.

This morning I patted my pockets and read the list out loud and had everything, so off I went. It is Friday after a terribly busy week, and I knew I was punchy and worn out, but I have a LIST and was confident.

I worked like a stevedore until lunch (late, very hungry by then) and went to check my messages but where was my phone? Hmm...well, I didn't want to waste my rest minutes so never mind. Too busy to rummage around, and by day's end I thought I probably left it in the car. It wasn't there, so I decided that although I was SURE I'd had it when I left in the morning...maybe I imagined it and it was on the bathroom counter. When I got home I looked everywhere and it wasn't there. I decided to go back since it's the weekend. When I arrived at work, everyone else was gone and I had forgotten my nametag (the magnet strip unlocks the door) which lives in the car UNLESS I forget and it hitchhikes into the house, which it apparently did today. I peeked in through the breakroom window in case I had left it on the table which I couldn't have-probably-I couldn't remember now...Essentially out of options, I was pleased to discover the phone hiding between the car door and the driver's seat. Pleased but boneheaded.

Lillie translated: Phone try to be where you look. Phone try to tell you it lost, but Phone on vibrate. That's pretty close to the truth. Half the time I forget to put it on vibrate until it rings when I am working; breaking the rules. I should add "Phone to vibrate" to my garage door list. Anything else is, of course, hot lava.