2007 Archive

2007 Archive – 103,642 words.

January 1, 2007

Well, here we are. 2007. I wasn’t quite sure I’d ever get here but I sure am glad I did. And with WS too! Amazing. Of course, we’re still thumbing our noses at most of them.

As part of what has become tradition here at Blogeois.com, it’s time for the annual disclaimer. Please take a few moments to read it.

Go on. I’ll wait.

Done already? Gee, that was fast. Okay, well, for the most part, today has been a lazy day. We both did a bit of reading and I’m still working on laundry. I’d like to take our bedroom Christmas tree down but I know my feet wouldn’t be able to handle it tonight. I really taxed them Saturday when we took down the entryway tree and they are still tender.

WS is making up a grocery shopping list now that we’ve nearly eliminated all holiday foods from the premises. He’s been trying to get me to agree to go on the South Beach diet with him since before the discovery of my tumors Emil and Hubert back in late 2004. After listening to him read the initial two week phase one part, I agreed to try it. We’re giving ourselves another week to work on getting rid of the leftovers plus all the bread we have in the freezer and then we’ll dive in. I’m also debating fasting for a couple of days this week just because I’ve been going to bed feeling stuffed to the gills since well before Christmas and I’d rather go into an eating lifestyle change feeling good as only a day or two fast can give me.

You sure you read that whole disclaimer? Because I don’t want to hear from any of you budding lawyers out there later on in the year, just so we’re clear on that front.

WS is off on vacation all this week. His walking seems a little more balanced today but that’s the frustrating part of MS. Exacerbations are usually one step forward, two steps back. I’m making sure he’s getting lots of rest and not doing anything that might overstress or overheat him. That means naps in the afternoon, and with today’s rain, today’s nap was perfect.

January 3, 2007

When someone in a family has Multiple Sclerosis or MS for short, everyone in the family has MS. Things have to be done differently, lives have to be led differently, and nothing will ever be the same or looked at the same again. Things change and that includes relationship dynamics. As a designated caregiver and registered as such by WS’ health care provider, I am very aware of how much can change, how rapidly changes occur, and what specific kinds of changes will painfully last a lifetime, even if I don’t want them to. MS has changed our relationship with each other and with others around us and more often than not, it’s frustrating, infuriating, and terribly, terribly lonely.

MS isn’t for the faint of heart or the weak of body. Sooner or later, the realization that things both the sufferer and the caregiver once enjoyed, either together or separate, will never happen again will make itself known and it is a tough pill to swallow. Dreams are dashed and new ones forged with the hope that they will somehow come true. It ensures things will be given up, opportunities missed, and chances passed by. Many days, to stop for a moment to think of a good future is a tiresome, seemingly pointless venture; to dwell on old dreams, a mockery.

MS forces people to do and say things to others they never thought they would. It forces people to look deep in their own hearts to search for blackness that might come out someday when least expected. It looks for love and doesn’t give kind in return but sucks it from others ruthlessly. It changes MS sufferers into demanding, depressive tyrants who will rail at the insufferable unfairness of it all one moment, curl sobbing in a corner the next. It will demand all of one’s strength and just when a caregiver thinks they have that part figured out, it will yank something else out of the hat and force acknowledgement. In a spiteful, mean spirited way, it teases and never, ever lets up.

MS forces itself on others by requiring anyone outside the circle to bravely, perhaps inquisitively face it or shirk away in embarrassment and disgust. It will strip sufferers and caregivers of outside friendships, no matter how long or strong, of family bonds, of employers and jobs and often, of societal common courtesy and decency. It tests patience of everyone around, and tests strength in both mental and physical capacity. It forces relationships to go from one of equal sharing partners to one of parent and child. It tests even the strongest of personality types and often leaves bare shells of non sufferers in its wake like cold, unemotional, hollowed out carcasses.

MS makes caregivers feel guilty, not only for not having it, but for thinking even for the briefest moment of themselves and their own needs, of how much they wish they didn’t have to play chauffer, breadwinner, head of household, parent, tough guy, and bad guy. Depression and guilt run rampant in MS families as do thoughts of suicide – they are linked by a degenerative disease regardless of who actually has it.

MS will strip a sufferer of bodily control in the most embarrassing and demeaning ways and just as often than not, in very public settings. It doesn’t so much as bruises egos but squashes them into oblivion whenever possible. It makes people rethink their slants on humor versus sorrow, of sharing versus solitude, of wanting versus settling. And it hangs a cloud of not what the future may hold but of what the future will hold constantly, relentlessly, and without fail, it will raise its ugly head at the most inopportune times to let everyone know it hasn’t gone away.

MS will change the way a person will view every single last thing in their lives from housing, transportation, and travel to the basics of what they are going to have for dinner, from jobs and trying to amass paid time off in large chunks ‘just in case’ to worrying about how much toilet paper is in the house and how the bills are going to be paid, from how they are going to get through today to how they are going to get through the next twenty five years because MS doesn’t kill; it weakens everything else in a body, eventually rendering it unable to fight off colds, the flu, pneumonia, and anything else, both minor and major, that a body normally works to fend off everyday. And it does the same for the caregivers who are often too tired and weak both mentally and physically from worry and stress and from needing to pull the weight of two, of acting strong and tough and un-phased by what the incurable disease has dealt to them too.

There are a lot worse things people can suffer from in life than MS. That thought alone has helped me through a lot of rough times. Some days, it’s enough but other days, it’s far from it. MS is a long drawn out death sentence not too unlike the death sentence we call life except with more instability, more irritability, and a whole lot more worry. I could go on and on about what it’s like to be the caregiver to a MS sufferer but until you go through it firsthand nothing written or said could even begin to scratch the surface. I am too tired to write anymore about it.

January 5, 2007

I am going to look at this first week of the New Year as getting all the crap done with and out of the way so the rest of the year can proceed properly. No, I’m not really having fun at all right now and I don’t care if it sounds like whining or not. Between struggling to write, WS’ MS exacerbation, scratchy throats and runny noses, fighting pets, and borderline exhaustion, I’m considering going to bed with a bottle of Tylenol P.M., my liver be damned, and refusing to get up until everything else in my life promises to play nice. I have a lot weighing on my mind right now and I just want the world to stop for a moment so I can catch my breath.

Editing my writing has become nothing short of an exercise in sheer misery. I respect WS’ thoughts on the topic but we do little but butt heads. (He’d hate that previous sentence. I’m not terribly fond of it either but don’t tell him that.) I feel like I have to explain the why of everything little thing I write which in my view gives away too much too soon. No, not every single sentence I write is written exclusively to move the story along and some stuff won’t be mentioned elsewhere in the story. I am telling a tale, not just touching on the highlights. My tales are full of stuff and to cut stuff out to ‘tighten the story’ cuts deep into the quick of the story and makes them cold and wooden in my early writer’s opinion.

To our credit though, we did get to page 20 this time around. Our joint editing effort on a previous work came to a screeching halt on page 4, or maybe it was page 6. I don’t remember because I packed it away and couldn’t care less to ever look at it again. Yes, it was that traumatic, and yes, I realize I’m in for a very horrible time if I hope to make it big in a business that lives for garroting authors over trivial things like this or that sentence seems awkward.

WS has a completely different take on it as you can well imagine and I’m sure his take is closer to how I should be writing for he’s a pretty bright guy. But I wouldn’t know if that’s his stance or not. You see, when it comes to editing, it’s literally as if he is speaking a foreign language. I don’t have the faintest idea what he is trying to say and if he should utter the words, “Write it differently” anywhere along the way, my brain shuts down completely for that is what I honestly cannot do. I have tried, honestly tried, to force myself to deal with this part but I cannot get a handle on it. When I write, I expel what is in my heart and in my head and with my internal editor full-on screaming in the background. I edit as I write to the very best of my ability and I am very pleased with what makes it to the page. To tell me to rewrite something differently would be like holding someone’s head under water and hollering at them to breathe differently. I do not know how to tell my stories any other way.

It doesn’t help that I write like how I read. Some small spot in the back of my conscience tells me it’s okay to write the way I do because Mr. Best Selling Author X and Ms. Best Selling Author X have written the same way and someone paid them for their work. Therefore, why can’t it work for me too?

Is it because they are Best Selling Authors and I’m a nobody? Sorry, my head can’t wrap itself around that part yet though it might be true. Obviously, I have the “I’m Important Enough to Be Read” part down pat. Besides, some of those authors I’ve read aren’t best sellers. Maybe that’s why they aren’t but then again, maybe not. They are still getting paid for their work. It might not be millions but it’s more than I’m currently making.

I’ve come to a serious realization, that being that it’s quite possible that my future as a frustrated writer will consist of that and nothing more. Can I live with that? Can I live with writing but never editing after the fact, never rewriting what is written, and never being published?

I don’t know but I’d be willing to bet that on any given day the answer will be different.

January 7, 2007

Thank you all for listening to me whine so much lately. And for you in the back who sarcastically said under your breath, “Lately?” I thank you too. I think I’ve got it all out of my system for the time being. WS and I had a couple of heart-to-heart discussions over the past few days which helped a lot as well as reading your comments. Short of requesting you to all come and move in with us here, (I’ll warn you right up front we have no extra beds) I’ll have to settle on saying ‘Thank you all again for reading.’

Even though we’re both still under the weather, we’ve not been lying around moaning and slurping chicken soup. We’ve been putting the rest of the Christmas stuff away including the tree in our bedroom, cleaning all the nooks and crannies, and reorganizing parts of the house. Don’t worry; we’re not overtaxing our bodies. We’re making sure we’re getting lots of sleep.

Technically, we’ve got two final closets to clean out and reorganize. Additionally, the pile for this spring’s yard sale is growing. I added a good half dozen hanging silk plants to the pile yesterday along with a few more generic baskets (smaller than pet bed size) and WS added a wok that we abandoned since getting a flat top stove. I’m seriously worried I’m going to run out of room to store the yard sale items until April or May but I do usually find ways to creatively cram things. It’ll be nice to pare things down and even nicer to have the new-found space. The goal is to have a space for every little thing and I do believe we will reach that level this year.

January 8, 2007

It’s back to the usual schedule here at the Blogeois compound. WS is back at work after a few weeks off and was able to drive himself this morning. We were worried about that given his current MS exacerbation which has him wobbly without much balance per say. This morning he was feeling the effects less than in the previous few days and felt comfortable enough behind the wheel. He called to let me know he didn’t have any problems once he got into the office. Nice guy he is.

My sleep schedule is wildly out of whack as usual after WS takes time off from work. Too many nights up until the wee hours, too many mornings sleeping until after ten or eleven. Everything should be back on track by the weekend though, especially since I should be feeling better and I’ll be working out again by then.

The huge accomplishment here recently has been the slow but steady revitalization of our room formerly known as the office. As some of you may remember, this room, while nice and neat, acquired a bad vibe from the six years of working with MsNoManagementSkills and The Company ego mashers. For two years come the end of this month it will have been cleared of Company equipment and paperwork. I’ve had a treadmill and WS’ rowing machine in there for the past year, yet, it still had a sad, unfinished feeling and neither one of us wanted to go in there.

After a lot of sweat and lots of breaks to rest, to cough, sneeze, and stumble around, we finally got the weight bench that’s been languishing in the lavish pet room disassembled and moved into the old office. Eureka! That’s what’s been missing in there. The room formerly known as the icky office is now officially our gym! Now the room has a wonderful feel to it: Plush carpet underfoot, a little TV, a phone, ceiling fan, skylight, and a view of Mt. St. Helens. Geesh, what have I been whining about again? It’s like we’ve got a whole new room. And the really cool part? That part of the house isn’t being ignored anymore. We both want to go in there. Who knew?

On a side note however, the elliptical machine is staying downstairs in the livingroom . . . and at weighing in around 600 pounds, we’re perfectly okay with that. Review of lesson learned: When living in a multiple level abode and assembling something big and heavy, make sure you are putting it together on the level you want it to remain on.

WS cleaned out another cupboard last evening when he was feeling a bit better. He’s getting us ready to start the South Beach diet next week and wanted to put all the remaining ‘forbidden’ food away. It’s not all completely forbidden; just for the first couple of weeks or until we feel comfortable with moving onto the next phase of the diet. The good thing is that those foods are all the way up in the tall cupboard that I’d need a ladder to get into. The other good thing is that he put all the good food that is approved for the diet in our main pantry cupboard. Now everything good is in easy reach and view. Nothing tempting there.

Another good thing is that we’ve eaten all the bad stuff minus a half a box of Christmas chocolates, a couple of frozen pumpkin pies, a dozen handmade marshmallows, a tin of English Golden Pudding, two cinnamon bagels, and three loaves of bread. That’s all that’s left of non-South Beach food in our house. Grocery shopping for what the diet calls for will take place next weekend. I’m looking forward to lots of veggies being back in the house and little in the way of sweets. I completely overdid the sweets buying and eating over the holidays. What I am not looking forward to is giving up fruit for juicing in the short term but I’ll live.

January 9, 2007

WS is working from home today. His MS exacerbation took its predicted two steps backwards and he’s a weeble today. Tomorrow into early Thursday our area is expected to get snow (YES!) and I have already forbidden him to go to work. I kept teasing him that he’d probably have a very short work week but I had no idea it would be this short. However, being the workaholic, nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy he tends to be, he’s not taking it easy. He’s got phone-in conference calls stacked up from now through Friday.

Talking about the possibility of snow, I really wish we would have gone grocery shopping over last weekend, sick or no. Our toilet paper reserve is sitting on low. Might have to employ Safeway’s delivery program, something we’ve only used once or twice in the past four years.

Last night, WS finishing reading my half-finished manuscript from my November novel. Overall, he says it’s got some very good stuff in it and he likes it. Today I’ll be going through his notes to correct what I can (typos, echoing, etc.) and then I’ll dive into writing the second half. I will finish this story. I will submit it to be read and reviewed by a publishing connection our group made late last year. And I will continue to work on toughening my author’s skin.

I walked on the treadmill for 30 minutes yesterday. It seemed to take forever but I did feel good later in the evening. It went a long way toward correcting my messed up sleep schedule too though I did toss and turn quite a bit last night.

Well, the noon news is getting ready to start. I might as well get back on the treadmill to get today’s 30 minutes over and done with.

January 10, 2007

No snow today so far. Our area is under a snow watch (not a warning which means snow is likely) until six this evening. I hate it when the news people go on and on like they have been for an entire week about the coming snow storm, and then nothing happens. Looks like some outlying and higher areas down in Portland got some snow but it doesn’t look like it’s sticking to the roads. The high hills behind us to the north have a thin dusting from what I can see out the gym window but here not a flake. The temperature outside, as per our front door thermometer keeps bouncing between 33 and 38 degrees F. It would seem the little low pocket our development sits in isn’t pulling the really cold air downward today like it usually does. Grrr.

Thursday and Friday night Limpy will probably spent the night in our downstairs bathroom. The temperatures are expected to be in the low 20’s or upper teens. I know he has a warming pad in his outside box and all but it’s not like he stays in there 24/7. His food and water bowl freezes and he uses the yard as a litter box.

I used the treadmill for 30 minutes yesterday like a good girl. My feet are tired so I’m skipping the treadmill today. Light weight training was on the agenda instead and it felt good to get back to that mode of workout. I’m looking forward to having muscular, non-flabby, non-dimpled arms again.

WS is working from home again today. He’s just as wobbly as he was yesterday and very tired. Serious fatigue is a symptom of MS and one he experiences often.

Hey! Wouldn’t you know it? The minute I start whining about no snow, tiny flakes start blowing past our windows. Maybe I need to whine about the weather more often? I don’t think so. WS is begging for the flakes to continue falling for the rest of the day. I’m thinking it was a good thing I filled the big bird feeder this morning.

And then, as if right on cue, the snow stops. Nothing stuck either on the roads or on the ground. Everything is wet instead and certainly, this will freeze overnight.

I worked my way to the grocery store yesterday afternoon and was pleased to find that it was old folk’s day there. I’ll have to keep this in mind on the occasions that we might shop at Fred Meyer’s as opposed to the dreadful though much cheaper WinCo. Tuesday is old people day. Tuesday is old people day. Tuesday is old people day. There, I’ll remember that now unless my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s gene fires up anytime soon.

Fred Meyer’s was practically empty. A few people using walkers and wheelchairs, a few more slowly bumbling along with shoulders hunched over. Kind of like a combination of how WS is getting around and how I felt after working out yesterday. It was quiet and warm there. Too warm actually and it didn’t take long before I was sweating inside my jacket. But I was in and out in no time with lots of toilet paper, grapes for the raccoons, veggies and small paper plates to help train us on correct portion size eating when we begin the South Beach diet next week.

Later in the day, I started up my car. I still haven’t hooked up the Battery Tender I got for Christmas but not for trying to figure out where to plug it in and set the unit itself. That might take a bit of creative placement or maybe even a creative use of Velcro. Another reason we should have had an electrician install more outlets in our garage after having cabinets built out there.

Later still, I worked on my manuscript (I can officially call it that now that it’s over 60,000 words, has been printed out, and is a solid inch thick yet only halfway written. It boggles my mind to think of bestselling author manuscripts, edited versions I’m talking about, that come in at five and six inches thick and fill entire boxes.) I am deliriously happy to find whole chapters in mine that didn’t seem to need any corrective work done per WS’ first editing pass. As a result, I’m nearly all the way through my corrections and soon will be able to get back to writing the second half. Fresh writing is good, therapeutic writing for me and I’m looking forward to it.

Well, it’s just after one in the afternoon. The sun is out and glaring off of everything outside. There’s nothing but blue sky as far as I can see to the west and fast moving wisps of clouds (cloud-lettes?) to the south. The rooftops and street are steaming in the bright sunshine and I ought to go sit outside and soak up twenty minutes of direct sun while I can. Sit in the sun, close my eyes and think back twenty years when I did the same on a little, obscure ski slope in northeastern Arizona with a mug of hot cocoa in one hand and a free, all-day lift pass in the other. Things in my life were truly horrible back then (outside of the occasional ski trip which I always went on alone) but now, on days like today with the sun and the temperature what they are, I can’t help but to reminisce of mostly the good parts.

January 11, 2007

I might want to reconsider that whining versus not whining about the weather decision I was pondering yesterday. Just when we were both convinced we wouldn’t see another flake, it dumped. And I’ll add that snow dumping in our area is fairly rare. We got about two inches last night and it was beautiful. Heck, most of it is still out there and it’s still beautiful!

And with odd weather, out comes neighbors with their kids to wave and say hi and stop to chat to others living mere feet away in their own worlds, chatting sometimes for the first time ever. Last night I talked to Ms. Dry Cleaner from across the street and for the first time ever, she chatted back at me. To date she has turned and ignored me, even my most direct questions. She’s very child oriented and very high strung. She won’t talk to just anyone and especially anyone who doesn’t share the child thing. I guess we had to be neighbors for three years before she’d look down her nose at me long enough to see I didn’t have lobsters coming out of my ears and a ‘I’m a Pedophile’ t-shirt on.

Or maybe she’s been repressed for too long. The big news last night is that she’s got trouble in paradise. Mr. Dry Cleaner is staying with friends for a week and from what I can understand, this disagreement (I didn’t know there were others but I’m quoting here) is over school lunches. Apparently, Mr. Dry Cleaner feels children should learn to live with cold lunches at school. She has always disagreed but never had the backbone to put her foot down until New Year’s Day.

He insists that their only child (1st grade) take a homemade sandwich lunch to school everyday. She, being on a strict budget even more so now that she’s not working, told me that a cold sandwich lunch cost them $1.28 per day and as her job of looking for ways to cut down on expenses, found mini Lunch-able meals at Costco for 92 cents a day. The good thing other than the cost reduction she said was that some of these Lunch-able meals can be heated. Oh no, her husband reportedly said. A cold lunch is a cold lunch. No heated meals. She mentioned something about him saying eating a cold lunch built character and I what I gather she’s had enough of that kind of thinking.

I have to say that over the holidays this year, we noticed something seemed different over there at their place. The two started looking more and more like ships passing in the night. She and their daughter would leave minutes before he got home from work or from golfing, a passion she does not share, and would stay away for hours; to the point where it looked like he was going to bed or had left again himself. Then he began not coming home at all or when he did, it was only long enough to grab a few things and off he’d go again.

Yesterday, we saw her leave and then him come home a minute or two later with another car in tow. Half an hour later, he was hauling luggage, clothes, and belongings out to the trunk of the other car and off he went again. A mere minute later, she came back home. An hour later, the snow started falling.

She was standing out on the sidewalk with Ms. Howler Monkey when I went outside to take pictures of the snow. They called over to me and I joined them though hesitantly at first. I didn’t want to stand over there if Ms. Dry Cleaner was going to ignore me again. But that’s when she said her husband was staying with friends for a week to see if ‘everything would blow over or not.’

Ms. Dry Cleaner was very talkative and animated and that was the first time I had ever seen her that way. She said she was happy for the first time in a long time and in fact, was waiting for pizza delivery for the first time in a very long time too. She told us her husband wouldn’t allow anything other than hot, laboriously prepared, home cooked meals for dinner night after night and she was ecstatic over an agreement they made earlier in the day which was that while he was living elsewhere, he would pay for her and his child to have anything they wanted for dinner every night. She said she was planning on pizza and fast food every single night this week.

Ms. Howler Monkey in the meantime was going on and on about how her kids (age 5 and eight) refused to eat fast food for some reason that escaped her since she didn’t raise them that way (said as though it’s a bad thing) and how it was a daily source of irritation in their household. She said she prepared two separate dinners every evening, one for ‘health food nuts’ as she called her kids and one she usually picked up at Burger King earlier in the day for herself and Mr. Howler Monkey if and when he came home (he’s a traveling salesman).

The discussion over kid’s meals digressed into one of comparison: Which of the families’ kids will eat peanut butter and who would not, who lived to eat gummy worms and who did not, and how much cold lunches versus hot school lunches now cost (a hot school lunch is $2.48 a day in our area apparently). As a non-parent, I stuck around long enough to file away the cost of feeding kids in school nowadays and to hear Ms. Dry Cleaner confess to another former no-no in their household – watching Mr. Dry Cleaner’s HDTV. Apparently, she saw Legally Blonde earlier in the day for the first time ever and liked her new-found power over previously being afraid of and forbidden from touching ‘his’ TV set.

The reason why she’s hasn’t said more than boo to me over the years is apparent, at least to me. It sounds like Mr. Dry Cleaner runs that house with an iron fist. Or should I say Mr. ‘I won’t spend time with my child or wife but will go golfing with my buddies rain or shine 3 days a week.’ Now I’m wondering if the cold school lunch cost versus hot school lunch cost thing is something that’ll cut into his weekly greens fee? What an ass.

I also always wondered what exactly was going on over there whenever I overheard her talking to Ms. Howler Monkey from each other’s front porches. Sad how close our homes are here on this street. Conversations are heard as clear as day most of the time. It seemed like everything that previously came out of Ms. Dry Cleaner’s mouth was, “Oh, [Mr. Dry Cleaner] doesn’t like that,” “Oh, it’s up to [Mr. Dry Cleaner],” or “I’ll have to run it by [Mr. Dry Cleaner] first.” Woman, make your own decisions, I say! And more power to her if she sticks with it.

The snow is melting very slowly today, much slower than I thought it would. I took wads of pictures last night and wouldn’t you know it? Photoshop has become corrupted on our desktop because something else that doesn’t play nice has been temporarily installed. Time to learn the latest Photoshop on my laptop so I get photos posted quicker.

January 13, 2007

The snow on all the north sides of everything is lasting much longer than I thought it would. All but the cement walkways in the backyard still wear a powdery layer. Out front, thick ice still covers portions of our street, so much so that kids in the neighborhood are still using their sleds on it. Everyone across the street has snow covered lawns while no one on the sunny side has any. It looks as if the storm last Wednesday divided the street down the middle.

It was 15 degrees F. here Thursday night, 11 degrees here last night. I don’t have to tell you where Limpy spent the past few, do I? He is very well behaved in that bathroom. He even spent most of yesterday during the day inside there when the temperatures outside didn’t get above freezing. I haven’t even had to take the toilet paper off the roller in there. Our pets would have that strung all over the house by now, not that I’m mentioning the name (Maxx) of the worst culprit.

Ice is starting to build up in the fountain out back and as long as the nights stay at or under freezing, it’ll start forming on the main rock pillar out there and become a natural ice sculpture. Well, as natural as it can be considering it’s a manmade structure and we’re paying for the electricity and water to run it.

We swapped out eleven light bulbs the other day from the high wattage ones to the curly, energy saving fluorescent ones. We still have a good portion of the house to switch over but we were able to afford to swap out the bulbs on many of the fixtures we use the most in the evenings. Since nearly every light in our house is on a dimmer switch, we can only swap out the bulbs with dimmable fluorescent bulbs or else we have to change the switches back to the cheaper but less efficient switches. (Oh no! We’re not doing that. We love our switches!)

The bulbs are expensive but they ‘ll pay for themselves in the long run if you believe the hype. We like the light from some of them with their silver-ish, natural daylight cast. Others we bought were bright white instead of daylight white and cast light just like the old bulbs. The new bulb packages do say how many watts are used in place of regular bulb wattage and boy, that’s a huge difference. I just hope the manufacturers aren’t lying. We’re still looking for ways to cut our house running costs.

While we were on the energy efficient streak, I re-weather stripped the glass front door. It was never done right in the first place by the home builders and that’s always been a thorn in my side. Since this has been the first winter in years that I’ve actually kept the main door open and used the glass door to keep out the cold in the evenings that we spend downstairs watching TV or writing (thanks to MsNoManagementSkills living up the street for so long), I invested five bucks in a roll of foam sticky stripping and twenty minutes of my time. Talk about day and night difference! I should have done that a long time ago.

Then a couple of nights ago I had the chance to see Al Gore’s ‘An inconvenient Truth’ and while I thought it was slow and mostly boring and I secretly questioned if some of his charts and graphs weren’t ‘personalized’ for his own purposes, and that it seemed to be a “I’m Al Gore. Notice me,” platform, I liked the messages at the end that listed things to do to help the planet. Some of them we’ve been doing here for years so that would make sense.

Plant trees, lots of trees. Okay, any piece of land as small as ours that has 26 trees planted on it can’t make us that bad. Change your light bulbs to energy efficient bulbs. We’re a third of the way there. Recycle as much as you can. We’ve been doing this for years. No brainer. Combine all driving trips into as few as possible. We’ve been doing this too for years, mainly because we just don’t go that many places. We’re homebodies. And I only drive my car on rare occasions during the spring and summer months. Nope, we’re not sucking down petrol here.

But there was one thing on the list that Al didn’t mention, one that his movie and every other person that has gone on and on about the environment and going green never says anything about, and it’s something that is too sensitive and taboo to suggest. It’s something simple that people everywhere would be horrified to even consider, believing it is their God-given right to do. This one simple thing is yet so difficult to accomplish I don’t personally know a single other person who has done it though I’m sure thousands or more probably have. You know what it is, don’t you? Yes, I’m talking about the one thing that will ensure the planet can survive and positively heal itself, the one thing no one comes out and says to do yet they’ll talk endlessly about how this one common related thing keep screwing things up.

I’m talking about choosing not to have children. Not about choosing to have three instead of five, or only one instead of two but using self control, using intelligence over instinct, and just not having any at all. Have all the sex you want. Just don’t bring anyone else into the world.

How selfish we’ve been called for making this choice ours years ago, and yes, part of the reason was exactly for an environmental one. On our own, before WS and I even met, we both made this decision to refuse to contribute more to the problem than what our own existence already did. And if you jump on the environmental bandwagon now and agree that humans are the ones responsible for ruining the planet, it begins to look like WS and I have been ‘green’ before anyone thought of making it a big, profitable buzzword! Have we ever felt like we’ve ‘missed out’ or made the wrong decision? Not once, not ever, even with all the name calling.

Now you and I know people won’t stop breeding. Heck, their religions and societal, family, and peer pressures won’t let them even though they really could if they really wanted to. And there’s no guarantee that an only child born today won’t grow up to have nine of their own. I’m not asking that everyone stop having kids (even though the U.S. is way out in front leading the way with an out-of-control population boom). Skipping one generation might be nice for a change and might give the Earth a chance to catch its breath.

But what I’d really like to see is how much in the way of sheer balls any of these highly public environmental speakers might have by hearing them address what they allude to as the real cause of the planet’s problems. There are too many people on the planet and the number isn’t slowing down. That’ll never happen though. Like I said, that way of thinking is too taboo, too horrific, too much the way communist countries tried to do things. The middle-class will come around to changing a light bulb or two and driving one less mile per month in an attempt to convince everyone else they are doing their part, but god forbid, don’t tell them they can’t have children. After all, most of the U.S. economy depends on pleasing children. Where would we all be if that collapsed? And where would these ballsy environmentalists be if they started talking about that? Blacklisted from everything for the rest of their lives, that’s where.

Anyway, this is what I was thinking the other day. Nothing big. Nothing earth-shattering. Minutes later I was surfing Cute Overload and had forgotten all about the environment again.

BTW, Mr. Gore has four children and currently two grandchildren. I guess he’s not that serious about affecting change.

January 13, 2007

I wrote up another big long post last night patting myself on my back for being an ultimate ‘green’ environmentalist. Rereading it this morning brought me to tears . . . of boredom. You won’t see that post here anytime soon.

Over the last few days we have swapped out a third of our light bulbs to the curly energy efficient kind, I have used a facial micro dermabrasion and liked it even though it didn’t seem to do much, have gotten my sleep schedule back on track, have exercised for a minimum of 30 minutes a day every day except one, kept birds, squirrels, raccoons, and Limpy happy during this cold weather spell and kept the house looking nice inside too, baked the last frozen pumpkin pie from the holidays, and have burned through several candles we had lying around.

Somehow, over the past seven years, we have collected more candles than any one person should ever own. This year I am determined to accomplish two things on the subject of candles: We will not buy any more, no matter how good they smell, until every last candle in this house is gone (at last estimate, there are three or four dozen not including the dozen bags of tea light sized candles), and we will burn every single last candle in this house. As of today, we’re down three big candles and a half a dozen tea light candles, and I’m working on a particularly smelly votive candle right now. What is it about Bergamot that makes me like it in a store but hate it at home? There is something different about the way it smells and the way it burns I think and the way the burned scent fills the house with the heavy, cloying smell of old books and leather . . . that have laid at the bottom of the Red Sea for a decade.

I’ve got some reading to work on this weekend and the rest of my manuscript to go through. I had another vivid car dream last night which means one or a combination of several of the following factors: I need to get back to work on my manuscript which is about cars, I need to get that Battery Tender hooked up on my car, the Barrett-Jackson car auction is coming up next week on the Speed channel (I think they are showing five days worth this year), and I just found out the Monkey Car Club is desperate to find someone to put together their club display for the Portland Roadster Show coming up in a month and a half. I’m choosing to believe my dream which was about owning a couple of show cars – a 1967 white and red Belair and a 1969 Plum Crazy color painted Roadrunner, was due to the first three things weighing on my mind, and definitely not the last.

January 14, 2007

I ended yesterday on a sour note for some reason. It was probably because I didn’t get anything accomplished but that was no one’s fault but my own. This morning I vowed I would start the day differently and expect different results. Yes, that might not be terribly bright thinking but let me run with it for a while.

So far so good. I hooked up the Battery Tender Plus to my car (and didn’t zap myself which I always expect to do – too many years playing with old Volkswagen beetles I guess), I wiped the car down and put the car cover over the back half of it. I vacuumed downstairs and after we helped each other make a good breakfast, we ran the dishwasher and a load of laundry. Both have been emptied and put away already.

Then I dug out all the old draperies that were stuffed in our ‘linen’ closet and bagged them all up together into a plastic zippered bag (Ris, I have a set of four white, never used open-weave floor-to ceiling panels you may or may not like) for yard sale consideration this spring. I did the same with the eight different colored Damask tablecloths we have. We use them on our long buffet table; we still don’t actually own a kitchen or dining table, and I switch them out every few months with the seasons. But really, do we need eight different ones? Probably not but I don’t want to let them go just yet.

One of the last holdouts in the organizing flurry will be emptying our master bedroom closet and figuring out where everything is going to go. This is the catch-all closet it seems and it’s gotten to the point where I’m considering throwing out most of my own clothes because I’m tired of having everything else; two huge Rubbermaid containers full of bed linens, bags of comforters, stacks upon stacks of sheet sets, a body pillow we rarely if ever use but wish I could (it makes me sweaty), piles of folded car show t-shirts (all mine) and other miscellaneous clothing and items, all cramming and squishing my clothes into a cockeyed mess on hangers. And don’t even get me started on the dust content in that small space. It’s to the point where I absolutely have to wash anything I want to wear other than my daily boring, ho-hum sleeveless t-shirts and shorts or Levis or have pale grey shoulders and risk an allergy attack.

I generally don’t get overwhelmed by many things but this is one project that has me paralyzed with indecision. Let’s not think about it anymore today, m’kay?

On the candle burning front, that stinky Bergamot candle has been burnt completely. I’m working on a black cherry votive on now and when that’s finished I’ll probably bring the two giant vanilla pillars from the livingroom upstairs to start working on. I thought we’d spend more time down there and would have the chance to burn them more often but it’s not working out that way. Our library upstairs is definitely the hub of our house and I can’t handle knowing candles are burning some place where I can’t keep an eye on them. Call me paranoid, call me a control freak, just don’t call me late for dinner.

And speaking of dinner, our South Beach diet begins next weekend not this weekend. We’ve decided to empty the house of absolutely everything bad and in the process of going through the pantry we discovered we have enough crap food to feed us for nearly another week. Better to get rid of that stuff now than to ‘tuck’ it away somewhere and secretly dig it back out later, I say. And in the meantime, more cupboards are being cleared out and organized. Everyone wins here.

WS is cleaning out our laundry room and wiping down every last thing in there. We used to put the pet litter boxes in there, for years, and now, everything has a thick, white coat of cat litter dust on it including the walls themselves (you’d never know we’ve used nothing but ‘dustless’ cat litter). I’d go in that small room to do laundry, swapping out the washer and dryer, but if I spent too long in there, my asthma would kick in. This is one project I’d have a tough time doing myself.

WS is doing much better today walking than he had been over the past few weeks. He’s off for the U.S. Martin Luther King holiday tomorrow. Between his vacation, all the holidays, his MS thing, and the snow storm, I think he’s gone to work less than a full week in the past month. That’s not to say he hasn’t been working though. He spent a number of those days (and nights) off working on office stuff here at home. Let’s hope he continues to feel better next week.

January 15, 2007

Holiday Monday’s always screw up my thinking for the rest of the week. No doubt at least a dozen times before next Friday, I’ll be off by one day because I will have spend today thinking it was Sunday. I’m not really complaining though. There are much worse things than being off a day.

WS and I had a good long conversation this morning about writing; specifically the mechanics of other author’s writing (Dean Koontz in one particular instance) and the parallels between theirs and our own with extra attention toward a story we co-wrote together two years ago. It was a good discussion that went on for hours, like the writing group we are part of does. With the winter weather and new roles in each of our lives, the writing group hasn’t been able to stay as connected as I felt we once were and I’ve come to the realization that part of my depression I was going through earlier in the month may have stemmed from feeling the loss of something or someone in my life. I think the something is the writing group or at least portions of things within that group. Hopefully, spring will help that.

I feel anxious today as well and I know exactly the reason why: WS goes back to work tomorrow and certain that it will happen because history has proven it so, I’m waiting for him to drop into the black pit of a funk mood which sucks in everyone else around it. Except this time, he has vowed not to let that happen.

Now I ask you, what would cause you more stress and worry? Knowing that someone is going to do something, as part of a regular routine, that is going to adversely affect you, or having that person say the routine is changed but instead of believing it, you wait around to see if it really has or not? This was the key element in my childhood growing up and I can honestly say the later is the worst scenario. I knew my parent’s daily beating was coming. It was those rare, few days when they would change the routine that terrified me.

Onto nicer thoughts, The Dry Cleaners are back together under one roof. I’m not sure when exactly he came home but the other night, well after 10 p.m., a big hired truck brought back all his stuff.

Limpy, the Howler Monkey’s ignored cat, is spending the day outside today. Once the temperature got above freezing, I let him out of our downstairs bathroom because he wanted out. His outside box faces south and gets the full sun until 4 in the afternoon. It was down in the teens here again last night making it the third night in a row he has stayed inside here. He’ll be back in there tonight because it doesn’t look like the night temperatures are going to be above freezing anytime soon. I continue to be amazed at how well behaved he is in there.

There is still so much snow outside on everything that doesn’t get much sun during the daytime hours. The street still looks like last week’s snow storm divided the road down the middle; all the sun facing homes clear of snow and ice, all the north facers’ cars, lawns, and driveways buried in white. The cold weather has brought a couple of pairs of Varied Thrush to our fountain and feeders. We only see these birds once or twice a year. And the fountain is starting to pile on the ice around the edges. As the night temperatures continue to remain low, it ought to make for another good photo opportunity. I’d like to see the tall pillar build an ice cap again and then compare new photos with the ones I took from last year’s ice cap. Will the shape form the same? Who knows?

January 16, 2007

The views out the web cams say it all: We’re getting dumped on with snow. I can’t stress how highly unusual this is for the area we live in yet just ten years ago it did this same thing. It is so pretty but Limpy isn’t happy being relegated back into the downstairs bathroom for the day. The snow has blown all the way up under the little overhang to the front door and Limpy’s box outside is damp. The snow is beautiful but WS can’t get into work. He had several do-or-die meetings he needed to run today because he’s got a huge presentation tomorrow that has already been cancelled twice previously. If the presentation gets cancelled again until next month, it’ll conflict with something else we had planned at that time.

I want to be stressed about all this but it’s just so gorgeous outside and I wish I owned a sled. (How silly would that look? A 50 year old, sorely out of shape woman ripping down a hill on a sled? Almost silly enough to make me try to figure out a way to do it anyway!)

We’ve got three inches of snow here at 10:00 a.m. and I figure we have a good hour of snow left to go. The snow has covered all the icy spots in the street, not that you can see the difference between the street and the sidewalks at this point anyway, and naturally, people around here seem to have short memories. Ms. Wall Street crashed into her trash cans on the way out of her driveway earlier and those cans are now lying in the street and mostly buried in snow. Mr. Dimmer, having just started yet another job, slid out of his driveway and gunned it several times heading up the street and out of the development in his big noisy, stinky, diesel truck.

People across the street are loading up their SUV, the one they haven’t started in over a week and is known to have battery problems, with ski and snowboard stuff. The teenage driver and passengers obviously haven’t listened to or watched the local news this morning who are begging people not to drive on the roads. Even Washington State Department of Transportation is begging people to stay home if you can. These kids are just someone else who believes nothing bad will ever happen to them.

As it was, the SUV was frozen stuck to their driveway and they had to chip the tires out. Then they took off as if it were summer weather outside, slippery summer weather, that is. If they were hoping to get all the way to Mount Hood, hopefully someone will stop them before they kill themselves or someone else.

The local news is full of live video of cars, SUVs, semi trucks, and city buses stopped together, slid together, smashed together throughout the Portland, Oregon area. People being interviewed are saying silly things like they honestly thought the freeways would be completely dry and clear while admitting getting out of their own driveways and streets was treacherous at best. Yeah, don’t you know? The snow only falls on the side streets and avoids the freeways completely. Smooth sailing and all. Geesh people, THINK for a minute!

Lots of kids off from school once again are trudging up and down the street dragging sleds and pieces of thin, trash can plastic to ride on (the pieces of plastic don’t work very well in this fluffy stuff). A big group of kids and parents are walking out front right this minute carrying tire inner tubes. I didn’t think anyone used those anymore. Goes to show you everything old is new again.

The ATV idiots are out now, purposely sliding their motorcycles up and down the street. Snow days are Break from Intelligence days.

I threw out a few handfuls of bird seed out back because all the food is buried but it’s already been covered with snow. I don’t have much left to put out there so the birds are just going to have to wait or forage. The Starlings are back as usual in January and they are wolfing everything down in sight, also as usual. The Varied Thrush are back though they don’t seem to like foraging in this snow. They’ll wait.

January 17, 2007

Dear Winter,

Thank you for the slight thaw today and for the promise of freezing rain and ice tonight. This has been fun, really fun. If you could stick around like this for the next two weeks, I *might* consider becoming sick of you, but that’s doubtful. I would like to ask one thing however. If you could time your departure with something other than when we’re on our last roll of toilet paper, that would be just super.

Hugs!
B

January 19, 2007

Today I am very frustrated with Limpy. After fixing up the downstairs bathroom and letting him stay in there for four nights in a row during our freezing cold snap, he finally had enough of being indoors and woke WS up with a howl early yesterday morning. Naturally, WS woke me up and I put Limpy outside where he was more than willing to go. All that talk about how well behaved he was being came to a bit of a halt when I saw he demolished a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. My mistake, no real harm done, we’ve got lots of paper for the time being *wink*

According to Limpy’s real owners, he was trained from kittenhood to stay quiet in small spaces for very long periods of time. If you believe Mrs. Howler Monkey’s story (which has shown a strong tendency to change on a whim) Limpy was found at a private all-girl’s boarding school and smuggled from girl to girl for the first two years of his life. He lived in dresser drawers, pillow cases, foot lockers, and finally closets. He was brushed everyday and fed scraps hidden and brought back from the dining hall. All the girls loved him but then he was discovered and Mrs. Howler Monkey brought him home in lieu of being sent to the pound. Up until yesterday, he seemed to do really well in our bathroom which I’m sure is larger than anything he was previously used to; the great outdoors being the exception.

The temperature here yesterday hovered between 33 and 36 degrees F. all day, cold enough to expect him to use the box with the heating pad inside I have out front for him, the box he really seemed to like once, but no. He sat across the street meowing at stranger’s doors (who all ignore such things) and wouldn’t come back across the street no matter how much I tried to coax him.

Finally, late in the afternoon, I got him to come back over. I scooped him up and put him back in the newly cleaned bathroom to warm up. He started howling from the get-go. Ten minutes later I put him back outside where he immediately went back across the street and meowed at doors as if to say, “Please take me in! Please don’t make me go back over there with HER!”

I left him outside last night. The overnight temperature here was 33 degrees F., more than comfortable enough for him to stay outside . . . if he used his box with the heating pad like he used to do. I checked this morning and it doesn’t look like he used it meaning he spent the night sitting at someone’s door, most likely his real owners, the Howler Monkeys, who ignore him completely and are responsible for his lack of proper living conditions in the first place. He couldn’t have forgotten about his box, could he? Or has he decided he doesn’t like it anymore? I don’t know.

This morning, Limpy gave WS a hard time while he was trying to get the car out of the garage. From upstairs I could hear the automatic garage door begin to close and then stop, start to close and then stop again indicating Limpy had wandered into the garage and stopped the door from closing at various points along the way. Later, he was back across the street at the Dry Cleaners’ door, a family who abhors cats, and then it was back to his owner’s door followed by a long stint of sitting in the rain atop one of the Howler Monkey’s new cars where he remains even now.

I’ve changed the towels in, under and around his heated box. I hand-washed the cement around the box in case a visitor came and sprayed its scent around it while Limpy was indoors (that’s happened before). I have scrubbed out his food dish and water bowl and refilled both. I’ve verified that the heating pad still works. I’m wondering if he’s associating being over here with being locked inside a bathroom and that I can understand. I just want him to go back to using the heated box he seemed to like so well and I can’t seem to get him to understand that. I know it probably shouldn’t but it bothers me to see him gingerly picking his way through the snow and sitting soaked in the cold rain.

I really shouldn’t get so wrapped up in animal lives.

January 23, 2007

Golly but do things here suck right now. Yes, this will be a whiny post and no, it won’t make the world a better place.

I’m back to sleeping crappy. One night of decent sleep last week was all I got and do I ever feel it. Things are starting to pile up in my brain. Writing and my lack thereof, reading and my lack thereof, Limpy and the weather, running out of bird and pet food, our South Beach diet foray, an event we might attend next month or maybe not, and my car battery to name a few things. Throw in the Doomsday Clock reset, the Decider’s latest behind the scene antics, the economy, my stock portfolio, WS’ stock portfolio, our bills, terrorism, Global warming, hot flashes, and WS’ MS to name a few more and I think you’ll get the picture.

Then last Friday morning at 4 a.m. I woke up with a toothache. I had an appointment coming up the beginning of next month. Can the toothache wait? How bad can it be? At the time it was too early to tell. Then when I actually sat up in bed, my face felt lopsided and it wasn’t just because I had a toothache. I ate a bowl of frozen corn Thursday afternoon and apparently, I am as allergic to that as I am to frozen peas. The other side of my face opposite from the toothache side and particularly around my right eye was swollen nearly shut. Crap! It was ridiculous! What the heck is in frozen veggies nowadays??

So I waited until after WS gave his big presentation at work which was scheduled for later that day after being rescheduled twice before I told him I had a toothache. Only then it had grown into a full-on face ache. He called our dentist and three hours later, I was zonked out on enough pain medication (and anti-nausea drugs too) to last the entire weekend. One weekend gone.

Today was the first opening at the dentist and I discovered my dentist has left the building. A new dentist has taken over. Her last name is Angel but trust me, she isn’t one. I think we both lost patience with each other at about the same time and a technician finished scraping out what is an infected tooth root or something. I’m to remain on pain and antibiotic medication for the rest of the week and if the swelling is down by Friday, I get to go back so my not-to-angelic dentist can poke and prod my mouth some more and come to a decision as to what needs to be done. It’s a back molar and I’ve always hated my crooked back molars. Just pull the damned thing like we did to the other side and be done with it already. God help her if she starts talking about root canals and crowns. Weekend number two probably gone.

So now I’m a walking zombie. I did enjoy our first South Beach diet dinner last night, prepared by WS who is a whiz in the kitchen if you didn’t already know that. He’s taken up the slack while I’ve been passed out in bed or sitting in bed not-so-patiently waiting for the drugs to take effect. Stuffed chicken breast with spinach and feta cheese. Either I’m drooling again just thinking about it or my infected tooth is leaking. I have no idea what’s on the menu for tonight’s dinner but I have little doubt it’ll be something good. That is, if I’m awake.

January 24, 2006

Three things that scare me: Big cockroaches, House Fires, Losing EVERYTHING.
Three people who make me laugh: WS. Okay, so I don’t find that many people funny enough to laugh at…er, I mean with. Yeah, that’s what I meant.
Three things I love: Sitting in the sun in winter, reading, WS.
Three things I don’t love: My childhood, Blazing hot sun, Chinese food. I could go on and on here.
Three things I downright hate: Liars, Today’s cost of things, Mommy Bloggers.
Three things I don’t understand: RSS, Cascading Style Sheets, NASCAR.
Three things on my desk: A mini fan, A Huge water bottle, A computer drawing tablet.
Three things I’m doing right now: Typing, Ignoring, Sweating.
Three things I want to do before I die: See Europe, Travel on a big sailboat, Live at the Beach.
Three things I can do: Work on cars, Landscape yards, Make roses from frosting.
Three things you should listen to: Music, Silence, Laughter.
Three things you should never listen to: My sister talking, My MIL bickering, Mr. Dimmer singing.
Three things I’d like to learn: How to play the violin, How to Juggle, How to speak a foreign language.
Three favorite foods: Radishes, Cheese, Mexican food.
Three beverages I drink regularly: Water, Tea, Coffee.
Three TV shows I watched as a kid: Dick Van Dyke show, Lost in Space, Love American Style.

January 26, 2007

The pain medication I’ve been on for my infected tooth has given me wildly vivid dreams at night. Snippets of vivid dreams I should say for thankfully, none of them last very long. To date none have been the good, happy-go-lucky dreams you’d wish on your loved ones. They are dark, foreboding dreams, like the ones of my younger years.

In one, my father had returned from somewhere other than the grave he’s laid in for the past 31 years, seeping into the earth with formaldehyde and sawdust and bleach and kerosene and countless other things he not so happily let the doctors pump him full of in their vain attempt to allow him and his unknown, incurable disease to see the far side of another week.

He had come back to settle our final score, one that went unfinished in part because my mother stepped in and held onto his arm that was coiled back with a fist at the end. She was a very strong woman and with her other hand, held me down backwards across the kitchen table, with her fingers around my throat. If she had let me up, I would have finished the abuse once and for all from him. 17 years of it was 20 years too much and it was the first time I ever even considered fighting back. But only if she would have let me up. I never got the chance; never thought of it much again before the other night to be truthful. Knowing my father and all his lies in the end hour about finding his maker, that bit of unfinished business still eats at him . . . as it probably does me in some black, closeted part of my brain.

I woke up with my wrists and fists cramping from being balled up so tight.

In another dream bit, I was driving my car. You’d think with all the car dreams I have, I’d have dreamt of this before, but again, to be truthful, I never dream of my car or me driving it. It’s always some other kind of car, mostly old 70’s muscle cars though I did dream of WS’ tragic 1996 Dodge once.

I was driving it somewhere crowded with tall buildings, downtown Portland, I suppose and the sky was a very dark gray as if the mother of all storms was blowing in from the West. Wind came in gusty puffs but it seemed as if I had an invisible shield around my car. Leaves and trash blew around me but not at or on me. The air whined with something building in the not so far away distance but I wasn’t afraid. I was just cruising.

On a street corner, I slowed and looked at a cop standing there and he asked if I could give him a lift. “Sure,” I said as if it were something I did everyday. It took him a while to fold himself into the passenger seat with his utility belt and gun and nightstick and all but I was too busy looking at the street ahead of me that seemed to come alive and was stretching eastward for miles ahead of me like an undulating snake with humps and hills and red stop lights every so many feet. It would take me forever to get across town at this rate and the cop nodded in agreement.

I have no idea what that one was all about.

In yet another dream snippet, WS and I decided to buy an old dilapidated, multi-story building in downtown Portland; one that wasn’t in the worst part of town, just a forgotten part. We bought it for a song and for an equal song, renovated it to contain a dozen or more apartments. Tenants moved in and all seemed to have taste in decorating their outside-facing doors in that the building became one of the most recognizable and photographed buildings in the area. Across the street to the East, the city tore down an equally decrepit building and left the lot empty which then afforded all the tenants on that side a view of the Willamette River. All was good.

And then I realized no one really lived there. No one lived in the entire city. WS wasn’t even there anymore. It was all fake, everything was. It was all built up and painted to look like it was a real place with real people living real lives. But there was no one there except for me standing on the opposite side of the street looking at the row of colorful doors with pots of colorful flowers; me with my head tilted to one side, a goofy smile on my face and the inability to snap myself out of some sort of weird hypnotic trance. As if I didn’t want to see the bigger picture of what the world was really like around me.

Needless to say, I’m not taking the pain medication anymore. Sure, dreaming is fun, sometimes, even good maybe, sometimes. But creepy dreams are just that. Creepy.

January 27, 2007

And while I’m on the subject of why I shouldn’t take pain medication, I’ll admit it makes things move right through me in a rapid and non-clenching fashion. I’ll leave it at that for you to imagine at your whim.

Or maybe it’s the South Beach diet we’re on, and if that’s the case, rock on. I need to lose a good forty pounds anyway. Nothing is sore yet so I think I’m still in the good-to-go category.

This is Day Six of our diet and we really like it for the most part. WS had some tough sweets cravings earlier in the week but they are slowing fading. I felt like I was eating a lot until Thursday when I felt starved all day. I felt the same yesterday too but that was because we had so many errands to run and appointments to keep, we didn’t have time to eat anything until late in the afternoon. The diet says you aren’t supposed to feel hungry (doesn’t mention those people whose bodies don’t have the hunger shut off chemical working right though) and if so, you’re supposed to eat more veggies. Good thing we both love veggies because that’s what most of this diet consists of. But there are a few that are off limits. Corn, peas (snow peas are okay), potatoes of all kinds, carrots (no more carrot juice for me), etc. All those are exactly what we were eating exclusively beforehand and all those kinds of vegetables spike a person’s blood sugar. No wonder we felt we were either starving or tired all the time.

My energy is slowing returning from nonexistent and I fit into my Levis yesterday for the first time in a long time. That makes two pair that hardly pinches at the waist any more. I’m hoping in three weeks, I fit into all my waist size 38 size pants because then I get to start working on fitting back into my 36’s. My goal? To fit into 33’s. Back where I was almost 25 years ago. I know it’ll take time; I didn’t get this size overnight, I won’t lose it overnight, but my motivation is good and I think WS’s is too.

I took a walk around the neighborhood late last night for the first time since early December. The sky was clear and it was cold. The stars looked like they were hanging low and every dog in the development was barking it seemed.

It’s sad to see how our area is deteriorating; so many lawns have severe crane fly infestation, so many have so much crap thrown, parked, and hanging on and around their homes. Our street took a turn for the worse with the second wave of homeowners came in and it seems to me that no one really thinks twice about how their place looks anymore. Even one of the original sticklers for the recommended CC&R rules now parks a boat in his driveway 24/7. Big no-no there but we all decided to forego having a homeowners association to keep the Nazi from running it (who still lives here and is one of a couple homes that look good still) so we get what we deserve. Let’s hope the housing market doesn’t crash too badly around here and in ten years, we can still get a healthy sum for it when it’ll be time to move on.

January 29, 2007

Did you see me on either of the web cams today? I was outside working and taking down the Christmas lights. Yes, even I am guilty of leaving them up longer than I like. At least I didn’t still have them turned on unlike some neighbors I know.

We bought and installed more of the energy efficient light bulbs here and there yesterday. Unfortunately, we discovered that the chandelier in our bedroom can’t use the dimmable chandelier bulbs we bought. For whatever reason, the bulbs won’t turn all the way off and even turned all the way on, the light is so dim we couldn’t see much. I thought it looked very romantic though but pointless here. Also unfortunately, the packaging is so tough to get into it was basically destroyed trying to get the bulbs out so there will be no attempt to return the bulbs. I’ve seen DVD packaging that was easier to get into. Rather than switch out the dimmer switch that we love, we’ll try to sell the 8 bulbs in the garage sale in April at a loss. We were able to switch over the chandelier-type bulbs in the outside house lights though so if nothing else, we’ll have spares for those.

Limpy will soon have a better outdoor home. Kami made a beautiful wooden box for him and his heating pad and hand delivered it last Saturday evening. I’m painting the outside of it so it will be less noticeable on the front porch. It’s twice as big as his current duct tape and saggy cardboard digs and sturdy enough to withstand most anything. Limpy’s already interested in it; he helped me paint it today out in the garage and I am confident he will love it when I switch the boxes over next weekend.

As for our indoor pets, we purchased a pet barrier gate for their bedroom recently that allows us to keep their bedroom door open now without the worry of The Queen and Old Man Skitters wandering out to pee on something (like the living room rug). I feel like they are once again part of the family instead of being off behind closed doors in their own room much like some teenagers prefer. I can also now keep tabs on the websites they visit and how many phone calls they get without plastering my ear against their door.

And finally, today marks Day Eight of our South Beach diet lifestyle change. We still love it. We’re eating very gourmet meals every day and I’ve eaten breakfast every morning except once, a first ever for me in that length of time. I’m still not a breakfast person and I’ve discovered my body can’t handle eggs everyday or even every other day as I suspected would be the case. Damned food allergies. But Canadian bacon has become my friend and happily, vegetables continue to be WS’s friend. I never thought I’d meet anyone who gladly eats as many as I like and to give him even more credit, I’m sure he likes more varieties than I do, cooked or raw. Having never known one before, who knew men ate veggies?

As for weight loss, we’re both still sitting where we were originally. I do think weight is being redistributed though because I have three pairs of Levis I fit into now and WS looks a wee bit leaner in his mid-section as well. I’m not worried about any weight loss yet; I just feel a whole lot better both physically and mentally in knowing we are doing something good for ourselves for once.

Tonight’s dinner: Lentil and Kale Stew with Nutty Squash and Asiago cheese.

Tomorrow: What Mr. Wall Street confessed to me today.

January 30, 2007

I’m going through a rather frustrating time with my writing right now so what better time than to share some neighbor gossip, right? Anything to temporarily forget my woes at hand.

When I was outside yesterday painting Limpy’s new box courtesy of Kami from Jestablog, Mr. Wall Street drove up as usual at one in the afternoon to feed his kids. Because his wife won’t. Oh, she’ll have the children but she won’t do anything else with them. His words. Her nods of agreement when he says it.

He walked over after collecting the mail at the community mailbox and we chatted about the weather briefly before he went into his tale of wifely woes. Mrs. Wall Street is searching for the correct ‘cocktail’ to keep her from the dark abyss of her bi-polar affliction and is currently on Valium and Zoloft but even so, she won’t get out of bed until 11:30 in the morning, every morning. He comes home at one everyday to feed the kids. She is even more adamant about not raising her kids than ever.

“Hmm, who’s taking care of the kids from when you leave in the morning until she gets up at 11:30?”

You know I just had to ask it.

“Well, little [Wall Street-ette #1] does a pretty good job of taking care of [Wall Street-ettes #2 and #3]. . .” He said.

His kids are age 4 years, 1 and a half years, and a one month old. A four-year old is taking care of a toddler and a newborn. Great.

“And then her mother comes over usually before I leave to go back to work. It’s working out for the most part. She goes to a weekly support group meeting too now.” Mr. Wall Street said and shrugged. I didn’t think he sounded very confident and then I got a bad vibe that maybe he was looking for someone in the neighborhood to look in on his kids while his wife spent her mornings sleeping or crying or whatever it is that breeding women do when they insist on not wanting to care for their own offspring. So I directed the conversation to something I knew would bore him silly and make him remember why it was he was home in the middle of the afternoon – spring yard work.

Worked like a charm and he walked back home to warm bottles and throw a carton of soup in the microwave or some such thing. Something told me that this wasn’t exactly the life he signed up for.

January 31, 2007

For the last day of this month, I told myself I was going to take it easy. Since I’ve completed just about everything inside that I can do for the time being, I switched my attention outdoors. I’ve worked like a dog for the past two days out in the yard raking, clipping, trimming, vacuuming up piles of dry leaves and out in the garage, sorting and organizing. The weather here has been overly dry for the past week but the rain comes back Saturday (thankfully). I wanted to have spring cleanup done and out of the way and the weather cooperated. I know we’ve got at least another two months of winter to go but should things change, we’re ready for warmer weather and spring buds and blooms.

Things are slowing down a bit for me with WS’s MS thing easing up and I don’t feel like I have to do so much by myself anymore. WS is walking much better today and even went into work a little earlier than he had been. Limpy’s new house ought to be ready to set out Friday (pictures forthcoming). I burned through three more big candles leaving only 20 or so left to go. The pet gate we installed last weekend rocks my world. And one for the calendar: I got through all the laundry yesterday; even the pile of skanky Micro fiber towels multiplying out in the garage. Boy, does that ever feel good.

It’s coming up on that time of year again. The Monkey Car Club has been soliciting me via email to enter my car in their annual Roadster show display. I have to admit it tugs at my heart strings a little but five minutes spent with any of those Monkeys would put a stop to any good feelings. I have politely declined each request and will continue to do so. I have no idea if they plan to use the display I created for them last year for the club to reuse year after year to help save money but I doubt it, and I don’t plan on finding out if I can help it. I won’t be going to the show. My car is retired from shows at least until 2010 and we don’t have the money to go anyway. I was also saddened to find out that the Monkey Club ran out the secretary they elected last November to take my place. Not sure what happened there but from what I do understand, it’s an ‘all male officer board’ now just like the chauvinistic President wanted it. “Women were created to be ruled,” he was always fond of saying. Whatever, dude. What. Ever.

February 1, 2007

We have a new visitor to our house at night. I’ve seen him/her a few times, the first back in early fall when I commented that we had a tail-less raccoon baby visiting with its mother and two other normally tailed siblings. The tail-less raccoon has come back as a young adult and I’ve named it Wilson.

Wilson shows up out front by Limpy’s box every couple of nights, late, usually after 10:30 and eats some of Limpy’s overnight food. He (I don’t know if Wilson is a he or a she but I’ll call him a he for the time being) is very polite in that he doesn’t eat the entire bowl of food. When would you ever expect a raccoon to not be a pig when it comes down to cat food? Maybe the tailed ones store food in their tails?

I’ve seen Wilson peek into Limpy’s box once or twice and when he sees Limpy in there, he hurries away like something’s on his heels. Limpy couldn’t care less. Missing all but about two inches of his tail, Wilson tucks his butt under him when he runs and looks just like a little bear cub. He’s incredibly cute . . . but you know the rule around here: It’s a wild animal. Cute or not, we don’t get close. We take this rule very seriously. Still, I wish I knew a way to get a picture of him. It’s probably best that I not try to ‘befriend’ him just in order to get a photo.

Anyway, we have raccoons visit here and there at night out back where the official raccoon food is (grapes). The ones back there come up from the creek through Cap’t Dan’s back yard and into ours to raid the squirrel nut box hoping I’ve gone back to filling it with peanuts (I haven’t and won’t either). I hear them at the feeder sometimes when the lid ‘bonks’ down; felt-padded wood against bare wood from 11:30 at night up to 5 in the morning. Generally, females and babies feed early at night, males feed closer to dawn. Wilson might be a female after all but we won’t know for sure until he gets a little bit older and picks up one habit or the other. He runs the risk of being too easily seen running around and feeding out front of our house instead of from the safety and pitch black darkness of the back yard with the others. Or maybe he’s already been deemed an outcast by the others because of his lack of tail. Either way, he’s welcome out front. That is, until he shows up with half a dozen of his friends (maybe on Superbowl Sunday?) who will all undoubtedly share his peculiarity.

I don’t know how or why Wilson’s tail is missing and I do feel badly for the little fifteen-pound-looking guy. Raccoons use their tails to keep warm and block out the sun during their daytime naps. With all the freezing nights we’ve been having, I’m sure he misses it. Or maybe it’s been gone for so long he doesn’t know what he’s missing.

February 2, 2007

Last week I unceremoniously dubbed every Tuesday and Thursday evening official reading and writing nights here at the Blogeois compound and I have to say we are actually getting reading and writing done. Amazing! We forego watching TV all evening on those nights and have even taken up listening to music during dinner instead of blaring the local evening news. I’ve noticed we’ve started eating dinner slower on those nights. Slightly if at all noticeable to anyone else but it’s a start. Wolfing down food over the years has not done us any favors and neither has claiming we never have time to read anymore. Enter the proverbial phrase of the demise of birds with a stone.

Today is Day Twelve of our South Beach diet change and we’re still in love with it. I haven’t seen any loss in weight yet though. WS, naturally, has or at least he thinks he has. We own two weight scales, one a traditional old-school type and the other is a digital one. Both give wildly different readings and I can’t even get the digital one to register anything for me at all (it’s part of that weird electronics thing I have problems with).

I did the grocery shopping yesterday by myself and no, I didn’t go to WinCo. Yesterday was the first of the month: Social Security check day, homeless shoppers day, retirement and pension check day at WinCo, and a real nightmare to shop. WS told me to go to Fred Meyer instead and I didn’t argue.

Did I ever mention how much I love produce departments in grocery stores? No? Well I do; always have. The smells, the colors of fruits and vegetables like jewels to my eyes, the textures and feel of all the different things; I could spend hours there and yesterday I nearly did. Our grocery shopping lists are now filled with very few items that are canned or frozen and the rest is produce. Lettuce (four kinds), onion (three kinds), squash (two kinds), cauliflower, kale, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, peppers (three kinds, three colors), tomato, garlic, shallots, lemons, limes, bok choy, parsley, turnips, cucumber, and celery just to name the stuff that comes to mind. And the really great part? Our fridge smells just like the produce department.

Limpy spent the night indoors last night. Our night temperatures are staying down around 20 degrees or lower and my personal cut off point on whether he’s inside or out is right at that level. His new house is outside now but for all his interest in it earlier in the week, now he’s ignoring it, even with his old blankets from his old cardboard and duct tape home spread out inside. I’m sure once warmer weather sets in he’ll take to it just fine. Our area is at the tail end of a twelve day dry and sunny yet cold and windy streak. Once the rains start up again, he’ll spend less time wandering around and hopefully more time in the new box.

February 4, 2007

Sorry for the delay in posting. I’ve been working on the first edit of the ’Enthusiast’ manuscript (done) and spending a huge amount of time thinking of where the direction of that story is going in it’s second half. Other than that, I have no excuse for almost three days of slacking.

It’s Superbowl Sunday and I couldn’t care less. WS agrees with me. For whatever reason, we aren’t even watching the Puppy Bowl this year either.

Limpy is using his new box that Kami built and no one could be happier than I. He ignored it completely for the first couple of days, days whose nights were well below freezing. Those were a couple of sleepless nights for me. Again, I shouldn’t get so wrapped up in animals that aren’t mine.

WS is walking better now than he had been over the past two weeks.

I attended a pirate party over the weekend (Happy B-day again, Ris!) and it was fun even if I couldn’t partake in the goodies served there.

I may have lost four pounds on our two week old South Beach diet. I say may because I know my body and it has a tendency to trick me into believing I can lose weight every once in a while. Basically, I’m happy with waiting another couple of weeks to see that the scale wasn’t just acting up again.

WS is anxious to move to phase two of the diet but I’m not at all ready. I like what I’m eating now. Mentally, I feel good. Physically, three pairs of pants are wearable but are still snug and all of my shirts still have that ‘stretched to the point of pain’ look to them even though they are all extra-large sizes. And my heart hasn’t felt like it’s pounding from time to time in two weeks.

So WS is going to wait a bit longer before moving on to satisfy me. I may have lost four measly pounds. Most people will have lost double that and more. I’ve got forty pounds to lose overall to start with. I am not looking to lose them all in the first month; probably not even in the first year. There’s just no way I’m ready to move onto a second phase that ensures weight loss will occur at an even slower rate. I think he understands my feelings on that and so, we’ll stick to phase one for another couple of weeks.

But ask me if I feel like I’m on a diet and I’ll answer with an absolute no way! I love this thing.

February 5, 2007

I was supposed to work outside today cleaning up the east side of the back yard. It looks awful at this time of year before new shoots come up next month but the fog never lifted and the sun didn’t come out. I was actually having a ‘chilly’ day if you can believe that with my daily hot flashes, and the thought of going outside in a dreary, cold-looking day wasn’t my idea of fun. So I did laundry instead and got it all finished. Again. And only with a little mild scare that the washing machine had once again broken. (oh, please, just not right now.)

I should have spent the day writing but I didn’t. I’ve just recently finished going through WS’s editing recommendations for the first half of ‘Enthusiast’ and feel that I can precede with the second half of the novel. And for the first time ever, I’m feeling more comfortable with the prospect of the inevitable rewrite, a necessity that I have convinced myself I will loathe with every fiber of my being. I’ve been reading a few other authors and budding author’s journals here and there and their thoughts on the topic (as well as a couple other topics) and their words have finally made me aware that I’m not alone.

But I didn’t write today. I’ve been sidetracking myself almost to the point of intentional. Why? I don’t know but I’m sure my subconscious has some logical sounding reason. And how will I counter this? To a writer, the answer may be so easy it’s comical: Think of the reason(s) you don’t want to or don’t get around to writing as a bad behaving character; not bad behaving because that’s how he/she is in your story, but bad in that the character wants to take over the whole story. The character wants to steal the show, the limelight. The character is an attention hog and demands that all the scenes feature him and him alone.

How boring would that be? Plenty, and that’s why I can’t let my subconscious get in my way anymore. I’ve already given it too much attention elsewhere away from finishing this novel, and my last novel, and the rewriting of my first two novels. I’ve got four under my belt; two finished and awaiting rewrites, and two half finished. Really, I need to just get on with them and stop making up reasons not to.

But, dang, it felt good to get that laundry done again today.

February 6, 2007

Today I tackled the east side yard, the area I lovingly refer to as the secret Fern Grotto because it’s moist and ferny. Makes sense. It’s also the area I created completely by myself seven years ago when I was angry, very angry, and needed to blow off about three months worth of steam. Three months later, in the seven-by-twenty foot space, I had a nice, happy place to sit and contemplate the world. At least until the next door neighbor turned on his air conditioner that is located right on the other side of the fence. I had no idea those things could be so loud.

The area now is mostly forgotten though I do keep up with the weeding and mulching and occasionally, I’ll see something at a nursery that I’m certain the area simply must have. The slugs usually eat it within the season, unless it’s a fern. The ferns rule the roost over there, shared only with a few hostas and purple columbines that go to seed much too early and it’s beautiful in the spring and early summer; come mid-summer until fall, it’s deafening. Damn that loud air conditioner next door!

While I was out there, I noticed Cap’t Dan behind us has taken down the big square tent canopy he installed two years ago over his deck and had it carted away. I really liked the look of that thing and can’t imagine why they got rid of it. Under it they had stored a whole bunch of stuff that will certainly be ruined when the rains come back late this evening: a big burgundy vinyl-covered Barca-lounger, various tools including a couple of power saws and drills, a couple of wooden livingroom side tables, a couple of extra wood dining chairs, potted houseplants in various stages of death, and numerous plastic trash bags full of something (trash most likely). Out in the yard nearby now sits: a set of tires wrapped in bright yellow plastic, a weight bench, rusty gardening tools that have sat in the same spot since 2004, a couple of bird feeders that blew down last summer and were never picked up along with a chaise lounge frame sans cushion, and a wood park bench that leans perilously to one side.

But you know, his grass still looks better than anyone’s on the block so I’m not complaining. They have been very quiet neighbors and I like them even though they never talk to us and won’t sit in their backyard when we’re in ours. They are the only people I don’t want to move away realizing that now that I said it, they will put up a For Sale sign tomorrow.

For the first time in a very long time I’m actually looking forward to spring and summer. I’m looking forward to getting my hands in the dirt and potting up things that need moved. The Iceberg rose will be first on my list; it’s going permanently into a big pot, then the pink landscape roses. There are nine of them and I’m only keeping three, also to go into a big pot.

I’ve got a couple of bronze grasses to give away and a couple of green and white striped grasses to move (also probably into a pot). There’s the last golden Exbury azalea to plant where the Iceberg rose currently is, a dwarf Nile Lily to scoot over a couple feet, a couple of trees to chop down (if I have the guts to do it this year) and some serious shaping and trimming to do on both weeping cedars.

I’ve got one last evergreen bush to give away and that blue spruce to dig up. It’s grown another foot in height since last summer. I’m beginning to worry that it’s going to be an adventure to get out, especially since a sprinkler line is under it.

Under the west side birches, I need to find a ground cover that won’t take forever to fill in, won’t die under the number of dropped leaves in the fall, won’t jump the bed and take over the neighborhood, and won’t look like a rat’s nest on crack. That rules out the entire thyme family that used to ‘live’ there. It also rules out blue star creeper and sweet William (both horrors!). I may just dig up my beloved dwarf lingonberries and transplant them there in the hope they will finally bear fruit. It’s too shady where they currently are though they look nice there (will look nice once they eventually fill in if that ever happens in my lifetime, that is). Whatever goes there, it’ll have to be cheap or free. Garden expenses this year need to be close to nil.

And just about the time I get all this situated in my head, of what to do and how this and that needs to be done before such and such a date, it will be time to hunt for daylily lovers who want a big divided clump or two. And don’t even get me started on the creeping phlox and ajuga and heavenly bamboo. And then there’s the over seeded clover-choked Irish moss I have to dig out this year and replace. And why doesn’t my Indian Hawthorn survive here anymore?

Gardening questions, gardening work, gardening enjoyment. I do some of my best thinking when I’m gardening and I’m antsy to begin.

February 7, 2007

My body’s not as sore I as I expected it would be after weeding and cleaning up the side yard yesterday and that’s good. The fact that I’ve had an intestinal gas block for the past couple of days isn’t good. I guess that’s the hazard of switching from junk food to a diet exceedingly high in vegetables.

An interesting development this morning over at the Howler Monkey’s house; there is a food and water bowl outside their front door for Limpy, their ignored cat. This is a first in the four years they have lived there. Almost sadly, I saw Limpy eating over there this morning and he’s stayed over there ever since. That means he isn’t using his great new box. That means he’ll start hanging around home more often. That means we might save money instead of buying food for him in the future. It also means, if history is any indication, the Howler Monkeys will keep up the charade for a week or two and then go back to forgetting they have a cat again. Either way, there’ll still be food, water, and shelter over here if not for him, for anyone else who wanders by.

For the past three nights, we haven’t had raccoon visits. Mating season for them is just around the corner. We do continue to have daily visits from the Varied Thrush. What made me very happy was to see the first downy woodpecker around here last Sunday morning in almost five years. He found the suet box and stayed a while.

For as nice (if somewhat cold) the weather was over the past few days, it is dreary today. The sky is pale gray with low, even cloud cover and the sun just a bright-ish orb in the sky. The distance across to the remaining tall pines, about the distance of two football fields, is slightly hazy. Rain was forecast for today but we’ve yet to see a drop. The east wind is slight here today (because it’s not trash day) and the whole scene, complete with leafless trees and brownish lawns, looks cold and dead. Welcome to winter’s long drawn out end in the Pacific Northwest where everything rooted in the earth is simply . . . waiting.

February 8, 2007

Today I learned all about personal home enemas. The two most important things are that no, you don’t need a 5 gallon bucket and an 8 foot hose, and to remember that you are the one in control.

I feel somewhat better after being in pain for the past four days. I guess we now know what all those trans fatty foods were doing for me (other than keeping me fat). They were keeping things moving smooooooooooooth. Now, let’s hope the scale will start showing that I’m losing pounds on this South Beach thing, m’kay?

New season of Survivor starts tonight. Yes, already!

Limpy is officially staying more over at his real house than over here. This is a good thing I keep telling myself. Even if the Howler Monkeys aren’t keeping a food and water bowl out 24/7. (That certainly didn’t last long, did it?) I really think his new spacious and beautiful home (pictures will be coming at some point, I promise) made them stand up and take notice for once.

“Hey! They’re providing shelter for our cat! We can’t let them get away with that!”

“We’ve got a cat?”

Tomorrow: I’ve finally figured out what to do for the Reward and Punishment plan I need to finish my November Novel. Nothing like a little bit of guilt to motivate, huh?

February 9, 2007

It’s a good afternoon here now that our dental appointments are out of the way. WS didn’t get to meet the horrid Dr. Angel because after the doctor came in and checked my teeth (after which they were to check his as our appointments were for the same time), the doctor promptly told everyone they had the flu and went home for the day. WS swears that if I end up with the flu because of that stunt, he’ll have some strong words for that place; some very, very strong words. I wonder if it was one of those ‘Friday flu’ kinds of things.

When Dr. Angel checked my teeth, I didn’t see anything that looked like the flu. I was however, painfully aware of their horrible bedside manner when the doctor stuck a water pic in my mouth and abruptly turned it on without warning. “Oh gee, I probably should have warned you first, huh?” was the comment I got in response to my jump in the chair. My face was drenched and my sore tooth was screaming because of the cold water. I wanted to wrap the water hose tightly around the doctor’s neck. I simply glared instead which was ignored.

Minutes before, out in the waiting room, I softly mentioned to the receptionist that I wished to change dentists because I wasn’t aware that my regular dentist was going to leave the practice. I didn’t say I didn’t like Dr. Angel. But unfortunately, the only other dentist there is also no longer practicing because of medical reasons (he’s having blood clot problems). So it’s Dr. Angel or nothing for the time being until they hire someone new. Maybe the receptionist desk had a microphone and Dr. Angel heard me? Either that or Doctor Angel is an ass. Just my luck. When I finally decide life is too short to put up with a crappy dentist, there aren’t any others readily available to pick from.

So yesterday I promised to share what I had decided to use as my writer’s Reward vs. Punishment plan. It had to be something that spoke to me, that meant something powerful to me, and something that I would take seriously. And I finally found it. It’s something that hits home in the wallet and would be wasteful if it wasn’t used. I hate stuff like that so I knew this would work.

I bought a domain name in the name I’ll use as a published author. Just to make it extra real, I bought both .org and .net in the name (which I’m not going to disclose until I’m further along in my writing). Unfortunately, the .com domain was already taken by some southern lawyer but I’ll be watching that one like a hawk. The first time I see it expire, it’s mine.

Now, why would I pay money for a domain name that I won’t be using for a while? I’m not a published author yet. That could still take a while. Why? Because one of the most important things an author can do is to get their own domain name registered. It’s a fan base/publicity thing that publishers and agents want their clients to have in place. But it’s only good if one is serious and that I am. The thought of slacking off and not writing while paying for this would eat me alive. I can’t afford this if I’m not going to do something with it and I can’t do anything with it if I don’t write. Hence, it’s a motivation/guilt thing: A reward that takes me toward the more professional end goal if I write, a punishment hitting home where it hurts if I don’t.

The scary thing is, WS bought his too. Only time will tell if he uses it as a Reward vs. Punishment thing for his motivation.

February 10, 2007

Since switching our bad eating habits to the South Beach diet way, we’ve made up daily menus. I can honestly say I haven’t eaten this good since we were eating out at restaurants; real restaurants with fabric tablecloths and napkins and goblets for both water AND wine and where everyone is dressed nicer than I could ever hope to be. Designer omelets for breakfast with Canadian bacon or our latest find, turkey bacon, Crab and Avocado salad for lunch (just one recipe of dozens), and Broiled Pine Nut, Feta, and fresh basil Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms for dinner. Of course there’s the Ricotta Cheese Pudding desserts or Espresso Custard if one chooses.

The recipes are all pretty much snaps to make with minimal mess to the kitchen. Clean up takes less than ten minutes from top to bottom. I continue to be amazed.

For some reason I thought the coming week’s menu creation was going to be a little like pulling teeth. We’re coming up on three weeks of eating this way; the reruns are bound to start soon and boredom would soon follow. But I’m still surprised and we’re still going strong.

Tonight’s dinner (Day 20) will be Swedish meatballs (made from ground white breast turkey) with reduced Chicken Broth gravy and Cauliflower Soup (which we both love). Today’s lunch was Bean Dip Taco Salad.

Tomorrow’s breakfast will be either a broiled turkey or buffalo patty or an omelet made with whatever veggies speak to us from the fridge. Lunch will be Broiled Mozzarella, Tomato, and fresh Rosemary Melts. Dinner is the Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms mentioned above with Nutty Summer Squash and Asiago Cheese. This particular meal really speaks to my preferred semi-vegetarian side.

Monday through Wednesday’s dinners include Classic Buffalo Burgers (sans buns – no bread of any kind on phase one of South Beach), Piri Piri Chicken, Sesame Ginger veggies, Sautéed Mushrooms, and Cold Boiled Shrimp.

I truly haven’t missed going out to eat since we’ve started this in mid March, but here’s the best part.

I’ve lost eight pounds.

Me, Blogeois, who abhorred breakfast and usually only ate two meals a day at most, lost eight pounds by eating. Actually, I lost eight pounds two days ago but I didn’t trust the scale. It’s official now – eight pounds and with all this food, three squares a day, plus dessert if I want it plus two snacks during the day (if I remember and believe me, I remember!) and without a shred of exercise even!

Another official data point: I fit into all my 38×36 Levis now. Every last one of them, even the ‘skinniest’ pair (most women will know what I mean here). This is the first time since last winter I’ve worn pants around the house instead of elastic waist shorts and without the top button undone. Yeah, I’m loving it.

Here’s to looking forward to digging out all my old 36×36 square pants next. Maybe in a few months I’ll try to stuff myself into a pair to see how far or close I am. South Beach diet? Where have you been all my life?

February 11, 2007

What fun we’re having. Sarcasm at it’s thickest.

We’re trying to learn a new blogging tool because we know just enough HTML to get ourselves in trouble and we thought we’d give ourselves a break for once by using something designed specifically for the job = meaning something that contains everything that works the way they are supposed to work.

First up, Movable Type. I love the look and feel several Movable Type themes. Unfortunately, we can’t figure out for the life of us why it won’t run on our computers. The files eat themselves literally. But then again, there was also that little matter of them buying Live Journal last year. I’m not saying any more.

Next, we headed over to WordPress. I particularly like a few WordPress themes for their clean, crisp, and classic looks. I also like their price: Free. Unfortunately, five minutes after WS got it installed and turned me loose, I crashed the whole thing, lost files, and error-ed myself right out of the ability to do anything with it including logging out of the Admin site. I really should have been a software test technician in life.

Sometime later, I plan on learning Blogger. Actually, it will be a re-learning process for me. Blogeois.com was originally run as a Blogger site back when their servers used to crash daily and blogs were deleted by their admins just for the heck of it. From what I hear now, the crashing only happens once or twice a week now.

If worse comes to worse, I’ll dig out the old HTML for Dummies book and set up my name’s domain name website by hand, the way I was originally taught and the way I prefer to do it anyway. No Frontpage web builder crap for me! If I’m going to create a site that looks bad on everyone else’s computer except mine and contains nothing that works correctly, I’m going to hand code it myself thankyouverymuch!

February 12, 2007

I received an email late last night from MsNoManagementSkills as part of a mass emailing I could go on and on about what it said but you’d probably want to see it for yourselves.

“Valentine’s Day is Wednesday so you better show me some love!”

Two years after severing ties with my horrible ex-boss/coworker and she still won’t let go. Let’s weep together for those who have to work with her now.

February 13, 2007

Don’t you hate it when you’ve misplaced something and try as you may, no matter how much you rip up the place from top to bottom, no matter how much you berate yourself for losing it, and no matter how much you snap at others around you, you just can not find that item? Yeah, me too.

I know where I put it back in October but for whatever reason, it isn’t there now. I mean, where else would I have put it? Anywhere else wouldn’t have made sense. It’s not like it’s something I use every day, only for special occasions, and it’s not like it’s the only one I have. It’s just that I wanted to use this one for a couple of days and it’s simply gone. I’ll leave it to you to guess what it is.

On a happier note, I made up business cards for my writer’s self yesterday and only required WS’s assistance for the printing part of it. Well, that and he listened patiently to me rant and rave as usual about the computer errors I kept running into which is also usual fare for me. Sometimes, electronics and I don’t get along. No big surprise there.

I was in luck that we happened to have business card paper in the house, obviously from a project I started and never followed through on years ago. Boy, was I ever glad though. I love my business cards! And just because I could, here’s the Blogeois version of how they look.

Want to make your own for free? Go here:

February 14, 2007

So, Happy Valentine’s Day. WS was shocked.

No really, he was shocked. He was swapping out a dead dimmer switch upstairs in the bathroom when, for whatever reason, he turned the electricity back on before he was finished. A good healthy zap is probably exactly what some people’s hearts need today.

And what’s in store for me? Well, let’s just say I won’t be playing with any light switches. Or printers. Or computers. Maybe not TVs too much either – all things that I’ve zapped in the past 24-48 hours. Great timing. Good thing I don’t have anything planned for today. That’s right. Absolutely nothing.

Hmm, I wonder if I can get the washer to break next?

February 15, 2007

Okay, I have a confession and it’s time to come clean. Remember back around Christmas when I said we weren’t going to buy ourselves anything? And we went ahead and bought kitchen knives anyway? Well, we love them but that’s not the confession. We bought ourselves something else back then too but we didn’t get it until today.

We bought tickets for a big writer’s conference in San Diego. With first class seats for the trip down. And a side trip to Wild Animal Park for a photo op. And then we get to fly back in a puddle jumper plane in a roundabout trip out of Seattle. And I purposely didn’t want to think about it or talk about it until yesterday because if I thought of all the firsts I get to experience, I was afraid I might burst from excitement. Or at least invite the insomnia back.

So, the house sitter is here, the pet sitter is lined up, Old Man Skitters and The Queen are comfortably lodging at our vet, perfectly good appliances have been unplugged, clutter removed, personal papers locked away, instructions posted, plants watered, refrigerator emptied, bags packed, trash taken out, journal posted, pets picked up and hugged, and now we’re just waiting for our ride to the airport.

Of course you know I’ll be taking all kinds of notes both on the conference and on the people I see there and if I’m lucky, I’ll even find a way to blog from there. But in the off chance that San Diego doesn’t have Internet access (*wink), see you early next week. Y’all play nice!

February 20, 2007

We’re home and boy, there’s never been a more welcome sight. We had fun, learned a lot, and had quite the adventure yesterday including nearly having to spend the night in the Sea-Tac airport thanks to a group of partying Russians. But let’s focus on the good first.

The weather was warm and very good in San Diego, Monday excluded in which it was very Pacific Northwest and us not having taken jackets didn’t fair well. Our hotel was right off the freeway and had numerous Koi ponds and beautiful waterfalls throughout the grounds. The pool was to die for even for die-hard pool haters like me but we didn’t go swimming. Of the four restaurants on site, two were closed and being remodeled, one was staffed by rude people and questionable fish, and the other was good enough to eat there everyday, which we did, save one, but mostly because we didn’t want to drive anywhere else.

We stuck to our South Beach diet regime religiously and did not gain a single pound. We also didn’t lose anything either but that could be in part due to restaurant use of butter – they all use it to cook everything.

The writing conference was held on site at their small but comfortable seven-room convention center, five of which were used for programs throughout the day and night. We decided to spring for a rental car upfront after toying with the decision not to get one until our last evening. That paid off in a way we didn’t expect – we didn’t have to trudge all the way back up to our room located on the far end of the fourth floor to get notebooks and materials each time we switched programs because we found a parking slot conveniently located near the center entrance.

The first day we oriented ourselves with area and the hotel. I also made a pilgrimage to La Jolla beach. I’m just not happy if I can’t touch sea water at least once a year. Friday, the conference began with hour and a half long programs started after lunch. Right off the bat, I became concerned. The program “Pitching Your Book” didn’t contain a shred of how to go about pitching your book, yet the speaker was very good and delivered lots of good information. Pitching a book refers to giving an agent or agents, editors, and/or publishers the five or ten minute sales pitch on why they need to be interested your novel. It’s a scary process from what I understand and understandably so because most writers aren’t sales people. But it’s required and I’m on the cusp of needing to know how to do it. After this program, I considered the time spent a waste.

WS, however, got a good vibe out of the program and was happy to note that we had committed to attending all the rest of the speaker’s programs throughout the weekend. That made me happy because half the point of attending in my mind was to see if WS could handle going to writing conferences and secretly, to see if he was serious about writing at all.

The second program was held by a Canadian humor author who had me in stitches with his accents which were all done for comic relief. However, once again, the name of the program was a bit deceiving “Writing Stories like You Talk.” As much as it may sound like he may have stuck to the description with his various French Canadian and California accents, he didn’t say anything about actually writing that way. Most writers know that phonically writing accents out in stories is more annoying to the reader and editors than not. It was basically a standup comedy with bits of writing advice thrown in with the exception of that he sat down throughout the program due to a medical condition.

But he was humorous even though I thought he laughed at his own jokes too much. I bought one of his self-published books to understand more of his style and really, I found that his writing isn’t that funny. I thought Erma Bombeck was mildly humorous but not over-the-top funny and he’s been compared as a male Canadian version of her. That much is true. But if this is what people see as funny nowadays, I’m pretty sure I could write something equally as good should I decide humor is the path for me. So with that, I called this program a keeper.

After dinner we sat in on the opening introduction speeches and listened to Amy Wallen, the latest ‘new’ humor author whom neither of us found terribly humorous at all. Unfortunately, all her books sold out early in the conference so I couldn’t pick one up to study. I wanted to see what it was that made some big publishing house think she’s all that and a bag of chips. After the speeches, we headed toward the Rogue Read and Critique sessions that ran from nine p.m. until the wee hours of the morning. Having never attended a read and critique session, nor knowing the authors that ran them, I randomly picked a room from the three offered.

It was there, at the first night’s Rogue workshop, listening to excerpts of other writer’s works that I decided to stick my neck out and for the first time ever, to read something I wrote myself.

Tomorrow: More program critiques and finally, my time to read and be critiqued arrives.

February 21, 2007

The Rogue Read and Critique author was Matt Pallamary, whom I didn’t know from Adam. When we walked into the quiet room, a read and critique for one of the attendee’s had just finished. That was good because we didn’t interrupt anyone by asking what was going on. We were complete greenhorns.

We sat at the far end of the table, kind of off by ourselves, listening as person after person read their work and group critiques were offered, followed by Mr. Pallamary’s professional critique, and we assumed that we would probably get up and leave after a short while. I was the one who wanted to see what this was all about after all. WS humored me but to give him credit of which he deserves in heaps, he stayed until midnight.

It didn’t take long, however, before we were adding critiques of our own to each reader’s read work. Several times Mr. Pallamary commented that we were on the money with our comments and a couple of times I credited the small writing group I’m a part of here at home as a good teacher.

Overall, it was fascinating. Some writers work was great, with good voice and style, poetic but without being too much, while others were the exact opposite. You can assume that means some writing was awful. Truly awful. There were excerpts from the school of ‘coupon collecting’ (a science fiction writing method of collecting things over the course of the story, ala Lord of the Rings), there were rants about suicide, there were pages upon pages of over-adverbed description of fire tickling up tall pines, and there were lots and lots of Spanish/Mexican/Native American tales of gang activity and the longing for death with honor. We were in San Diego after all and so I guess that makes sense. (I’ll touch on this later.)

During a short break in the program, we left and headed back up to our room. On the way, I decided the writing sample I brought on a lark wasn’t anywhere near as bad as some of the stuff we had just heard. WS was exhausted and decided to hit the sack but I wanted to go back for a while longer. And so, after briefly skimming an excerpt from ‘Enthusiast’, I took a few pages and rejoined the Read and Critique alone.

A charming and delightful old woman from Scotland was reading her ‘excerpt’ when I returned. And she kept reading. And kept reading some more. Her voice was very sing-song-y and honestly, the whole room was enchanted by it. She could have been reading a grocery list and we all would have called “Again!” when she finished, her voice was so good. I immediately dubbed her “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

But after 40-plus minutes, Mr. Pallamary stopped Mrs. Doubtfire. It was clear she would have gone on for days if allowed. The critique given was very favorable. Boiled down, it came out to your basic “Why aren’t you already published?” question. Tighten up your writing a bit, Mrs. Doubtfire, and you’ll be a best selling author, no question about it.

Before another reader started up, I added my name to the list of readers and waited my turn.

Another couple of readers read their excerpts which were thankfully much shorter than Mrs. Doubtfire but unfortunately weren’t anywhere near as entertaining. And then Mr. Pallamary said he was tired and called for the rest of the group to be carried over until the following evening. That included my reading. Instantly, I thought, “Sure, I’m okay with that” and my emotions were still high and positive.

But during the following day, I began questioning my writing again. That’s so me!

February 22, 2007

Over breakfast I went on and on about some of the readers from the following night. I honestly didn’t know what WS thought about me wanting to read but I got the impression later on that had he had some of his material there, he too might have been persuaded to do the same. Throughout the day, we touched on the topic here and there but focused more on the day programs.

The morning began with ‘Outlining & Translating Idea into Story’ by Bob Mayer. It was good and I took three pages of notes. Mr. Mayer was also touting his book, “The Novel Writer’s Toolkit” which is a Writer’s Digest book and supposedly very good. We had it here at home though neither one of us has had a chance to read it yet. Most everything I wrote notes-wise is in the book and that’s good because Mr. Mayer used slides to show examples and he didn’t slow down long enough for anyone to really jot down too much of what was displayed on them. He kept telling everyone that everything was in his book and to no surprise, his big supply of Toolkit books sold out quickly. Brilliant salesmanship. I’ll have to remember that.

Next up came ‘Crafting Characters that Jump Off the Page’ by an author who essentially told the group of about 50 people that if they couldn’t hear him talk, it was too bad because he didn’t talk loud. Numerous people got up and left.

He confessed it was his first time leading a group at a conference and it showed. Instead of talking, he had us all write an exercise and then had people come up front and read what they wrote. It had nothing to do with the program title and it didn’t take long before we had had enough. To further frustrate things, it soon became clear that several of the people who gladly jumped up front to read their exercise didn’t really adhere to the exercise specifications. It was if this was acting class or something. People were reading things previously written or making stuff up out of their heads. They were trying to impress a published author. I’ll have to remember that too.

So, needless to say, we ducked out early. Good thing too because it was time for lunch and ditching a program put us before the big lunch crowd at the only open restaurant on site. After lunch we attended a program called ‘Getting from Good to Publishable.’ I was lukewarm on the topic but then, with about fifteen minutes left in the session, the session leader and author, Maralys Wills, said something that made my ears perk up. She told us a story of writing a book about aviation as if a man had written it. And she received kudos for doing it without anyone realizing she was a woman.

This really spoke to me because I am currently trying to do the same with my car novel. It also made up my mind for me. I definitely was going to read my excerpt that night no matter what.

The following program was ‘Rewriting the Novel’ and although I can’t recall too much about it, it must have been good because I took three pages of notes on it. As you might imagine, my mind was elsewhere, like on how badly I thought I was going to read that night.

Early in the evening we sat through an agents and editors panel that had me fuming in no time. Anyone who thinks agents and editors exist to help the writer get published is living in a fantasy world because most of them are most definitely not. As to what exactly they are doing to pull in their big salaries is anyone’s guess but it didn’t take long before we all got the impression that we, as writers, were basically annoyances and would best serve the world by leaving them the Hell alone. Unless we were all writing wonderful children’s books and were Madonna. Or writing Christian romance.

The panel was horribly de-motivational and depressing and I have a feeling this is going to become a sore spot with me the further along I get toward getting published because it wasn’t the first time I’d heard this song and dance.

After the panel came the banquet which involved copious amounts of networking because we didn’t know anyone there. We had very interesting people at our table and probably did more than our fair share of talking. The banquet speaker was good but again, my mind was mostly elsewhere. The Rogue Read and Critique workshops started immediately afterward, at nine and I was starting to feel all goosey and blubbery inside.

Nine o’clock rolled around and still the banquet speaker was rambling on. I knew where my workshop author was seated in the room so I kept an eye on him. When he left, I would know it was time to go. Thankfully, someone stopped the banquet speaker shortly after and that ended that portion of the evening. I practically ran out to the car to get my reading material and feeling shaky, headed toward the workshop room. WS was with me and I honestly couldn’t tell you at the time if that made it better or worse. I choose to think of it as for the better. After we sat down, he pulled out his voice recorder and got it ready for my turn to read.

Three hours later, which was three hours longer than I thought it would take, the group took a break. Mr. Pallamary said I was next after the break. Up until that point, I had silently read and reread my material at least a dozen times. And each time I did, I found something to edit out. By the time of the break, my first page was covered with marks, scribbles, and lines drawn through rows of text. I had been listening with one ear to what was being said from the other critiques and found examples in my own work. I took that advice to heart and eliminated everything I could think of that would lead to an unfavorable review.

Finally, the time was upon me. Everyone settled back into their seats and several other people joined us from another session that had just ended next door. I kept telling myself to read slow, read slow because we had previously heard from a couple of young men who raced through their work regardless of being asked twice each to slow down. My problem reading out loud isn’t so much reading fast but stumbling over words because my eyes get too far ahead of my tongue. Slow, go slow, I intoned. And then I began.

I prepared the group by saying that my excerpt was a few chapters into the novel, that Floyd had been previously introduced, that the story was about obsession around car shows and show cars (and that the two were most definitely different) and that the working title was ‘Enthusiast.’ This information seemed to have pleased Mr. Pallamary who had to ask it afterward of every previous reader.

I then read. I didn’t stumble until the last of my four pages and it wasn’t overly bad. I didn’t look up the entire reading but partway thru, I thought I had heard something going on further up the table. I didn’t let it stop me. But boy, oh boy, was I ever happy to get through that!

The first person who critiqued me asked if he had heard right. Unfortunately, rules of the Read and Critique state the author can’t answer questions until after all critiques are in. I kept my mouth shut which pleased Mr. Pallamary who ran the workshop. He has spent a lot of time berating other readers who answered early questions and it was a sore spot with him.

Another person asked the same thing and then the flood gates opened from all the critiquers. Several people said they were a bit shocked at what they thought they heard, some said it made them catch their breaths including one guy who is a self-professed, hardcore horror author whose work is in published short story anthologies, novels, and in television. Other’s liked the detail, the rich and evil aspect of the character Floyd, and some liked the length of parts while others said it took too long to get to the dialog.

Mr. Pallamary’s professional critique came at the end and he said he was instantly taken back to a time in his youth when he remembered falling in love with a car at a local car show. He then described the car. That was the only time I almost spoke too soon. It’s a car that belongs to the guy I helped last year run the Portland Roadster Show but I had to wait until after my critique was over to tell him that. Mr. Pallamary suggested I cut just a little bit of opening detail and a little bit of ending dialog to tighten it up. He suggested cutting a couple of extraneous lines here and there to make Floyd’s character seem not so much over the top. And he said I did a great job of showing instead of telling; a writer’s concept that I thought had continued to elude me.

Finally, I was allowed to speak and I told a little bit more about the scene. Everyone agreed that the imagery I captured, which was all done via dialog, would stick in their heads for a long time and I took that as a great compliment, especially coming from the hardcore horror author. He, in particular, loved it and so did Mr. Pallamary. I told everyone that the car Mr. Pallamary spoke of in his memory sounded like the car a friend of mine owned and the more he talked about it, the more I was certain it was. It didn’t take long before I was explaining to the non-car people in the group what Kandy paint, pin striping, and Willys Coupes looked like which was way more than I wanted to get into especially since the workshop had hours of readings still to get through.

We stayed for another hour of those readings but I don’t remember much about any of them. I was still jotting down remembered notes. I am very glad WS got it all on tape. It was then that I noticed that my legs were visibly shaking. It was a while before they finally stopped.

The following morning, at breakfast in the hotel restaurant, we spotted Mr. Pallamary and the hardcore horror author having breakfast together nearby. I had forgotten to ask a very important question about my reading the night before and I was dying to know so after we finished eating, I approached their table professing apologies for interrupting them. They both said it was no problem and invited both WS and I to join them. They were so nice and so I dived in with my question.

Keeping Maralys Wills program information from the day before in mind, I asked if either of them got the sense that what I had read was written by a woman. I received exactly what I had hoped – nope. Victory! Then they both shared interesting stories about several woman authors who wrote as men for men without anyone knowing it including a woman who wrote gun and ammunition reviews for Soldier of Fortune magazine under the guise of Shotgun Al (or something similar to that) until she finally told the editors who she was some thirteen years later. Seems she initially wrote her first piece for the magazine and signed it with her real name and it was rejected immediately. She resent the same piece signed by Shotgun Al and it was published. Thus began her career as a freelance contributor until she tired of the game . . . and after her savings account was fat and happy.

Tomorrow: The conference wraps up and it’s time to enjoy a day to ourselves. Or not.

February 23, 2007

Sunday brought a close to the Writer’s Conference after several more programs – Your Voice as a Writer with Bob Mayer, the author WS liked so much, The Hollywood Book Shuffle with a panel of authors; this one bored us to tears and we bailed early; The Current and Future State of Publishing for the Writer, also with Mr. Mayer, and finally, Suspending Disbelief in the Supernatural by Alexandra Sokoloff, a program that was odd but good in an odd sort of way. I say odd mostly because it somehow spoke to WS in a way that got him to participate in the program discussion in front of strangers and everything which is so completely not like him.

Afterward, they had another agent/editor panel of which I was not about to subject myself to followed by Conference awards, and a final Rogue Read and Critique session but we had already checked out of our hotel room early that morning and were scheduled to hit the road up to Rancho Bernardo for a final day for ourselves. After the program WS participated in and after a wistful goodbye said on my part, we left San Diego at 4:30 during rush hour (yes, even on Sunday) and were at the new hotel in Rancho Bernardo by five. California drivers, heh. They ain’t got nothing on me.

The new hotel is located a quarter mile from the California plant that WS has to go to when he’s required to travel for work and in fact, the hotel we stayed in is the same as the one he stays at on those trips. So it was nice to see where he stays. The place also has those Sleep Number beds and that was the best part of the night we spent there. WS thought my Sleep Number would be 100, and sure enough, it was. What can I say: I like things hard. (like writing – you and you, get your minds out of the gutter).

The worst part of the night we spent there were finding pubic hairs all over the white down comforter on the bed, thick black curly ones, and the blow dryer had been used one too many times to cook meth or something. Or maybe it was all the toothpicks someone had jammed into the back of it. Whichever, I shouldn’t have bothered trying to dry my hair the next morning because when we checked out of the hotel, it was pouring rain.

WS had arranged for us to meet up with a coworker who lived in the area at Wild Animal Park and who eluded that since he had an annual pass, that our entrance fee would be somewhat reduced in cost. Not so as it turned out. Sixty dollars later and much lighter in wallet, we were going through the turnstiles and headed toward the far end of the park – to the Lion exhibit.

Many, many photos in the steady rain later, we were cold and wet. And why? Certainly not because it was raining, but because the weather channel online and Weather Underground both said it was going to be sunny and dry for ten days. And armed with that knowledge, we left our jackets, sweaters, coats, parkas, and everything with long sleeves that might vaguely resemble something warm at home and were only wearing short sleeved Aloha shirts, Levis, and tennis shoes, the crux of all we had. But we weren’t the crazy ones – the guy we met up with wore shorts. He doesn’t even own long pants. Only in southern California, I guess.

Now, I am purposely leaving out an important part of this story because I have to give a little credit to someone who was ballsy enough to show up at the last minute to a place that had wild, untamed lions separated from us by scale-able moats and very short retaining walls. She’s a coworker whom WS is very uncomfortable working with especially since she began to apply pressure last year to meet him outside of work functions. She lives and works in California and is divorced with two teenage boys looking for a father. She’s a master engineer, makes a healthy six figure salary, gets lots of respect at work, and has a house three minutes from La Jolla Beach. What’s not to like about her?

Don’t get me started.

Or maybe I will tell the story. For starters, she drives a Toyota Prius for gawd sakes. A silver one with ecology stickers on it and rainbow Mac Apple logo in the back window. She repeatedly positioned herself and her sons to walk and stand uncomfortably close to WS the entire time we were there together as if they were a whole family. Meanwhile, I felt pushed off to one side and so I glared at her every chance I got as she did everything but hang all over WS.

And as a housewife without a beach house, without the bank account or fancy title or all the respect or bright job future or the phoo-phoo politically correct car, I’ll waste no time pulling my poor little unemployed housewife-y self and say directly to her face, “I’ll take your enginerd ass out in a heartbeat and feed you to the gawd damned lions if I ever see you pull that shit again.” That’s what.

By two in the afternoon, we were driving away into the soggy sunset after blowing off her insistent invite to come over to her house to spend the afternoon somewhere dry (like I need WS to know exactly where she lives so she can flippantly say anytime in the future, “Stop on by. You know where I live.”) and trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling the woman created. Or at least WS was. I was a seething ball of fury. And I was driving. You know what they say – Don’t drive angry. And so, I was trying not to by trying to channel my California surfer dude aura – Whatever, dude, it’s over. There’s enough anger in the world as it is. Don’t let it get to you. Chill.

We ended up driving directly to the airport and turned in the rental car in hopes of getting an earlier flight home but no dice. We had the earliest flight available that wasn’t overbooked by 32 people. I’m not kidding either. Every flight that day from Alaska airlines through to Continental, American, and United had grossly overbooked their flights. We would have to sit and wait for hours.

Sitting in the San Diego airport in the right terminal hub for Alaska flights puts you right in front of the Pizza Hut fast food satellite restaurant. A shift to one side or the other puts you in front of a Starbucks or a sports drinking bar, both out of sight of your posted flight information. It was murder sitting there smelling pizza for four and a half hours, though people watching made it bearable, but just barely.

One pee-wee hockey team with foul mouths and gold medals around their necks, one family with two partially blind yet overly active children, numerous other misbehaved children and ignoring parents, and eleven drunken Russians later, we were finally ready to get onto our plane. But wait! The Russians won’t move from where they camped on the floor in the first class line causing chaos for several minutes. They thought it was funny, and then they thought they were entitled to stand in whatever line they wanted. This was just the beginning of the fun we learned.

Once we got on the plane, after stepping over bodies and backpacks of partying Russians, there wasn’t enough room for carryon bags in the upper plane compartments which caused a delay in taking off. Not to worry. Everything just got shifted down a compartment or two and the last boarders had to have theirs stowed below. But the drunken Russians had other plans for taking off. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, seem to understand that they had to be in their seats before the plane took off. When one sat down, another stood up. When that one sat down, another stood up. And so on and so on.

For fifteen minutes. Amid laughter from only their group. It was a game.

Over and over the air personnel said over the speakers that the plane couldn’t taxi out onto the runway for take off until everyone was seated and belted in. Over and over, it didn’t make any difference to the Russians. It was a miracle that they soon tired of the game and that we got off the ground at all, albeit twenty minutes late.

There was a nasty head wind going from San Diego to Seattle where we were supposed to catch a connecting flight back to Portland. A half hour before we were supposed to land and rapidly closing in on the time the connecting flight was scheduled to take off, WS spoke to the air attendant about what to do in case we didn’t make the connection. She told us that to make our connection, we’d have to take the underground train from the N terminal at one end of the airport all the way across to the C terminal at the other end. She then assured WS that we’d get into port with plenty of time to spare but just in case, she’d make sure we got off the plane before anyone else.

An hour later, she was on my shit list too. The California surfer dude mentality had most definitely left the building.

Our connecting flight was scheduled to take off at 9:50 p.m. We arrived in Seattle at 9:40 but wait again! A drunken first class passenger wouldn’t allow anyone around her as she wobbled, wove, and belched her foul smelling dinner in the middle of the aisle taking twice as long as it should have taken to get her carryon luggage out. Bob and weave, bob, weave, and belch. Tug, tug. She couldn’t see that her bag was hung up on a latch. Bob, belch, stumble. “We need to get off the plane!” I said and was ignored. Tug, tug, stumble and finally her bag popped out.

The attendant acted as though she had completely forgotten that some of us had connecting flights to make, until we passed her on the way out. “Don’t worry, you’ll make it. Portland connections are, you know, slow.” She said and gave me a knowing smile and a pat on my arm.

I looked at my watch. Five minutes. We had five minutes to find some underground train in an airport neither of us had ever been in before and get onto a small prop plane that for all we knew was taxi-ing down the runway as she spoke. Of course, the drunken woman was ahead of us going up the exit and blocked our way the entire way out into the terminal.

After getting around her and out into the terminal, we ran. Down escalators and up escalators. Across whole darkened and shut down areas toward a sign that pointed to the train that said it took off every two minutes.

Actually, the Seattle airport train is pretty cool, but back to the story.

The train arrived right at 9:50. I know because I looked at my watch, something I had done every few minutes for the past hour. I was very keenly aware of the time . . . and the darkened terminals we had just run through . . . and the reader board that posted our connecting flight as the last flight of the evening.

We got off the train, still not knowing where we were supposed to be but just ran in a direction that seemed most logical. Up a pair escalators to the main terminal and toward a sign that started counting off the C gates – C2, C3, C4. I was wheezing by that point as I asked WS what gate we were supposed to be at. “C17” he said and I lost it.

First I tripped and caught myself. Then my big carryon bag banged hard up against my shin and the other slid from my shoulder and I fell to my knees on the concrete floor. Hard. I got up, took about three steps and caught my shoe on the non-skid strips on the unforgiving, polished floor. I fell even harder that time and couldn’t get up for a minute, I was wheezing so hard. My arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets from carrying the two bags (one full of books – yes, I’m an idiot), my knees felt like they were bleeding, and I just could.not.breathe.

WS helped me up; no one around came to my aid and there were lots of people in that immediate area. We kept going. WS told me to slow down but I just wanted to try to make the flight, I couldn’t give up now. I just wanted to get home, and then plot the murder of many people.

Amazingly, just around the corner, the C gates suddenly went from C7 to C17. Or maybe I had blacked out and was running blind and missed all the other gates. I just know I sprinted to the counter, threw my bags to the ground, and fell on top of them. Never do I recall books being so soft and comfortable. WS was right behind me.

The young man at the counter asked our names and found us on the passenger list. “Gee, I didn’t think anyone from your flight would make it here in time,” he said. “We ran.” I replied in between breaths.

He gave us back our check in tickets and waved us through. The problem here was, again, we still didn’t know where we were supposed to be going. I felt like what a cow must think going through all the chutes and gates toward its unknown slaughter. Go forward, the only way we could, down another escalator, then down damp stairs to a cold, windy hallway which rain had drenched.

A sign pointed to an opening out onto the tarmac. Gate A. A prop plane was backing out of space nearby. Was that our plane? Who knows? We had to stop to figure out which gate we were supposed to be leaving from. Gate B, the next one down and a plane sat there with its door open and a couple of ground crew standing nearby in the rain talking.

We must have been a sight at that point. It was cold, very cold, and the rain was whipping around from all directions in the wind. We were sweating, I was dirty from falling down, and I hadn’t had time to check to see if blood from my skinned knees had bled through my pants. We were rapidly getting soaked, again, standing there without jackets in the pouring Seattle rain, looking like we just ran from Hawaii. Or maybe swam would be a better descriptor.

The ground crew stared at us and I didn’t know what to do. “Do we leave our bags with you? Or can we take them?” I asked. Actually, it was more like a yell because the plane’s engines were starting up.

“You can take one,” one of them yelled and I grabbed our incidentals bag that held WS’s wallet and all the books. WS told the ground crew he wanted to take one of his two bags too, his big camera bag, that he had lots of camera equipment in it, but they wouldn’t let him take it. Or the other one either. Or my other bag. They took them and shooed us up the steps leading into the plane.

I didn’t know what seat we were supposed to be in but a woman waved her hand back near the back of the plane where two seats were empty. We stumbled down the narrow aisle and collapsed into our seats. If they were the wrongs seats, I was fine with someone telling us. My brain was done trying to figure everything out on our own.

And that’s when I realized I had made a bad mistake.

It wasn’t until I was in my seat that I realized I should have taken a different bag with me. Or at least taken my purse out of the bag I had to leave to be stowed in the belly of the plane. Because in my purse, that WS told me to put in my other bag when we went through security originally, was my asthma inhaler and by then, we were taxi-ing down the runway and my lungs were slowly closing up.

I had forgotten one good thing about small prop planes. They bounce, and it was very, very windy that night. And the second best thing asthmatics love behind having a year’s supply of full Ventolin inhalers stashed away is adrenalin.

That plane bounced and then some. Up and down, up and down, way up and way, way down. The plane was full of college girls who yelled, “WHEEEE!” at nearly every drop and though I’m sure it annoyed some people, it didn’t bother me in the least. In the forty minute flight from Seattle to Portland, my wheezing had nearly stopped, my lungs were open and clear.

The ride home from the airport was terribly anticlimactic. Because it was the most stress-free part of the entire day, really, the first time we had been able to really relax, and even though the driver forgot our address and took a roundabout way to get us home, I insisted we give him a big tip. At that point I probably would have emptied my pockets and given him everything I had . . . had we not spent it all for admission at the Wild Animal Park earlier that morning.

So even after the adventures of the last day, all and all, it was a good trip. We now know what Seattle airport looks like and how it operates. We got our bags, books, and camera equipment home in one piece and with nothing damaged or missing. My knees are black and blue but I found I had packed the kahonies I needed to read a portion of my work and got a favorable critique from published authors. We spent time together and saw the ocean and stuck to our diet and didn’t gain a pound.

And best of all, we made it home in one piece and I now have lots more characters I can write about . . . and murder in my stories.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

February 26, 2007

Today was the day I was determined to get back on track for many of the things I should be doing here at home, writing being number one on the list. And I did just that. I worked on a motivational/advice piece that I’ll probably never use anywhere but for myself when I have down days, and the beginning of a short fiction story about a guy who has been working the writer’s conference circuit for far too long.

Snow has been forecast for our area early tomorrow morning. I can surely tell you one thing: It is cold out there. The hills behind us were dusted with snow all day making me wish we lived a few more hundred feet up. Easy for me to say because I don’t drive in the stuff.

We’ve got crocus coming up in the back yard but the rain is doing them in. I still need to get photos of Limpy’s house which he is using fairly regularly now. And I need to download the Wild Animal Park photos I took last week. If you’ve been hanging around here long, you also know that I need to repaint the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom sometime this spring. All in good time. I made up a gardening to-do list over the weekend and am happy to report that it’s fairly short and if I don’t watch out, I just may get all the bulleted items on it done this year.

All in all, things are getting back to normal. It sounds like we were gone for months or something instead of five days but there’s a lot involved when we both go out of town and that is the reason why we rarely ever do. Part of why things are slow to return to normal is the number of things I put off doing until after our trip. I’m just now catching up on them.

Time to go eat a handful of almonds. I’m starving!

February 27, 2007

Whew! What a day! I think all errands, obligations, appointments, and any thing else resembling the aforementioned items are finally done. Or at least until the end of next week. We had a bit of a pet crisis topping the chart today. The Queen has been officially diagnosed with Hyperthyroidism and must take twice daily medication for the rest of her life. On the other end of the scale, Old Man Skitters has officially been diagnosed with having a neurological issue that is making him turn circles, literally, and always to the left. Circle, circle, circle. It’s maddening to watch. The vet startled us a bit in asking if we thought he was past the stage of being happy, with a reference to his quality of life. I thought long and hard and answered that I didn’t think it was his time yet, even though he is fighting with everyone here at home. I’ve got a strong mental bond with most of our pets and his is one of my strongest and I know my answer just wasn’t my wishful thinking talking. I really don’t think his life is nearing its end.

So between those appointments, picking up groceries to fill a very, very empty refrigerator, and taking WS to work and back, my day was pretty much shot. I had a couple of other things I really wanted to do, and my original plans for the day had to be tossed out the window. No time for writing, no going out with a friend to hear an author speak this evening, no stopping by a local craft shop to browse although I don’t really think I would have gone there in the first place, and not much in the way of eating something either. I’ve done a poor job of paying attention to time lately and not eating lunch or snacks and this leaves me famished in the evening. But we’re still sticking to the South Beach diet and I’m down 12 pounds since January 22nd. Go me.

The light outside is nearly gone for the day and we’re in the middle of a big hail storm. The street out front is covered in white almost as if it snowed. We’re supposed to get down to freezing tonight and I’m thinking tomorrow morning’s rush hour traffic is going to be interesting.

February 28, 2007

Well, it hasn’t snowed here, not really (no big surprise), but we did see a few flakes here and there. It’s hailed on and off this morning but nothing like last night. This morning, the ground was still white with hail from then but it’s mostly melted now. This is traditional Pacific Northwest spring weather and nothing new for us. Of course, the minute I type that, the precipitation outside changes to a hail/snow mix. I love this weather!

I was surprised to hear that San Diego had freezing rain today and that’s made me doubly rethink attending next year’s Writer’s Conference (written as if we could afford it.) Actually, if I attend another conference, I think it’ll be in another city at a different time of year. February isn’t really a good time for us to travel away from home because of weather uncertainties. Too many ‘What If?’ scenarios run through my head – What if our pet sitter couldn’t get here? What if our house sitter ran into weather-related problems with pipes or the fountain? What if our flights were cancelled? Makes me sound like Chicken Little, doesn’t it? What if the sky fell?

And then there’s the whole argument on whether we need to attend other conferences. I am keenly aware that writing conferences are an industry in themselves and sometimes high on making money while being low on benefit to budding writers. We don’t need to attend writer conferences, at least not right now. Sure, it was good to see how they operate and for networking, nothing beats it, but it’s time to put pen to paper and use what we learned.

I’m continuing to burn candles left and right here to cull the herd. Got through another one over the weekend (Yankee peach) and another one yesterday (Tuscan herb). Currently, the remaining two larger Tuscan herb candles are burning in the kitchen, while four others, a cilantro herb, a Yankee Vineyard candle, a no-scent ugly orange one, and small spicy tea light, burn up here in the Library. The Yankee Vineyard one smells like sugary grape Kool-Aid. The cilantro one, which doesn’t smell anything like cilantro btw, is good for cutting through the overly sugary smell of the other. But would I buy any of them again? Nope. No one needs this many candles. I’m looking forward to having more room in the cupboard once I get through another dozen or so. More room for what is anyone’s guess.

March 1, 2007

Happy March! Spring’s just around the corner and for once, I’m happy about it. And that’s not just the coffee talking either.

I love coffee. I can say that now but let me be more specific: I love caffeinated coffee. All my piled up projects love it when I drink caffeinated coffee because I make great strides toward getting them done. If only I didn’t have house cleaning that had to come first. Oh well, that room painting, gardening, power washing the outdoor siding, and writing the novel will just have to wait their turns. Laundry and vacuuming come first. Who knew I could get six loads of laundry done from start to finish in one evening?

Please bear in mind that I haven’t had caffeinated anything in a month. Okay, so I broke one of the South Beach diet rules. I made a pot here at home and I did NOT have it with sweetener of any kind. Tomorrow I go back to the decaffeinated stuff and my usual tired and lazy self . . . but without all that laundry staring me in the face and without dust bunnies swirling around my knees.

Or it could be that I am remembering one year ago today when I led a group of eleven sports cars down into Portland to the Convention center to become part of a display that I designed for the annual Portland Roadster show and the rain stopped for the two hours that took. And the display took the top prize. And despite the seemingly unending requests that I do it all again this year, the emails from The Monkey Club finally stopped last week and I’m pretty sure they got the hint that I’m not interested.

I giggle when I think of what this year’s chairperson for that event is feeling today because it was both snowing and hailing this morning. I couldn’t begin to describe how stressed I would be feeling right this minute had I been running the show again this year or participating in it with my car. All those traffic headaches. All that gravel and de-icing chemical all over the roads.

Still, I wish the new chairperson and all participants luck . . . and hope that they got the proper licensing to use the display materials I had to license last year from the historical photo artist, or at least that no one tips off the artist if they didn’t. I’m giggling because I know they didn’t because all that proper stuff I carefully assembled last year to be used by this year’s chairperson was unceremoniously dumped in the trash moments after I handed it over. Technically, The Monkey Club could be looking at a big fat fine if they didn’t but whatever. So sad but a valuable lesson to myself. It’s way past time to move on.

March 3, 2007

Unsettling thoughts:

Shrimp boiled in plain water and eaten without any sauce or glaze makes me gain weight. Who knew?

For all the candle burning I’m doing, our collection is still growing. I found another pack of eight votives in the back of a kitchen cupboard.

ABC is making a comedy sitcom pilot using the Geico Cavemen.

March 7, 2007

Well, if that wasn’t as much fun as a poke in the eye with a sharpen stick I don’t know what else would be. I’m back, or our main computer is back I should say. I’ll bet you didn’t even miss me.

Last Saturday evening, WS finally got me to try playing this game he found. Another Age of Kings thing I think it was. The whole experience was so . . . so frustrating and anticlimactic I think I’ve blocked out the details but anyway, I played one round, a round I was led to believe would take days to win and it was . . . intriguing. So I played another round. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do at the time anyway and I was ignoring all the writing and reading I’m supposed to be doing for the moment.

Halfway through the game, something changed and things to click on stopped responding correctly. I know this behavior; it says: WARNING! Computer isn’t happy. Stop. Clear files. Restart. Wave bowls of warm tapioca over keyboard in a circular motion counterclockwise and pray.

Usually that does the trick. But these weren’t usual circumstances and so, I kept playing.

An hour an a half later, I gave up in frustration. Things wouldn’t work the way they were supposed to and I, who thought up to that point that that was the way the game was supposed to work, complained to WS who was playing his own game in another part of the room. He wasn’t happy to see that the game wasn’t working either and so I quit.

And that’s when the problems started.

I couldn’t bring up web sites. I couldn’t check email. I couldn’t do anything including restart the computer but I had no idea that meant the thing has eaten half of itself.

WS worked until the wee hours of the morning, every morning, since then trying to fix it. Since he’s been working on and with computers for a long, long time, first he tried fixing the initial problem but it became apparent that the computer, ironically named after a famous volcano that blew itself up, would need a lobotomy. When that didn’t work, he had to resort to a complete tear down and rebuild. It’s back to working now and I’m supposed to take notes on anything I see that’s odd. Would the fact that I can find odd stuff where there isn’t any count?

The mouse felt wonky but I fixed it. I’m not a complete dolt when it comes to being able to do some things. I seem to have lost a few emails including one with a big attachment that is important. Our extensive music library isn’t hooked up yet and after listening to nearly the complete works of Electric Light Orchestra shortly before the computer died (that alone may have been the last straw) I find the need to hear parts of it again . . . maybe just as a test.

Windows Media player looks funky. Some computer files and web sites seem to open up to full screen (I hate that) while others don’t (mmm, that’s good) but really, I haven’t run into anything major so far. I’m just glad we’re not using Vista. Even without seeing it but reading more about it than any housewife probably should, I know my list would be a page and a half long already.

The good thing is we knew this was coming and then it came and now it should be fine for a long while. This computer has been acting up here and there for the past couple of years but because WS doesn’t use it often and doesn’t have problems with it, I don’t think he knows the extent of my frustrations. Then again, I can usually perform the above mentioned rituals and everything’s hunky-dory for the time being. All’s forgiven. Problems forgotten.

The other good thing is that during the long, arduous rebuilding process, we were using the down time effectively. We cleaned out our bedroom closet which was a complete disaster and avalanche-prone, and did the same with the library hall closet which had even more candles stashed in the back of it than I had initially thought, and now that closet holds almost all of our bed linens (it’s our big indulge – does anyone really need a dozen complete sets of 600 thread count sheets, five alone in different shades of green?) and the stash of candles have been reduced down to a 2×3 foot bag.

I also took photos of Limpy’s box outside (to be posted soon), got some reading in, and a bit of editing on a short story I may proceed with. I also enjoyed the two days of dry, clear weather, weeded a bit in the front yard, and took my car out for a spin yesterday whereas it rewarded me by fixing its one malfunctioning tire pressure sensor. Or at least it appears to have fixed itself without having to whip up tapioca pudding.

So, there you have it. How were your last few days? I’ve got some catching up to do.

March 8, 2007

WS’s Multiple Sclerosis has flared up again, frightening fast after his last exacerbation in January/early February and this go around is affecting his eyes.

Yesterday, he went into work with his eyes feeling a little off he later told me. He nearly didn’t make it home due to double vision, a symptom he gets on and off, though lately it’s been more off than on. No telling what we would have or could have done if he had to pull over on the 15 minute drive home from work. No amount of me railing on him, as his caregiver mind you, about not driving when he’s feeling off. Some people you can’t tell anything to, some people claim they are listening but it takes a major event in their lives to actually hear it. Others don’t even hear it then and those are lost in my opinion.

He spent the day home today wearing an eye patch to allow him to see at all and took a nap in lieu of me taking him into work. The sprinkler guy was scheduled to come out and check the lines and valves for spring anyway and someone would have had to be here for that. As it turned out, he didn’t arrive until mid-afternoon, too late for WS to make an important meeting that he cancelled out of earlier in the day.

So once again, the dark veil falls.

Long time readers know that April is my annual depression month. For whatever reasons, things tend to go poorly for me during the month of April despite my proactive efforts to keep that from happening. This year, depression is trying very hard to get its claws into me earlier than usual. There have been several events here that have started the boulder rolling, the least of which is WS’ MS flare up. During times like these I tell myself that I had better get used to it because MS isn’t something that gets better over time.

I thought I had trashed my laptop computer last night similarly to whatever I did to our main computer last weekend. That thought was almost too much to bear.

Changes are occurring around us (I’ll get into that later) that I can’t do anything about, plans changed, hopes changed, people are drifting out of our lives, and the world won’t, not for one measly second, let up. Too much injustice going on right now. I tell myself every time I drive now to watch the speed limit –April is notoriously bad for me and speeding tickets: Two years in a row, I got two tickets in April for speeding, both I was completely guilty of (we won’t even go into how many I’ve gotten in the month of October) and although I haven’t had one in almost 18 years, that doesn’t mean I’m home free. Some worries die hard and it’s all I can do to keep from sobbing sometimes.

March 10, 2007

I received this via email late last night from MsNoManagementSkills:

“If you plan on calling to wish me a happy birthday, wait until at least 11 please!”

Sure. Whatever you say, your Royal Highness. As if.

I’m still working on getting through all our candles. We have a couple hundred tea lights in various scents so I thought what better way to make the house smell great and burn through a lot of them quickly than to place a dozen or two (or more) on a tempered plate specifically designed for candle use.

This is flawed reasoning. After a couple days of doing just that, the tempered glass plate wasn’t up to the challenge today and shattered. It sounded like a bomb going off to be honest with you and made quite the mess.

I guess that’s one way to get rid of thirty one tea light candles.

March 11, 2007

I realized this morning that lots of other people are having computer problems just like lots of other people are going through bouts of depression. For some sick reason, that made me feel better. You know, misery loves company and all that. I can wallow alone or wallow knowing others are in the muck with me. Somehow that’s comforting and makes me look up instead of down into the mud. Get over myself.

I took it upon myself to switch all the clocks in the house to daylight savings time last night. No one was more surprised than me to see that my laptop did it correctly itself. If you knew computers that were technically ‘mine’, that would probably make more sense.

I’m home today, foregoing several things I had planned for the weekend due to WS’s MS-ery but I feel like I’m getting a handle on things that had been piling up. And getting a better grip on future projects – painting, writing, editing, organizing. Our garage is horribly (to our standards anyway) overflowing with items for April’s garage sale, a sale I fully expect to have to run alone (again, due to the MS thing).

If half the stuff sells, and by the way, it ALL will be priced ridiculously low to sell, I’ll be tickled. The rest, including everything that goes into the perpetually-filling freebie box, will be stuffed into a car and unceremoniously dumped at the Salvation Army box (I refuse to use Goodwill anymore). Our rarely held garage sales are not to make money, but to cull the herd of crap that is cute for a moment, then banished to a back closet to breed even more crap. Expect to find mostly home decorative items, comforters, fabric, baskets, a kitchen appliance or two, some women’s winter apparel, and several old board games and puzzles. Things you will not see out for sale are books, DVDs, CDs, or anything like that.

In the meanwhile, we’ve got a grocery bag or two worth of anti-South Beach food sitting in our upper kitchen cupboard that we’ve decided MUST go elsewhere. Bags of flour, packages of cookies, cans and bags of things no good South Beach diet lover wants or cares to see ever again. And that’s where we currently sit, firmly in the good South Beach dieter camp.

WS has lost 25 pounds to date, I’ve lost 15. All lost easily and without a shred of exercise. It’s all about the food. And putting away, or getting rid of what’s not good is key. I’ll need to find a home for that stuff or sadly, it goes into the trash.

Next weekend looks like it might be shaping up to be the first good spring weekend in our area. If so, I’m planning on uncovering the patio furniture outside, erecting the market umbrella, and digging out paint for the downstairs bathroom and kitchen. What better way to feel better about life than to spruce up my surroundings?

March 13, 2007

Yesterday was a hoot. Trust me, I’m trying hard to be positive but good grief already!

Did I already mention I nearly fried our TV’s DVR hard drive by simply touching a button? No? Well, I need to just stop touching things for a while . . . but unfortunately, I’m running the house now and I have to touch things.

We put off grocery shopping last week because WS’s MS-caused double vision made it impossible for him to walk much. Finally, we couldn’t wait any longer. I went today alone, first thing this morning, before breakfast even because, well, our refrigerator was pretty bare. Lots of people standing around, blocking aisles, coughing, sneezing, the typical stuff you find at a local gathering place. Some items were out of stock like snow peas and cheese for some odd reason (I was shopping at a BIG store – maybe it was part of the daylight savings time routine? Turn back your clocks and buy as much cheese as you can carry?)

I came home to find WS setting up an appointment for treatment to our local health care center. Sodium Chloride IVs given every day for three days is one treatment that seems to help some extreme MS exacerbations with him and that’s what he was signing himself up for. His double vision has worsened, his balance, well, he has none, at all, and his fatigue is such that he can’t stand for long.

The problem with this treatment is it brings on bad depression and nasty case of short temper. I dread this kind of measure but I can’t deny him what he thinks his body needs. I’ll just have to put up with his snappiness unless he’s able to keep it in check (which has occurred once in the past).

Another side effect is nausea and vomiting. Trust me when I say no one wants to see a 300 lb. man praying to the porcelain god for six straight hours. That goes double if he’s eaten anything with garlic or basil in it the evening before.

Yet another side effect is insomnia. We nipped both of these effects in the bud by ordering anti-nausea and a mild sleep medication. They didn’t seem to have an anti-temper drug or an instant balance restorer either. I thought the lack of either shows how much we’re still living in the Stone Age.

So, today we go back for treatment number two. An hour of sitting there waiting to go into the treatment room, being coughed on by every sick person in the east county, another half an hour for the nurses to stop jabbering, mix the solution, and get the IV hooked up, and twenty minutes for the stuff to drain into the back of his hand. I took a book yesterday. It’s not a good one; the nurse gossip is much better, but for once, I wasn’t in the mood to eavesdrop.

Mark your calendars.

WS is off work for the rest of the week and hopes he’ll be able to walk and see normally by next Monday. Caring for young kids or for a large, sick husband: Which one do you think is more difficult?

March 14, 2007

Today is day three of WS’s Sodium Medrol MS treatment (correction from yesterday’s note calling it Sodium Chloride treatment). WS is doing well with his treatments unlike me who threw a credit card at a health care receptionist yesterday afternoon because someone has to stand up to the fact that the health care business (Oh yes, it’s a business, not an industry) is raping us. And we supposedly have good coverage.

Breathe, I tell myself in a voice that sounds surprisingly like a calm person. Don’t think about it. Deep breaths.

I finished reading “Movie Stars and Moonpies” at two this morning. There’s a good number of hours I’ll never get back. All the way to the final page I was looking for the ‘funny, laugh out loud’ part(s). Note to self: If this is what people rave about as being funny, I ought to make millions. I just need to write the damned stuff.

I got a letter in the mail yesterday telling me they have scheduled a ‘Flexible Sigmoidoscopy exam’ for me in early May. In a rather impersonal way that tells me people regularly get cold feet, the letter states I will be charged for it if I don’t show up. I’m sure it’ll be too fun for words . . . but you know me; I’ll find some. Instructions include requiring a liquid diet 24 hours in advance, several enemas hours shortly before exam, etc. What ought to be seen written on a public bathroom wall: For a good time, lie on filthy bathroom floor at six a.m. and self-administer several enemas followed immediately by long drive across state line during rush hour traffic. Really, can old age get anymore fun that this?

Oh yes. I’m sure it will and I’ll bet it contains various bouts with Jell-O.

Well, it’s getting about time to take WS down for his treatment. He still has double vision and can’t stand for long, not to mention the lack of balance to allow him to do much of that. Since he didn’t sleep a wink last night, sitting up online all night, and I’m running on less than three hours myself, it ought to be very quiet around here once we get back home. I’ve ordered him to bed without his laptop this time because he is badly addicted to it and it’s not helping his vision. I know you are reading this WS. Don’t make me smack you. I am not in the mood.

March 17, 2007

All right. What electronic god did we piss off? The number of electronic and mechanical things breaking around here continue to rise and we’re having a rough time dealing with everything that’s been thrown at us lately.

Last week, the extra rinse cycle on the washing machine went out. Permanently. It’s still not fixed but it’s not something I miss anyway. Saves us both water and electricity is the way I look at it. No biggie. I hate that washer anyway.

Three days ago, the bearing went out on the fan for our main computer. I would rather sit here listening to screams coming from ex-meth users who were having bamboo shoots pounded under their fingernails than to listen to another couple of days of high pitched squeal coming from this computer fan.

But then again, I didn’t have to. The fan failed a day later. Surprise, surprise. No more main computer. Luckily, parts were delivered today. They haven’t been installed yet because . . .

. . . the night before last I innocently turned on our bedroom TV to watch the news and blew the upstairs DVR hard drive. Or least I thought I did. No worries. WS will just swap the DVR out with the downstairs DVR, something he’s been talking about doing for the past three years. So he did that. Turns out the DVR’s hard drive is fine but now either of our upstairs TVs will pick up any channels. Won’t recognize the other DVR or anything else for that matter. Is it possible to blow out the satellite cabling running in the walls? Because we’re down to that being the problem. And if that’s the case, does that mean our house is a potential fire hazard because of blow internal wall wiring? Hello, Prairie Electric? Yeah, can you come out and replace our wall wiring so our TVs will play nice with our satellite receiver again? Oh, and charge us a few hundred while you’re at it? Great, see you next week unless you forget and put us at the bottom of your customer list like you’ve done in the past.

It didn’t stop there.

Yesterday, our wireless router went out. Poof! No longer working. WS can’t figure out what’s up with that but then again, MS is playing with his brain right now and it’s a wonder he can dress himself in the morning.

Then, while in the midst of wires and DVRs and computers littering the whole library room, he discovered that in getting our main computer back up and running two weeks ago after it melted down, something went amiss. Back then, he did a clean, tight install meaning he didn’t install a bunch of crap we’d never use. You know, stuff that comes preinstalled and takes up tons of room. Oops! Who knew that we’d need special drivers for a video card we never use and new ones won’t recognize the video card they are supposed to work with? Apparently the computer finally figured out they weren’t installed, and in what can only be seen as an act of revenge, two weeks later mind you, has melted down again. Guess what had to be rebuilt all over again?

But, there’s some good news out of all this: WS’s vision today was almost back to normal and he didn’t take a sledge hammer to any computer or TV set. I, on the other hand, spent $68 and aimlessly drove my car around town for two hours. I’m happy to report my faulty tire pressure sensor is still working.

Tomorrow, the shit is still hitting the fan around here. I’ll dish some new neighborhood news . . . unless my laptop decides to jump on the crash and burn bandwagon first.

March 18, 2007

I found a dead mouse on our lawn this afternoon . . . right about the time WS figured out the problem with the DVRs and TVs and wiring and fixed the whole thing. Connection? Sacrifice of sorts? Hmmm.

Turns out a portion of our line amplifier is hosed. WS is using a work around that’s easier than going through the amplifier. We still don’t have the DVRs switched around (upstairs unit to downstairs, downstairs unit to upstairs) and we still don’t have a way to transfer some stuff off the DVR onto our computer which was the whole point of the exercise in the first place, but we have TV again.

Said as though that’s a good thing. I wonder sometimes.

He said he’d get the computer fan replaced sometime this week. I’m beginning to like listening to the washing machine run behind me because that sound isn’t as irritating. I want to strangle this fan. Sounds like a plane gearing up for takeoff.

So I had an interesting chat with Mr. Wall Street yesterday. He was interested in a part of our backyard landscape and wanted to know who did it. Well, I said, that company is out of business but I told him what price he ought to be looking at to do something similar.

What is it?

Well, he’s going to rip out two-thirds of that lovely twenty by forty foot deck he’s got back there, the one SportsOrNothings paid a bundle for, and put in a cement ‘race track’ for his kids. In a 30×60 foot landscaped and decked backyard lot. A cement race track, people. God, someone make this man stop dipping into his wife’s medication. I weep for our property value.

So, he didn’t like the price I told him cement work on our size lots would most likely go for and vowed to do it all himself instead. This is a man who can’t mow his lawn without the end result looking like someone took an axe to a pile of mud. This is the man who painted his deck red for god sakes. But I guess that’s half the problem. It’s not so red anymore but multi-colored since his wife and oldest kid had their way with it.

He said his wife got some kind of burr up her butt last week about wanting cement in their backyard. She says the deck has too many dangerous steps and sharp edges for their kids (And cement doesn’t? Must be that ‘soft’ cement. And since when did she start caring about her kids anyway?) When he told her there was nothing they could do about it and reminded her that they did intentionally buy a house with a firepit (which they removed two months later), a hot tub (which is slated to be dug out and removed later this spring, he said), and a huge deck, she pouted.

The next day while he was at work, she and her oldest kid colored the entire deck with outdoor chalk in retaliation. Chalk. On wood.

He says he can’t get it off and yes, he thinks she did it intentionally. So he’s going to rip most of that three year old deck out and give her cement in the form of a race track for their kids.

When I asked about the race track and mentioned how long did he think the kids would use it, he said they weren’t finished having kids. Four’s not enough. I didn’t think I needed to remind him that his wife refuses to take care of the four they already have. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, right?

So in the meantime, we’ve decided to plant tall, narrow evergreen trees on that side of the fence in between the young paper bark birch trees. That friendly clear view we had over there once before it became a haven for kid toys is going to get uglier and I think there’s already too much ugly in the world as it currently sits. I don’t want to see it anymore. And just in time for spring. I’m ready for a trip to Shorty’s Nursery!

March 23, 2007

Now that I have a computer again and the weather has turned from dry back to wet, I’m back online and can tell you that life without a computer isn’t all that bad. It helps if you have lots of other stuff to do, stuff that doesn’t suck like shopping for what the yard and garden needs for the year, digging out paint buckets that are easily accessible, and generally keeping things straightened and organized around home.

I’ve driven WS to work everyday for the past week and done light shopping, more browsing than anything really, every day except today on the way back home. On Monday, I bought two six foot tall, narrow growth Hinoki cedars to plant in between the birches and to help block the view of the Wall Streets future ‘race track’ from the other side of our yard (more on those later), and two patio trees I’ve had my eyes on for two years – a Japanese Snowbell and a Flowering Red Currant.

Tuesday I bought the huge plastic patio pots for the two trees and did grocery shopping. Wednesday I scoped out the spring conditions at some of my favorite local nurseries for future reference. Nurseries change all the time around here it seems and my favorite is doing some kind of construction right now so their selection isn’t very good while another nursery across town, Yard and Garden Land, is gorgeous and very inviting. Portland Nursery on Division in Portland on the other hand, one of my older favorites, looks like it’s just about ready to fold or something. Driving up I initially thought they had closed shop. Maybe they are going to remodel or something too. I got an odd, creepy vibe from the place, like everything and everyone there would rather be somewhere else, and that’s never happened to me before.

Wednesday I bought a t-shirt one size smaller than I’d like it to be and picked up what groceries I forgot on Tuesday. The t-shirt will fit fine this coming summer. Then I shopped at Ulta for some soap that wouldn’t make me itch. It’s a dry skin/post menopause/still getting acne kind of thing they tell me. I can’t say yet whether it works or not.

But yesterday, Thursday, I worked my ass off. Which isn’t really saying a whole lot because I’ve got one of those ass-less bodies anyway. I planted the Hinokis, discovering one doesn’t have a root ball at all (that might be interesting to exchange if it dies), potted the Red Currant tree, and transplanted ferns, Indian Hawthorns, junipers, Ajuga, primroses, pansies, a final green thread leaf cedar, and a couple other things I’m sure. Then, being a muddy mess, I hosed down everything, myself included, re-raked the bark mulch, and cleaned myself up before picking WS up from work. He, by the way, had a great day at work and he was happy to see I got three of the four trees planted myself.

Today, I intended to dig out the roses, tossing most of them, and getting that last, the biggest and heaviest, tree planted in its patio pot. A few more things switched around and two more things to dig up (contorted bush cedar and the blue spruce) and I’m done for the year.

But the rain raced a day ahead of itself and now I’m stuck inside looking at the paint buckets and the dark kitchen walls and wondering how fast I can get that job finished. Next week, I tell myself. One project at a time.

March 24, 2007

How to have an exhausting day.

Step 1 – Psychoanalyze yourself out loud.
Step 2 – Psychoanalyze your relationship out loud.
Step 3 – Repeat until you are no longer talking to one another.
Step 4 – Choose only to hear what you want.
Step 5 – Find no acceptable resolution and leave analysis hanging until next time.
Step 6 – Find projects to do around house in lieu of speaking.
Step 7 – Repeat.

Yeah, and it’s not even noon on Saturday yet.

March 26, 2007

Yesterday was a good, quiet, stress-free day . . . for a while. You were right to assume I’d say that. It all came about because we’re observant unlike most people we know who routinely drive with one hand holding a phone to their ear, pulling on pants with the other, screaming at the unrestrained children in the back seat(s) and cruising down I-5 at 75 mph. With that much going on, who can pay attention to rules, safety, and courtesy on the road?

Cap’t Dan has been very active in his backyard for the past month. First he took down the lovely awning that covered his 10×10 foot deck giving us, for the first time in two years, a clear view of his family, the Smokin’ Clan. By the way, they all still chain smoke and the youngest, the Harry Potter twin, has bright, fluorescent orange hair now. I guess it sucks to look like Daniel Radcliffe. If you recall me mentioning the awning taken down last month, you’ll remember I sarcastically mentioned that it probably meant they were getting ready to move out. I really liked that awning too. Its removal was tip off number one.

The following week, after a good seven days of soaking rain, he removed all the things that were being stored on his deck, things previously safe from the rain – a couple of power saws, bags of trash, a stack of leather kitchen chairs and a big upholstered Barca-Lounger. I’m sure all the items were ruined except the trash of course. This was tip off number two.

Last weekend, he removed the weight bench, the set of tires, two stacks of landscape pottery, and too many electrical cords to count. But he didn’t really remove those items; he simply stacked them on the other side of the house, the side closer to the driveway out front for easy removal. Tip off number three.

At 9 a.m. today, he started pressure washing his deck and hot tub enclosure. In the rain. That alone told me something was up, something bigger than his usual behavior which entails leaving his latest batch of new power tools lying out in the rain. Those he rarely uses in the rain and like I said, he was using the pressure washer. In the rain.

Say it with me this time: Tip off number four.

Cap’t Dan was using one of those electric pressure washers that are supposed to be a little quieter than the gas powered ones (marginally quiet at best). He finally stopped after 4. P.M. That’s a long time to do a 10×10 foot deck and the outside of an 8×8 foot covered enclosure. A more powerful gas powered pressure washer would have been louder and probably would have pissed off the neighbors (but strangely not us – a different kind of noise gets our panties in a bunch) but the gas powered one would have done the whole job in about an hour. It sure made up our minds on which kind to buy should we ever.

But that wasn’t the stressful part. Driving around the block did it for us and its official: Tip off number five is the For Sale sign firmly planted in their lawn. Cap’t Dan and the Smokin’ Clan have their house up for sale. In fact, there’s a lock box already on the front door. Looks like they’ve been as quiet about moving out as they have been our neighbors for the most part over the last five years and we’re going to miss that because you know another baby-machine/day care center is going to snatch up the place which is priced low to move.

March 27, 2007

We picked up a flyer like I do from all the homes that sell in our development and there’s no reason why Cap’t Dan and the Smokin’ Clan’s house shouldn’t sell. I love the descriptions people add to sale flyers, especially the ones that stretch the truth: Custom landscaping (as opposed to that cheap, Wal-Mart landscaping), yeah, I guess the weeds coming up through the gravel is custom, custom oak cabinets – okay, they are the same cabinets the builder put in and there was nothing custom about them.

Custom this, custom that, but then I see it, the lie of lies. It says the property is fully cedar fenced. Uh, hardly fenced is more like it. There’s a fence on either side, both built by the owners of those houses and that’s it. Cap’t Dan never put up a front fence or gates along the sides of the property and there is no back fence between us and him, only the three foot tall boulder rock retaining wall that WS and I built seven years ago. From our backyard, there’s a clear, straight shot through his backyard and out to the street running in front of his house.

And that’s where the second half of the stress came into play: Thinking of new neighbors, full of kids, discovering what they bought. Kids climbing all over those mossy, slick boulders back there and coming up into our yard and fountain area. Picking flowers, stepping on and breaking plants, throwing rocks (gawd knows we have tons of them as part of the landscaping), wading in the fountain, chasing birds, the list goes on and on. How I hate having to train neighbors.

And then the potential for more lawsuits. Junior was climbing on your rock wall and yeah, I know you’ve yelled at him countless times to stay off it, but he slipped today and bit through his tongue. My lawyer will be contacting you shortly. Great. Just what we need, supporting an idiot and his family for the rest of our lives.

So, preemptively, I’ve readjusted the back web cam so you can witness how many times that happens, how many times people climb on the rocks, and how many times I have to go out there to yell at people to get off them and/or get out of our yard. I figure since my camera is visible from their back yard, I might as well set the prescient up front of what kind of people potential buyers will be dealing with living behind them. I’ve already decided to reinstall our “Keep off the Rocks” and “No Trespassing” signs sometime next week (glad I kept those now) and the only other thing I can do is hope for the best, that some quiet family moves in and no one comes along with a slew of kids and a harem of pit bulls.

This also brings up the question of whether the new owners, whomever they shall be, will put up a fence immediately and whether Cap’t Dan will tell them that one of our multi-ton boulders in the retaining wall sits 3 inches over his property line, something that infuriated him at the time he discovered it even though the boulder wall was built a full two years before he bought the property and had his house built (at one point, he was talking about getting lawyers involved but dropped it after a year). He probably should have checked into that before buying the place, ya think?

And if the new owners put up a fence, will that end our nightly raccoon visits? That would be a shame, for certain, especially since the squirrel population seems to be down considerably lately (I think there are two left in the development). It’d be like the hands of time turned back to 1998, when there wasn’t any wildlife within miles of the place thanks to deforestation and over-construction in the area.

We’re entertaining thoughts of finally building that deck we promised ourselves seven years ago. Will there be any point if we don’t go out there to use it because we’d then be completely surrounded by screaming children? Right now, our backyard is our sanctuary in the spring and summer. Cap’t Dan’s backyard, literally a dozen steps away, is always lush and green and as empty of people as Mr. Dimmer’s head is of brains and common sense next door. Why spend the money on a deck when yet another potential layer of screaming kids will drive us to stay closed up indoors?

Of course, I am assuming that a family will buy the oversized home on the undersized lot and they will have four kids in tow and plans to birth twelve more. But over the years I’ve found that history is often a good indicator of the future and it’s not like it hasn’t already happened on either side of us and across the street. For a neighborhood that was originally built a little more upscale than most and advertised as a great future retirement development, there isn’t a retired person or even one anywhere close to it anywhere in sight. But boy, oh boy, will you find acres of plastic Fisher-Price playhouses and tricycles and basketball hoops blocking sidewalks and roadways.

Which is why I will never trust a real estate salesman again as long as I live.

And I’m beginning to think it’s time for childless couples to fight back. Discrimination against families with children? Oh, like childless couples aren’t discriminated against by having to look at/listen to/deal with/etc. children, families with children, and all things children-oriented including the dumbing down of everything just in case Junior gets hurt all the time?

Don’t even get me started.

March 28, 2007

Other than the relatively short time it took to sit here and publish my whining about Capt’ Dan selling his house, this is the first time I have sat here in front of the computer since last weekend. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve sat anywhere (bathroom excluded but only briefly) since then. I’ve been horribly busy running errands, taking WS to work and back, trying to finish up the gardening chores and finally, when the local weather people obviously didn’t know a rain shower from a firm grasp on a butt, I turned inside to get our kitchen painted.

We chose to go with a warm bisque color this time and to forgo the antiquing affect I’m fairly fond of. And what says bisque better than 1970’s Black Sabbath? Maybe some more Ozzy on the side of course! I put on a couple of albums, turned up the sound, and voila! Three days later, we’ve got a fresh, clean, repainted and recently de-cluttered kitchen.

I had a horrible time trying to get to sleep over the past few nights, not that THAT is anything new with my ever increasing insomnia again. My right arm and shoulder are sore from painting, but not sore enough that I want to risk liver problems by taking Tylenol PM. I finally got to sleep around 6 this morning . . . just in time to enjoy an hour or two before needing to take WS to work.

Today, after finishing up painting and since three out of four local weathermen predicted a dry day, it was time to haul my ass-less self, sore arm and shoulder too, outside to try to get that Japanese Snowbell potted up before the next wave of rain comes Friday. The Snowbell ought to begin blooming in a couple weeks and I’d like to have its substantial self sitting pretty in a pot somewhere near the big table out back. As for the big pot it’ll come out of, I won’t tackle the digging up of the blue spruce just yet. One huge project at a time remember.

But it wasn’t to be. If the Japanese Snowbell were planted in solid cement, it would have been lighter and easier to get out of the original pot. In all my 22 years of transplanting trees, I have never had one as heavy as this one was and it was a humbling experience. Then twenty minutes later and attempting to get the heavy, bulky beast into the new plastic pot I just bought, I cracked the living shit out of it, the pot that is. Up and down two sides and broke off most of the surrounding lip. And I hadn’t even gotten it all the way into the pot at that point. Actually, I was far, far from it.

There was nothing I could do but to replace the tree back into its original pot, toss out the new broken one, and clean up the mess. I think that Snowbell will just have to stay in that ugly nursery pot for the rest of it’s life which is a shame; it was well rooted and a slightly bigger pot could only have helped it but I don’t know anyone with that much strength or the money for a new pot either.

I took out my frustration on other garden projects on the list and got the Iceberg rose dug up and potted, six of the nine pink landscape roses dug up (three potted, the others tossed), a couple of blue grass clumps dug up and tossed as well as more daylilies, and the back side of the inner fountain edged. As far as I’m concerned, I’m done out there. Let’s raise the umbrella and bring on the margaritas!

It won’t be long before the next big spring project calls to me: Painting the downstairs bathroom. Thankfully, that room is miniscule. A person can hardly turn themselves around in there too much. Ought to take a day, a day and a half max, unless the old stenciling in there gives me grief but then I’ll just slather more paint over it if I have to. Two days, tops. The bad thing about stenciling is that you might always ‘see’ it. The good thing about stenciling is you might always ‘see’ it. I always liked that stenciling but who likes a gray bathroom, I mean really? It’s slated to become apricot like the rest of the entryway from which it’s located. I think it’ll turn out just fine no matter what happens in there. I just need to regain the strength to do it.

And after that, blissfully, nothing but more writing and more reading. And to figure out how to have margaritas on the South Beach diet (no alcohol at all on phase one – the phase I’m still stuck with for another fifteen pounds).

(Hey, talking about big spring projects, what about those coats of polish you wanted to put on your car?)

Shut UP!

March 30, 2007

Now that WS is walking and seeing things fairly normally again after his latest MS episode (he ought to be able to start driving again next week), I’ve got some stuff on my chest I want to get off, mainly about his boss.

The guy is a serious jerk.

Stress is a big factor in bringing on an MS exacerbation and wouldn’t you know it, WS has a stressful job. What he doesn’t need during times like what he went through three weeks ago was a boss who quasi-threatened to screw up his next job evaluation and talk like WS choose to stay home for a week as if it was a vacation in the Bahamas or something.

Yesterday, he did the same thing to a coworker whose wife recently left him and her two children under the age of three. One was still breast feeding. The guy is on the verge of quitting his job and once upon a time, he would have been given all the moral support in the world and time off with pay to get his life back on track.

But now the place of employment, once a pillar of support to their employees and their families and especially to those who faced hardship and illness, has placed crappy people at the top who are hell-bent into turning the place into a cesspool of greed, low pay, and morale busting threats and direct them at people who have given a dozen or more years of their lives to make the CEOs outlandishly rich.

What’s next? When people don’t quit fast enough because of insensitive treatment, will they resort to Circuit City’s tactics?

And I find it interesting how no one’s talking about ‘how good the economy is’ anymore.

April 1, 2007

I don’t like posting on April Fool’s Day, nor do I like surfing the Internet on that day either. Too many people take the day too seriously, like the idiots who toilet-papered parts of our neighborhood in the wee hours this morning. While we weren’t on the hit list thankfully, most the neighbors on the street who never pay attention to anything beyond their pregnant protuberances were which means we’ll all get to enjoy the toilet paper streamers in their trees for months, if not years, to come. A gift that keeps on giving – the appearance of urban decay.

It was supposed to rain today. It didn’t but it was very cold and breezy. Will it rain tomorrow? Who knows? The local weather people are rolling the dice as I type this, I’ll bet. But I do know this: The next time we have three days of rain scheduled, I’m painting the downstairs bathroom. If I can’t work outside, I might as well reduce my ever-decreasing indoor project list. Taking that tact worked wonderfully for our kitchen. We love the freshness of that room.

Today marks the start of a new yearly quarter for us and evaluation time for several items. We haven’t been as good as we should have been on the financial front but we’ve committed ourselves to rein that back in pronto. We’ve got a couple of expenses coming up this month – haircuts, two car registrations, and some repair work on our outdoor lighting system but for the most part, all major expenses are done with until later in the year when WS will need to replace his tires and we both get oil changes.

We did grocery shopping today at Fred Meyer and kept it under $400 for the next three weeks’ worth of food and incidentals. Next trip we’ll be going back to WinCo, home of bad vibes but cheap groceries.

The South Beach diet is going well, so well in fact that come mid-week, we’ll be giving our non-South Beach food items left in the house from when we put everything deemed ‘off limits’ in the far nether regions of an upper cabinet, to Ris. Things like white baking flour, pancake mix, cookies, and hot chocolate mix just to name a few. Things we don’t ever want to see or partake in ever again if we can help it. Anything she wants out of the food pile (it’s a sizeable one) she is welcome to. Anything leftover goes into the trash unless anyone else needy and wanting comes along minutes afterward. We’re done looking at the tempting stuff, WAY done, thank you very much.

To date, WS has lost 30 pounds bringing him down under 300 pounds for the first time in years. I haven’t been so lucky but then again, I’m smaller. I’ve been stuck at a plateau for the past four weeks, (yes, four weeks) and my weight sits firmly between the high side of 163 and 167 after dropping 15 pounds easily. My goal is to enjoy many years of life around the 130 pound range, somewhere I haven’t been since 1976.

Matters weren’t helped in the least when WS bought a third weight scale last week to replace our other two that varied wildly and then quit working (it was part of March’s Electronic Hell month which also apparently included our phone service for a while). The new scale showed I was seven pounds heavier than I thought I was. That was an evening you can be glad you didn’t have to read about. I was, quite literally, too angry to type. I know, doesn’t happen often, mark your calendars and all that.

To make matters more interesting, while I haven’t been losing weight lately, my weight has been redistributing. It’s always done this. For example, I initially lose weight in my ankles, calves, butt, and forearms which really makes me look like an apple on toothpicks. But after a few weeks, those areas fill back out a little, not too much, and I lose weight ever so slowly, painfully slowly, off my back (ugh, back fat!), chest, neck, and stomach. Today, I was able to wear a sweater that I couldn’t even fit into four weeks ago and my underwear no longer squeezes or pinches me badly.

It’s annoying but the great part is that I can officially get into my square pants again, those being 36×36 501 button-fly Levis. I can’t walk around or breathe in my square pants yet but I can button them all the way up. I’m still wearing the next size up and they are horribly baggy everywhere but around my waist. It’s just a matter of time though and all I need to do is to wait out the plateau.

Or start exercising because even though painting entire rooms and planting trees all by myself sounds like exercise, it really isn’t.

April 2, 2007

Well, it isn’t raining outside but it is chilly. Ten degrees or so under where the area should be. We were supposed to get showers today; allegedly it was snowing a bit higher up so I thought I’d get busy painting that downstairs bathroom. Too cold to do anything outside except freeze, might as well cross another item off the list.

The downstairs bathroom is tiny. Anyone bigger than WS would have a very tough time fitting in there to do much of anything. There’s a pedestal sink and a toilet, a towel ring and a framed print on the wall. There’s barely enough room for paint with all that and even less room to do any.

As I suspected, the walls were as dry as bare concrete block and they sucked up the paint like water. Two coats are on now and if the room would allow for any kind of decent ventilation and air flow, I’d be down there right now putting on a third. But it doesn’t and things are taking extra long to dry so I’ll slather on another two coats tomorrow. And maybe a fifth all total if the brush marks and stenciling show too badly. Dang, I really liked that stenciling too but hated the wall color. If I can’t get rid of all tell-tale signs, guess what will be going back up? Can’t you tell I’m disappointed?

While I’m painting, my mind doesn’t stray too far from writing. I’ve got a short story that’s half finished and then there’s that car show story that I have vowed to finish this summer. I’m thinking of ways to expand Cecil’s persona because he basically doesn’t have much of one right now.

Originally, I was going to make him have a big secret that readers would only find out about near the end but I ditched that idea because it would make him essentially a bad guy in the long run. I already have enough of those. But I can make him more likeable, give him more personality – the kind that everyone likes and makes him want to be cared about. My characters come from people I have known in throughout my life. Have I ever known someone like Cecil? In all honesty, no and I think that’s why I inadvertently made him so cardboard and without personality. He’s going to be a tough cookie to create.

April 5, 2007

A word to the not-so-wise: Primer. Anyone with stenciled or gray painted walls would do themselves a big favor by spending the extra money to buy and put wall primer on first. I would have zipped through that downstairs bathroom painting if I had listened to myself. Instead, well, let’s just agree that I did everything but zip.

Oh, and for future reference, I don’t ever care to paint that room again. I’ll paint nearly anything else but that room is off limits. I felt like a bull in a china shop in there. A big, fat, wide bull with no sense of grace or balance and a paint roller wedged between my butt cheeks.

Thank goodness the floor is laminate. The paint spatters came right off it with barely a flick of a fingernail. At one point I seriously considered throwing paint at the walls and chipping off whatever would look better without it – the toilet, sink, and floor. As much as I hate the thought of it, I might have to repaint the ceiling white in there. We generally paint our bathroom ceilings to match the walls but because I used apricot-colored paint, the same color that’s in the entryway and upstairs library, and with the smallness of the bathroom, the apricot makes the room glow orange. And it’s a very orange room. A white ceiling will temper that, but ugh at the thought of the work.

Anyway it’d done and here are the before and an after picture. For the record, it took seven coats to cover the stencil. Remember: Primer is your friend.

April 8, 2007

More fun here at home despite Happy Easters and all that. Our air conditioning is broken for whatever reason and WS’s work computer is back on the fritz. Now if only his employer would pay for the air conditioning to be fixed too, I’d probably stop complaining about his boss. Probably.

Yesterday was one of those slow, gray, rainy days when everything seems to be on mute. We heard at the last possible minute that the sunny dry weather we were supposed to have most of the weekend would be replaced by buckets of rain and so we stayed in bed late. Ran a few errands later in between downpours and picked up a bunch of work shirts for WS. By then and probably in part due to the weather, I considered a nap but got sucked into a movie, ‘Cast Away’ with Tom Hanks, one I really liked.

Went to bed late and slept okay, I suppose. I got one good night in last week out of a month. Giving up caffeine again recently ought to get that back on track. Probably shouldn’t have agreed to have some this morning if that’s the case but dang it! I get so much more done when I’m hopped up on caffeine!

I worked on a short story this morning and finished it to my liking. I’m going to submit it somewhere online, I don’t know where just yet (I’ve got a few ideas), but I want to get further into another one I’m working on first just so I have something else in the vault. This is an idea I’m finding I’m more and more enamored with.

The second story is about someone who’s feeding raccoons in her backyard except they turn out not to be raccoons. No, Mary Lou, this one won’t be one you’d like. After that, I hope to finish yet a third that I’m about half way through, and then I’m going to try to come up with something Mary Lou’s sister Phyllis mentioned a year or so ago about finding a stray cat that had a faint tattoo in his ear. Yes, it’ll be on the scary/strange side too and that’ll make four short stories for someone who never thought she’d be able to write one.

We got some yard work done this morning before the rain drifted back in and some house cleaning done too. Quite relaxing work actually given that I spent most of Friday stressed out about the stupidest thing – the adventure that was getting my car emission tested for the very first time and how they screwed the paperwork up for probably all time. But I’ll whine about that tomorrow.

Happy Easter. Don’t eat too much sugar. It’s designed to make you crave more.

April 9, 2007

Today I’m vexed, terribly vexed though I shouldn’t be. I mean the decision is obvious and I should run the other direction and put it all out of my mind. I said I would post about getting my car emission tested last Friday and the ‘adventure’ that was. But my mind is in turmoil and I have to think of the money and what comes with that. I’ve done my fair share of keeping us in debt over the last few years and anything would help. More than that, it would help shoulder the responsibility that WS is dealing with all on his own. I’m talking about a job, but not just any job. Possibly a job with the same crappy, toe-stepping, egocentrically focused people I worked with two years ago but that includes a big assumption they would even be interested in me again.

You see two and a half years ago The Company sold their souls to a Big-Ass Corporation who drove The Company into the ground. The painful part for me wasn’t the loss of income; we knew that was coming years before it happened, but that they, the Big-Ass Corporation along with my boss, MrSmartButFakingIt, called me long distance to lay me off immediately after discharge from the hospital for major surgery, a surgery I put off for months because I was afraid taking the time off needed would jeopardize my job. But then again, remember, I’m no longer bitter. Tart maybe, but not bitter.

Oh, the old wounds. . .

The only good thing other than income flowing back into our lives is that MsNoManagementSkills isn’t aware of the newly rebuilt company yet, at least I’m reasonably sure she isn’t and of the new Company’s CEO’s attempts, however half-hearted, of reassembling the old department teams. The bad thing, just to name one out of dozens, would be that as soon as they found her, she’d be a shoo in. As would MrSmartButFakingIt and Ego and Slackers 1, 2, and 3 and all those marketing people who promised customers that with their monthly subscription, us technical support people would assure them world peace.

So, anyway, that’s what’s on my mind today. Oh, and if you get the Wall Street Journal, the new Company info is written up on the front page of the Money section today. Knock yourselves out, then go through my archives years 1999 thru January 2005 to get at the old company dirt.

Tomorrow, I swear, the adventure getting my car emission tested for the first time.

April 10, 2007

My car received its first ever emissions test requirement last week with my registration renewal. It came as somewhat of a surprise to me for some reason because I wasn’t clear on how they make these decisions, which cars have to be tested, which cars are exempt. I don’t think they are clear themselves on that but according to them, the fact remained that if I received a card saying my car’s nether regions were to be sniffed and probed, it was as good as law and they would expect to see me soon if I ever wanted to grace the state’s highways and byways again.

And so we carefully chose a day when the emission’s station live web cam showed virtually no wait in line. It was a little after lunch and we made a half an hour roundabout trip out of the event, taking both WS’s car and mine as they were both up for renewal and testing in the same month (can your wallet say ouch?), and drove a bit of freeway, a bit of city traffic. We arrived, pulling into empty lanes side by side and were waved forward to begin the process.

The young, rotund kid and of whom I’ll call ‘Pat’ because it could be assumed he was either male or female depending on the situation, took my information: Odometer reading, year, model (“Um, haven’t you ever seen a Corvette before?” I wanted to ask when it seemed he hadn’t. Ever.) Instead of paying much attention, he was completely enamored with the midnight blue Miata convertible in the far right lane driven by someone who could have been his twin. Another employee soon realized that Pat wasn’t being efficient and took over for him/her so he/she could move closer to the Miata.

I was told to shut off my car which I thought was odd because of all the LARGE PRINT SIGNS hanging everywhere that say to leave your car running. So I said, “What?”

“I said turn off your car . . . ma’am!” Very snotty sounding.

Geesh, aren’t we in a snit, I thought. Okay then. I shut it off.

“Get out of your car, ma’am.” The word “ma’am” was drawn out as if I was the one being difficult.

I got out, stood just long enough to close my door before someone said, “Get back in your car, ma’am, and pull forward when that guy is ready for you.” A finger pointed ahead to a guy who was already waving at me.

I didn’t know what that was all about, the getting out and getting back in bit but I didn’t question it. The guy standing at the very front of the line, at least he was fairly obviously male though I suppose he could have been a heavily bearded lady, waved me forward rather impatiently.

“Shut your car off and get out of your car, ma’am, and sit over there.” He pointed toward a flimsy chair in a three-sided clear Plexiglas booth. I didn’t sigh loudly or say, “What? Again?” But I thought it pretty loud. I had just enough time to verify that he didn’t have a big screwdriver or anything else sharp-looking sticking out of his back pocket before he flopped himself down into the driver’s seat. He started the car or at least attempted to start it in that haphazard way that said he was used to newer cars with littler motors that practically start on their own when a mosquito buzzes by. My car doesn’t start hard but it does require that you turn the key longer than a nano’s nanosecond. On the second attempt, it started and the sniffing and probing began.

Then he drove it forward onto the rollers but with only the front tires. Did he think this was a front wheel drive car? When he applied the gas and the rollers started turning was he going to rocket himself out of the building, across the lot, up over the substantial curb and out into traffic? Or was that all just for show and no go?

I have no idea but I kept my mouth shut while thoughts filled my head of the nightmarish paperwork involved in getting DEQ to buy me a new sports car because they wrecked mine.

Then he shut the car off, got out and told me to get back in. A moment later, he handed me my results and the car passed with flying colors. Like there’d be any question.

I pulled forward to wait for WS who was still going through the sniffing and probing process in the next lane over. I scanned my emission results. PASS, PASS, PASS, blah, blah, blah and then I see it, the information that Pat took down initially, the information that would forever be linked to the car I’ve spent the past five years carefully documenting from every bit of service work to every mile driven, from every award it has won right down to every last nut and bolt. My car, that hardly gets driven anymore and that I’ve purposely, painfully at times kept under twenty thousand miles so as to be worth something twenty-five years from now, the mileage Pat jotted down and DEQ had entered into the computer was over by a hundred thousand miles.

“You bitch or bastard or whatever you are.” I said and got out of my car right then and there.

The guy who handed me my results saw me get out and approached. He didn’t look perturbed as he had previously, but I’m sure I was slowing down their process.

“You guys have my mileage off by a hundred thousand miles and no, I’m not happy about it. My car is a show car and this has got to be fixed.” A diplomat I’m never going to be.

He took my results sheet and asked what my mileage should read because as much as I tried to tell him what to press to find it himself as he sat back in the driver’s seat, he didn’t understand, and so he got out and directed me where to park. Then he said he would look to see if there was anything he could do about the screw up. By the time I got to the office where I was told to go, WS was looking for me in another parking lot far away from where I actually was because he hadn’t seen where I went. The guy in the office told me he had put in a change notice in the computer but that DEQ releases the information to various agencies anyway (probably insurance agencies and Car Fax which will be very bad if I ever want to get anything for the car) and there was nothing else they could do. I wanted them to start all over but he said they couldn’t do that. I asked if the mileage made any difference on whether it said I passed or not and he said he didn’t think so.

So later in the day, after I found WS and we dropped my car back off at home, we went back to renew our registration tags and told our story of woe to someone at the counter there who also thought it wouldn’t make any difference. He said that Car Fax often reports incorrect information as though that tidbit would make us feel better. I already knew that. I kept a stiff upper lip and didn’t bite anyone’s head off nor re-show my ‘diplomatic’ side by demanding they all start paying attention and so, after I make a photo copy of the emissions results sheet for the car’s documentation book like I do for EVERYTHING about the car, I have to write up an explanation about how this state’s DEQ emissions department has morons working for it which might begin to explain how the car that looks practically like it just rolled off the showroom floor doesn’t really have 117, 469 miles on it.

April 11, 2007

I am very disappointed and angry with myself today and have come to the conclusion that I have no business owning animals. I have always felt that if a person cannot see an animal, in particular, a pet, all the way through the stages of life including the end, they have no right to own one. I’m a hypocrite because I can’t bring myself to be there at the end.

Today is the last day on Earth for one of our pets and there’s nothing I can do about it except choose to prolong the inevitable, a harsh, miserable, and more painful end. Old Man Skitters has an inoperable brain tumor.

He found us on a green summer evening, the overly skinny, dehydrated youngish cat with hardly a single tuff of fur anywhere on his body and he ran away the moment he saw us. Six months later I was able to touch him for the first time and found his skin was calloused all over, scabby and roughened from months of pulling out his own fur and eating it to survive. He was periodically boarded up in a neighboring house’s attic for months at a time without food, I suspect intentionally when I talked to that neighbor and they voiced their hatred of cats. Our vet was more than just a little surprised that he had survived that long without water and assured us it was more than likely he’d never re-grow his fur.

Skitters as he came to be known lived on his own outside but we built a bed for him in the garage of the rental house we lived in for eight years and he used it every night. I built a flap in the window so he could come and go as he pleased. He had food and clean water everyday and would sit on my lap, rain or shine, in the huge vegetable and flower garden we had there and would jump up and sit like a bluebird on my shoulders for hours when I was in the garden weeding. Skitters was the ultimate gardening cat.

He was very smart and let us know if he wasn’t feeling well if we hadn’t noticed ourselves. He was gentle and came to be very trusting, seeming to know we would never hurt him. He and I had an agreement that he would never hunt squirrels and he was allowed only one bird a year but he’d have to bring it to me first before he ate it. He stuck to the agreement completely. He liked to hang out with us and seemed to like to hear our voices. He let us know if there were any other strays in the neighborhood that might need a warm bed or a handful of food which he shared and after a few years, he came to call us his own.

Many a frozen night, I would go out into the unheated, non-insulated garage and bring him inside the warm house, only to have to get up two hours later to let him back out. Much of my insomnia years were spent worrying whether I’d find him in the morning, run over in the street. He never took to living inside, he hated it really, but I think he did it to please us or repay us for caring for him through his numerous respiratory infections, bladder and skin problems.

When we moved from the rental house to here, we forced him to be an indoor pet only so he wouldn’t have to deal with the packs of coyotes that get so many of the pets in this area, or the raccoons or dogs or cats or people or cars. He never really got along with any of the other pets here, The Queen in particular but he adapted again, because I think he knew he was in a better place indoors than out. He was his own man and became the first to be officially called, ‘a rich kid’ as he was literally taken off the streets and lavished with good food, regular checkups, and a safe, warm place to live out his days.

Those days are at an end.

He did finally re-grow his fur and then some. He had an operation to correct a problem with an eyelid a couple of years ago and he grew into a handsome boy who loved nothing more than a full belly and to sleep in the sun. He taught me so much about being a cat, me, someone who has raised them all her life. I might as well have been clueless before he entered our lives.

A few months ago, he started walking in circles constantly. I’ve posted about it from time to time. It’s worsened since and his attacks on other pets have dramatically increased. He wheezes often, lies in odd positions, and seldom makes it to the litter box in time. I wondered if he had had a mini stroke but the aggression points to a brain tumor and Monday, it was confirmed. He’s almost twenty years old and his quality of life is degrading fast. The question isn’t whether he’s ready to go; we think he is, but if we are ready to be unselfish and let him go.

I always told myself that when the time comes, I’d muster up my emotional strength and sit with him as they euthanize him. With all we’ve been through together, good and bad, I owe it to him, to see him off comfortably and reassure him one last time that I’ll see him again someday.

But that doesn’t look like it’ll happen.

I’ve been bawling my head off since Monday morning and I can’t seem to focus on much else, but here’s the thing: I don’t feel like I have a right to be the one upset. He should be the one upset but he doesn’t know what’s going happen sometime today halfway through the evening rush hour. He only knows what is now or at least that’s what we’re told animals know; that and a past just long enough to recognize familiar people, places, and things.

What is this thing we do to animals that are old or not wanted anymore, this thing we cannot even legally do to ourselves when we want to or ought to? If he knew his hours were short, that he’d soon take his final breath, would he take a last look around, beg to go outside one last time to sniff the fresh spring air that he once loved so much? Would he try to make amends with The Queen or would he try once more to get a good shot in at her when her back is turned? Would he struggle at the end and fight the needle and the drugs? Or will he go peacefully, okay with the life he lived, glad for the relief from his earthly pain, and bravely look forward to a new adventure in being? Being what? Being where?

I hate how people like me have always thrust human emotions onto animals as if they would think and feel and rationalize the same. But how do we know they don’t? Just because they don’t have thumbs or speak English and can’t drive doesn’t mean they don’t feel the same. But none of this matters. Everything dies, everything ends.

Good bye Skitters. It’s okay to go. It’s okay to let go. Peacefully know that you were loved completely. Go sniff the green spring air and look for the others who have gone before: D.K., Bob, Pinks, Stimpy, Geoffrey, Arie, Dots, Vince, and kitty Cole. They’ve been patiently waiting for you. And then look for me someday, over in the garden where we’ll all sit in the sun and weed the flowers and watch the birds.

“Bluebird came to me tonight
Waiting patiently for light.
Said I know that you will grieve
But my Darlin’ I must leave.

Bluebird say it is not so
Please, I cannot hear you speak.
It must be that you’re so tired
In the darkness of the night.”

April 13, 2007

Well, that was fun. I pulled myself together and sat with WS and Skitters all the way through the end. Even our veterinarian was crying. She had treated him for the past fifteen of his twenty year life. The time went incredibly fast or at least my perception of it did. The two-to-five minutes she said we would have with him before he fell asleep before the final lethal dose seemed like less than thirty seconds. It was all too fast. Blindingly fast and I couldn’t do anything to slow it down.

For the record, he didn’t take one last breath; it was a sigh, a long, audible sigh that said good bye to pain, to rage, and to us and hello to quiet, still peace.

That’s the sound I keep hearing over and over in my head. His sigh.

Afterward, our vet gave me a bit of his fur to keep in a ribbon edged mesh bag and that was nice. I have bits of fur from all our pets that have passed. I was an emotional wreck but well enough to be able to drive, strangely enough, probably because I’ve had to drive during countless extremely stressful times in my life and it comes second nature. But I was not able to do anything else but catch my breath in my throat occasionally and drive.

What was obscene, though I am completely responsible for deciding to do so, was stopping at the grocery store after to pick up a bunch of yogurt. It was like nothing had happened and we were getting on with our lives as if we had a bunch of errands to do on a lovely afternoon: Drop off dry cleaning, pick up mail, euthanize a pet, go buy yogurt.

Yet it wasn’t really like that. I couldn’t go into the store because everything was setting me off and my face was very ugly and red. As much as I wanted to go home, I knew that once there, I’d be tempted to start eating everything in sight to numb the pain and if I was going to do that, I might as well eat something South Beach diet approved and keep below my daily calorie count while I was at it.

The rain held off all day until then and then the sky opened up and it poured. “Heaven was crying.” For whatever reason, those words popped into my head and I lost it again. WS came out with half a dozen yogurt packs and off I drove us home, horrified at what I had participated in less than an hour before and torn between wanting to pull off the road somewhere and cry for a day or two and wanting to rush back to the vet’s office to tell them I wanted Skitters back.

Today I caught myself watching the time and mentally calculating how many hours it had been. I knew I’d be upset but I didn’t think I would feel this badly.

But the good news is that after my eyes calmed down and I stopped bawling my contacts out, I got some decent writing in including a little more work on a short story that’s half finished and a first chapter of something that’ll have something to do with a cat. I always do my best writing when I’m under extreme stress, a point no doubt some readers would strongly argue against, and my motto during times like these is “Capture, capture, capture” the emotion for there might not ever be another time like this again.

With my life, I could only hope.

April 15, 2007

The fun with electronics around here continues, this time with our home security alarms and smoke detectors. The RF Modulator is another story for another time.

Very early this morning, (do low detector batteries beep at any other time?) one of our home security alarms started in beeping like it does when one of the detector batteries is low. Being good little homeowners and very security conscious, we went out and bought replacement batteries for all the detectors, security and smoke, as soon as a store opened. Upon arriving home, WS dutifully swapped out all the batteries.

The beeping continues.

Which means it’s time to dig out the instruction manuals, and trust me, there are several.

The beeping still continues. I probably don’t have to tell you want kind of mood WS is in, he who gets angry at the least little thing anyway. So much for wanting to do anything else today.

I’m beginning to think that any sane person should probably do themselves a big, fat favor by replacing every last electronic device in their home at the seven year point. If we had done that last July, I’m convinced we wouldn’t be having all these failures.

April 16, 2007

Yesterday, WS thought he fixed the problem with our home security and smoke alarm beeping issue. Well, fixed enough that we thought we’d be okay going out to buy yet more batteries for one that took more than we had. But while we were gone, our home security company called to report there was an incident with one of them. Thank goodness they didn’t call the cops, though at one point in time, home alarm companies used to do just that especially if you didn’t or weren’t able to answer their checkup phone call. Not anymore. If your alarm goes off in the middle of the night, you better grab the phone and dial 911 yourself as we’ve been instructed. We can thank the countless wasted hours cops used to spend checking out false alarms. It seems that if you really need them, you won’t get them.

All the alarms are working well now. Or at least I should say we didn’t hear anything beeping overnight.

WS was even able to get a new RF Modulator hooked up so we can watch DVDs again upstairs in our bedroom should we want to. And lately I’ve been wanting to but it’s all for research. ‘American Graffiti,’ a top favorite movie of mine, is part of my research for the book I’m working on. Last weekend, it was ‘Gone in Sixty Seconds’ which is on regular TV fairly regularly around here and most of which I have memorized. It’s been years since I’ve watched Graffiti though the end always brings on melancholy.

The spring and early summer birds have been making a big appearance out back lately, even if we can’t seem to get away from near-freezing night temperatures. Goldfinches are all over the thistle sock we hang up for them, white striped sparrows are beginning to take the place of the Towhees and Chickadees on the ground, and we’ve had a pair of Mourning Doves every day for almost a week now. We used to have upwards of a dozen or more Doves hang around here during the summer months but last year, we hardly saw any. I figured they had moved on when more of the surrounding forests were cut down (up around the corner, more forest is coming down in the next month or two – We only have three stands left that we can see from our development which was completely surrounded by thick forest five years ago).

The Redwing Blackbirds are back in force. They nest in the cattails growing in the development’s water swales down around the corner. There have been five hummingbird sightings in the last couple of weeks; I’m sure three of those were the same bird – a male, same look, same time of day, same behavior going from the blooming red current tree to the fountain to a blooming rhodie and a short rest on a bare vine maple before buzzing up and over the fence to parts unknown. In lieu of putting up a hummingbird feeder immediately out our back door and attracting paper wasps and yellow jackets like years past, I hung a basket of flowers I know hummers like over the weekend and will hang a new kind of feeder further out in the yard. The new feeder advertises that it keeps wasps and bees out. We’ll see, she says skeptically.

And finally, I re-found Limpy’s new box photos, the ones I took back in early February, generously made by Kami of Jestablog. The photos were trapped over on a laptop that volunteered to participate in our spring Electronic Hell and only recently was I able to get them over to the main computer for resizing. Limpy spends a lot of time in there but I already tell I’m going to have to check it once a week for paper wasp nests. It’s just too tempting inside, I guess. I’ve had to remove a couple of small ones already. We can’t have that happen!

April 17, 2007

It all began with Elvis but Burl Ives is a close second in odd coincidences. Now it seems I ‘might’ have had something to do with the demise of another one of America’s most beloved artists – Kurt Vonnegut. Let me explain.

The summer of ’77 I was on vacation to Southern California with my first husband and his heavily religious parents. We were walking up the Huntington Beach pier, back toward the parking lot, and someone roller skated by with one of those new, huge contraptions called a boom box and it was blaring an Elvis Presley song.

I blurted out, “I hate Elvis!”

My then mother-in-law almost fainted, not because she liked Elvis (in all actuality, she didn’t even know who the man was) but because I said the word ‘hate.’ How non-Christian of me! I will further clarify her feelings toward my vocalizations by telling you that she went on a week-long crying jag the day I said the word ‘bosom’ at the dinner table during the family Sunday brunch.

After her reprimand over my lack of Christian thought toward others, I didn’t say much the remainder of the trip. Even after Elvis dropped dead 24 hours later. Wow, okay, coincidence. On to other things.

Back in ’95, a group of people and I were looking for a group mascot of sorts. After an evening of silliness, we decided Burl Ives, the great American folk singer, would fit the bill perfectly. What’s not to like about Burl Ives, especially when you visualize him as that roly-poly, singing snowman in ‘Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer?’ We joked that he’d probably be tickled that we were going to honor him so.

Two days later, the local news reported he had died. Cancer. I’m sure his condition wasn’t a surprise to him but just as quickly as we had a mascot, we were suddenly mascot-less and didn’t broach the subject again for a long time. I thought back to the Elvis Incident, as I later came to call it, but let that go too. Coincidence. People die all the time.

In late December of 2000, I ventured out and bought the Collector’s Edition of ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High.’ Only then did I discover that fourteen different scenes from the movie were still left out of the DVD. Collector’s Edition, my ass. I was pissed about it. I then discovered and learned that no true complete version allegedly exists anywhere in the known world that contains every single scene of that movie, a LONG time favorite of mine, and that there are at least five different versions all created and sold to various venues depending on what tripped the network censors at that time.

But either way, I watched the DVD, talked smack about it on my journal back then about this missing scene and that, blah, blah, blah. (See January 4, 2001 entry under Archives on the left sidebar.)

The next day, Ray Walston died. Aloha, Mr. Hand.

A couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, I ran across Kurt Vonnegut’s Eight Rules for Writing Fiction online. I half-heartedly read them, agreed with most of them, and printed them out. I know who Kurt Vonnegut is but only from what I’ve heard. I’ve never read one of his stories or books, don’t own any either, and in fact, had left the print out of his rules lying here on my desk mostly forgotten (though not buried by other things – I’m fairly anal about keeping a neat, clean desk.)

Last Wednesday, I finally picked up his rules and read them again. I didn’t think much more about it. I had other things on my mind. Wednesday night I read he had died. My sore, tired, weepy eyes shot back to the print out still sitting on my desk and it was almost too much to bear. I thought of Elvis and Burl and Ray and well, okay, if I had anything to do with it, I apologize.

April 19, 2007

Yesterday I had a bad headache. I’m weaning myself off caffeine in preparation for my colonoscopy early next month. No, I don’t really have to give up caffeine for that, but I want to. If I’m to be clean inside and out, for me that includes a break from coffee too.

By 9 p.m. my head was really hurting. Why didn’t I just go to bed? Because WS was still in the middle of a conference call with people in India, and it didn’t sound like he was having a very good time either. He was using our bedroom as the ‘quiet’ place in the house because it is and because when he’s out in the rest of the house, the pets see his lap as fair game.

Besides, I was writing, or at least trying to. I wasn’t doing too bad a job at it (I have yet to reread what I wrote last night so it is possible that it’s complete crap) but the chapter wasn’t going the way I wanted it to. I realize that sounds crazy; I mean, I’m the author, I’m the one sitting at the keyboard typing, what do I mean it wasn’t going the way I wanted it to? Just type different words!

Ah, sounds so easy. Sometimes, I find I get in the zone, or at least, a zone of some kind, and my story characters take over. Probably doesn’t help that the character who took over the chapter last night is a very strong minded and strong willed individual. And he was directing, as usual, and making sure he was in every scene.

But listen to me. I sound as if he was real. In a way he is. He’s the accumulation of several mean and nasty people I have known well in my life. I knew these people so well; I could tell you what they would say, in detail, in every situation that could ever arise. Floyd is that character but I can’t make him too mean or else I’ll telegraph the ending.

Oh, the trouble us authors get ourselves into.

Today, WS is working from home. This is good because our outdoor lighting system is being overhauled. I know the general point of the project and have been assured that they won’t have to dig any plants up but I’ve heard that line before. Plus I know they will be searching for ‘sleeves’ that run under short stretches of concrete. Those ‘sleeves’ are a good foot or more underground. I’d like to know how exactly they are going to find the sleeves without digging anything up. No wait, I don’t want to know. Really, I need to spend my day writing today and not worrying about how many plants and bulbs are being destroyed outside. Can’t I just play blissfully ignorant today and see it when it’s all done and pretty? Do I really have to spend my day supervising a bunch of guys who will resent my presence? Dang, for the first time ever I really wish I had taken high school Spanish more seriously.

April 21, 2007

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April 24, 2007

I’m still here. I’m writing. And writing. And writing.

I’m working on the car story and I’m up to chapter 23 in its third rewrite/edit. Upon first writing, where I’m at now used to be chapter 14; that’s how long and drawn out some of my chapters were. I hadn’t known how to format chapters and sub-chapters, something I may never really get the hang of altogether. At least I know enough to get myself into trouble and that’s more than most people know.

The lighting repairs/upgrades are done in our backyard with the exception of the fine tuning placements of a light here and there. The webcam shows spots of light at night again until 11 p.m. pacific time, daylight savings time.

Lost in the process however, were countless flowers. Tulips, daffodils, entire branches off of shrubs and a couple trees. I think the guy whose job it was to bury the wiring finally got tired of wall-to-wall flowers and gave up trying to be careful halfway through the job. The flowers, they’ll come back next year. In lieu of mourning this year’s loss, let’s look at some photos I wisely took just days before.

April 25, 2007

Today begins the countdown to my first Flexible Sigmoidoscopy. This is not the same as a colonoscopy which looks at the entire colon. A sigmoidoscopy only looks at the first few feet. It’s a primer, the kindergarten of colonoscopies. Let’s hope I don’t have to move to a higher education.

Knocking off the caffeine last week worked wonders for my sleep because, well, I am again. Sleeping, that is. The only problem now, and you just know I had to find a problem, didn’t you, is that the nights feel as if they are only twenty minutes long. I wake up feeling like I was just up not too long ago doing the same routine. To ask whether I feel rested when I get up, well, the term ‘rested’ is such a relative one, isn’t it? I don’t know that I have ever in my entire life felt ‘rested’ so you can imagine how I feel after a ’20 minute overnight sleep.’

Since losing twenty three pounds (as of this morning I’m officially calling this my third weight plateau) I’m fairly certain I’m not snoring anymore. I feel more comfortable when I sleep and my joints don’t ache. I’m having little to no trouble getting to sleep or even getting back to sleep on the nights I do my ‘sleep a half an hour/wake up/go to the bathroom/try to get back to sleep’ routine right after going to bed. I’m making sure I’m in bed no later than 11 p.m., earlier some nights and I’m getting up right around 9 a.m.

But still, those twenty minutes nights are a killer. Makes me want to nap in the afternoon some days something fierce but you know I won’t do that because down that path is madness. No, it’s insomnia which is almost as bad.

So, early this evening I get to drink the laxative stuff, half a bottle of pink strawberry stuff, guaranteed to work within a half an hour up to six hours, and by ‘work’ I mean I’ll be sitting on the toilet with that Joe Hill book that I’m not enjoying anywhere near as much as I hoped I would and hoping I don’t fall asleep on the pot.

Tomorrow through Sunday night, it’s clean eating. That means no meat (no problem there since I’m not fond of it much anymore anyway), limited dairy like cheese (a weakness) and oils, sweetener, and whatever else I deem icky to put into my body. Our South Beach diet will make that part easy since I love the veggies and salads.

Monday begins my 48 hour clear liquids fast – broth, tea, water. Ought to be a hoot but then again, I did prove I could handle almost six days of water fasting just last October. Tuesday night I get to become intimate with our bathroom floor and learn to give myself a double dose enema. The doctor’s instructions says to do this part the morning of the procedure but people who have gone through it say to do it the night before to prevent ‘accidents’ or ‘leaking’ during the long drive down into Portland. Nothing like arriving at a large medical office with a wet ass and wishing you were wearing Depends, I bet.

Wednesday morning, what I won’t be doing is drawing faces on my butt, or arrows, or words to the effect of ‘Caution: Exhaust Only!’ nor will I do anything like others have done when they’ve gone in for their first check up, not because I’m not adventurous, but because I just don’t feel like it. No need to set up an expectation right off the bat. I’ll get them with something later on down the road, I’m sure of it. I’m going to try my hardest not to be embarrassed because, really, when you think of it, the doctors and assistants there do this every day and my asshole isn’t going to be much different than anyone else’s. In and out and a half an hour later I’ll be on my way back home, farting all that excess air out through the heavy traffic with a big, relieved smile on my face.

April 27, 2007

Looks like we’re finally going to get three days (or more) of dry, partly sunny weather since, um, last October it seems. I wasted no time yesterday digging out a front bush that Ris is graciously going to adopt as well as another pot full of grape hyacinths and I pre-dug around the base of the blue spruce which is in the midst of putting out all its rubbery new growth. Word on the street has it Mr. Dimmer next door wants the tree but he’s not going to get it from me. I don’t care to see him kill something else he’s just going to plunk down in the same dust-dry desolate spot he’s used for the last three doomed trees. I’ll Craigslist the beautiful six-footer long before that. Uh, the tree, not Mr. Dimmer though that thought is tempting.

I hosed down the back walkways and did a little tree trimming. Took a couple photos of a wintered over frog who is probably responsible for the dwindling smaller frog population in our backyard and the flowers of our first lilac.

I’m meeting with Ris this evening to talk writing and my car story in particular. I want WS to come along but I think he’s given up; his new job role is sucking every ounce of creativity out of him other than what he needs to be the most diplomatic, people-person he’s ever been in his entire life. And he seems to be doing well and really enjoying it so far, even without the pay raise that’s supposed to go with it but isn’t this time around for whatever reason, so I can’t complain or push back.

My hope today was to finish up a few yard oriented things today, stop by Shorty’s Nursery just to let my eyes tiptoe through spring bedding plants, and maybe enjoy a late afternoon lunch out back. But today is Friday, the day WS works from home and the day we try to squeeze in a bunch of errands. He needs to stop by the dentist across town in a little while to pick up a dental tray and then he’s got another online conference meeting at home strategically scheduled right smack in the middle of when we’d do anything else. If I go to the nursery alone, it defeats half my purpose—to show him what the place is evolving into with its new greenhouse and bedding plant atrium (said as if he would have the slightest interest). So I guess I’ll just wait for that Shorty’s trip; I know the bedding plants will still be there tomorrow, but dang it! I hate going there on the weekend because half the city goes there then.

April 29, 2007

A day we originally planned to take easy turned into a brute of one getting the blue spruce out of our front yard. For whatever reason, I didn’t think a six foot tree would weigh the same as I do but if it doesn’t, I’d be very surprised. Pre-digging around the base both last fall and last week seemed to help a little but we still had to cut thick roots that had snaked under everything else growing in the area to get it out of the ground.

And now, of course it isn’t terribly happy; it’s new growth wilting sadly. I’m keeping it moist by both misting the foliage and watering its base which will only add to the weight when we have to move it again for whomever wants it. I honestly don’t know how anyone will take the thing; it’s going to take at least two strong people to get it up into a truck and woe to whomever pulls it out to plant it. It was a bear and a half getting it into a pot and into our tree-sheltered side yard for safe keeping. But it can’t stay there for long. It needs to get back into the ground and next week’s wet weather would do it wonders.

Cap’t Dan’s house hasn’t sold yet and I got the chance to chat a little with The Wall Streets next door who said they had to scream again at Cap’t Dan’s family early this morning when their teenager’s party got a little out of hand. Why some people can’t talk without saying ‘Fuck’ every three words, I don’t get. Personally, I didn’t hear a thing from either party this time around but I sure am glad Mrs. Wall Street’s the one doing the screaming. Saves me from looking like an old fuddy-duddy even if it was at four in the morning.

Then Mr. Wall Street told me that a few months ago, Mr. Howler Monkey backed into his car while it was parked across from the Howler Monkey’s driveway. Mr. Howler Monkey said to just give him the bill when Mr. Wall Street got it fixed and he’d pay it.

Well that was four weeks ago and Mr. Wall Street has asked him twice for the $875 and both times he was blown off by both Mr. and Ms. Howler Monkey. Mr. Wall Street said tonight, after The Howler Monkey’s get back from vacation, he’s going over to demand the money. Said he’s going to tell him that if he’s not paid, he’s going to start tacking on interest.

Ought to be a hoot but I’m not planning on watching. All I have to do anymore is sit out on our front porch and Mr. Howler Monkey strikes up conversation with me nearly every time. I’ll hear about how that all went down.

Mrs. Howler Monkey then told me about their new neighbors, the woman who bought the old Posers house on the other side of them. She said that the new neighbor has been in the house for over a month and just last week had the grass cut. I’m sure I’m not the only one around who thought the house might be abandoned and it wasn’t just because the grass was over three feet tall. The wide street-facing side gate has been swinging in the breeze for a month and finally broke partway off a week ago and all the blinds downstairs were removed from the windows and replaced with pieced together cardboard and duct tape. The Wall Streets said the woman is very, very large and maybe she’s afraid people are looking at her though the close blinds. If she replaces all that with aluminum foil, I told them, that’s when I’d start to worry. Still, it might be something to keep an eye on.

April 30, 2007

This morning I watched two robins fighting in front of our house. They are so territorial. I know of a nest that is being built in a tree out front of a house a couple of houses down the street.

The two went at each other for almost five minutes. Then one ran off to The Dry Cleaners yard across the street and the other ran into The Dimmers yard next door. The next thing I know, a big hawk swooped in, all wings and talons and grabbed the robin in The Dry Cleaner’s yard. I rushed downstairs with the camera and tried to both get a close-up shot and tempt the hawk to release the robin but it flew off and took Mr. Robin with him. Such is nature. There won’t be any territorial problems around here now, will there?

As today is the last dry day for a while, I took my car out and while I was tooling along the freeway some miles from home, another hawk nearly collided with me, and a few miles later, another hawk buzzed the top of my car. I was just about ready to turn around and head home when I looked down at my dashboard just in time to see an alert that read that my rear tire sensor had decided to finally go out completely. I stopped at America’s Tire on the way home, the only authorized place to fix these kinds of things on my car and ordered a new one. I was hoping they would have them in stock but no such luck. It’ll come in sometime later in the week but I’ll have to wait for another dry day before I can go and hand them $110 dollars plus rebalancing plus tax plus labor. This reminds me why I probably shouldn’t bother driving my car much anymore. It’s just sounds easier to let it rot in the garage, paying for insurance and registration only.

Colon check day is Wednesday. Today I’ve started the clear liquids fast in preparation. Part of the reason why I went for what would have been a long drive was because when I drive, I don’t eat. I don’t even think about eating. It’s a leftover from the car show days when I’d go the entire day on one coffee alone if anything at all. So far, it’s been water, decaf tea and a decaf, plain, black coffee. Tonight is vegetable broth. I can hardly wait.

May 1, 2007

Welcome to Riot Day here in the Pacific Northwest. No rioting going on yet down in Portland but it’s expected for the afternoon rush hour commute. I still don’t get it.

Apparently, it’s also Worker Appreciation Day or something like that. That was news to me. Here I thought it was May Day all along.

I didn’t wake up terribly hungry this morning after liquid fasting yesterday in preparation for my colon inspection tomorrow. I thought I might be. I’m still feeling okay even now though I do have a bowl of vegetable broth sitting here that I’m sipping now and then. I woke up just three pounds shy of my motorcycle riding weight of 153 pounds. WS has never known me lighter than that. 147 pounds is my old racing weight back when I used to race karts. It’s hard to believe I’m less than ten pounds away from that, just like it’s hard to believe I’m actually on a diet. Well, I feel it from time to time when I see pizza commercials on TV but you know? Pizza on TV NEVER looks like that when you get it delivered. More often it looks like something someone puked up on top of thin bread.

Yeah, visualizing that doesn’t make me hungry either. This is just going to be one of those kinds of entries.

I scrubbed the bathroom floor this morning in preparation for my enema adventure late tonight, again as part of the colon inspection requirement. The last thing I want to be thinking about when I’m lying in there on a towel is how filthy that floor is. As you can probably imagine, I’m not looking forward to tonight or tomorrow but the good thing is that by this time tomorrow, it should be all over and I should be on my way back home, hopefully in dry pants and not still full of air.

This whole procedure has got my mind occupied with things other than writing so I’m giving myself a break today. Actually, I gave myself a break yesterday too. One big thing at a time. No doubt I’ll have lots to say and write after my appointment tomorrow.

May 2, 2007

Today was my Flexible Sigmoidoscopy and I’ll start by saying I’m generally not much of a cry baby when it comes to feeling uncomfortable or dealing with pain. Today, however, wasn’t a usual day and I was a wuss.

So I did the enema thing late last night and again early this morning but by the time I left for the doctor’s office, everything coming out wasn’t clear like it should be and like they recommend it should be. No time to do anything about it, I go anyway.

Since WS had a very early meeting, I had to drop him off at work earlier than I originally planned in order to make it all the way down into Portland on time. I knew traffic would be bad, and it was, but I always do well in bad traffic and I ended up a mile from the doctor’s office an hour and a half before my appointment. I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few things and that sheared fifteen minutes off what I was just going to have to deal with—a long wait.

But once at the doctor’s office, I was called less than five minutes later. I love it when appointments go that way. That definitely doesn’t happen nearly enough in the world.

The doctor popped in after I had undressed and right off the bat I felt uncomfortable. She looked not a little like, but exactly like an emotional vampire ex-friend WS used to work with and I caught myself looking at her nametag and studying her face a little too much just to be certain it wasn’t that ex-friend.

She got down to business and asked if I had read the laminated sheet that had been sitting on the table when I arrived. Now that I think of it, there’s probably a good reason why it’s laminated but I’ll let you figure that part out on your own.

I said I had read it. I noted that on the letter than was sent me, it read, and I’ll quote here, “…may feel some discomfort…” during the procedure yet on the laminated sheet, it read, “…will feel discomfort…”

BIG difference there and they weren’t kidding. I whining and squealed like a little girl and no amount of holding my belly and pressing gently like the doctor instructed me to do did anything to stop the cramping. I’ve had bad food poisoning in the past that didn’t give me that much discomfort.

But I think I know why that was the case and it comes in two parts. First, the picture of the Flexible Sigmoidoscopy instrument cord appears a lot smaller in diameter online than it is in reality. The one used on me was about as thick as my thumb (knowing that I may have small thumbs to some readers, perhaps a better scale would be as thick as your forefinger).

Second, my letter says, “The procedure will take between 5 and 15 minutes to complete.” The laminated sheet said, “This procedure will take 5 minutes.”

This is important and another BIG difference. So big in fact, I am certain the doctor was going for a new land-speed record via my colon. Three minutes from start to finish and I felt every second of it as she kept saying, “Sorry. Sometimes it’s hard to get through all the kinks and bends.”

No, you think? You’re probing my ass with something that doesn’t look like it’s capable of bending at all….but I do like what I’m seeing on the video monitor.

Yep, you get to watch the whole thing. Maybe it’s to take your mind off the pressure and cramps, I don’t know, but I’m happy to report there were no obvious polyps, no dead or dying areas, no reddened or blackened cancerous wounds; just pinkness galore.

And then it was over.

I guess they use slight suction during the procedure and the assistant said I hardly had anything come out. I’ll take it that’s a good thing. By the size of the suction bag I saw, they are prepared for those who forgot or choose not to self-enema-ize and load up on bags of Big Macs beforehand.

The doctor said everything looked routine and normal and that she’d send the tape over to my primary doctor who may want to discuss it with me. (Great, there’s another co-pay to budget.) She also said she wanted me to pick up a poop-on-a-stick kit (called a Hemocult) before I left but not to use it for eight weeks because of possible minute bleeding from today’s procedure. I really meant to stop and pick that kit up; really I did, but after the speed and discomfort of the whole thing, I felt somewhat in a daze and completely forgot until I was halfway home.

Traffic back was a breeze and I was home before my appointment was originally scheduled to begin. I felt good about that, nearly as good as I felt about getting all that lubricant off my ass, and boy, did she ever use a lot of lubricant.

Final thoughts: If you are due for one of these procedures because you have a family history or are of the age when your doctor thinks you should get one, by all means do it. Don’t put it off. To tell someone you or your loved one is dying of colon cancer isn’t worth putting this procedure off especially when colon cancer is one of the easiest cancers to cure if caught early enough. The discomfort will be worth it, especially if your doctor races through it like mine did. The three minutes might seem like an eternity at the time, but it’s worth it for the peace of mind later. And the really good thing is, it’s a procedure that isn’t required every year.

But my recommendation is this: If at all possible, take a muscle relaxant before going and have someone else drive you to and from the doctor’s office. I can’t say it would help as I didn’t do this but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

May 3, 2007

I’m getting back on the writing track today. The car story is rapidly closing in on 60,000 words. That’s more than I have ever written on one topic (other than the whining here) and well, I’m pretty proud of myself. The story, by the way, is only half finished.

I’ve come to realize that the Joe Hill book I’m reading is boring me to tears. The guy gives away too much and doesn’t say much, although some of it sounds very smooth and pretty—almost effortless sounding. But geesh, is the story ever S.L.O.W.

I found out today something I had suspected for a while now. Someone I read occasionally has gotten a book deal with a big publishing company but here’s the problem: She hasn’t written the book yet and she’s going through her royalty money like water. New house, professional decorators, trips out of state. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if she held a job but she doesn’t. Neither does her husband. You suppose they don’t know that if she doesn’t sell as many books as the royalty check was, they’ll have to pay that money back? Yeah, the things people don’t know about the book business.

It was pretty dark and stormy here yesterday. It was pretty dark here today too but not stormy. Didn’t rain a drop after 8 a.m. though it looked like it wanted to much of the day. Tomorrow should be a mix of showers and sun and then we’re expected to get one of those glorious Pacific Northwest weekends where everything is green and blooming and perfect. You know how much I like rain; I love it, but enough already. Can I please start using my backyard now for something other than a bog?

May 6, 2007

We had a quiet weekend for once, doing things we wanted to do for the most part instead of the 101 errands we seem to never complete. It was colder than forecast and not sunny at all but grey and sprinkly and that called off our less-than-concrete plans to drive to Eastern Washington just to see that it exists. The nearly $4.00 a gallon gas might have played a part but it would have been a very small part. Both our cars get very good gas mileage.

So we stuck around home, gracious to Kami of Jestablog and her husband for giving our blue spruce the very best home it could have short of taking it back to the nursery it came from five years ago (like that would have been possible) or leaving it where it was planted only to have it begin to break up our driveway within a year or two.

Saturday afternoon, we tracked down a couple of quaint used bookstores in town and went back to one in the evening for a writer’s lecture on creating successful fiction given by semi-local writer Jessica Morrell. For whatever reason, I thought the lecture would conclude with the other writers chatting and mingling and talking books and writing and I was up for it.

But the place cleared out within minutes of the lecturer’s last spoken word. Perhaps they all met at a swank bar around the corner or late night coffee shop across town to analyze what was said. Or maybe everyone came out of their writer’s fog just long enough to listen to what their works might be missing and immediately went back to edit and rewrite. The lecture was maybe only a brief interlude. Given what I witnessed while I was there, both by action and stammered questions, this last scenario seems to fit better. Are writers nerds? Oh yes. Definitely.

Last week, Catmoma J. asked to hear more about the book I’m writing. I’m working on my fourth novel, a fiction about obsession and the people who own expensive, fancy cars, the kinds you’d see at a car show. It’s a world I’ve been a part of or on the fringes of in some small capacity since I was a teenager. I’ve had the opportunity to meet some real characters and see some ‘interesting’ things occur in that world and WS recommended that I write about it last year as my 50,000 word project for National Novel Writing Month which is held online every November.

The story turned out to be a hoot to write. Since I did complete the required 50,000 words for the NaNoWriMo event but didn’t finish the whole story, my goal this summer is to finish writing, editing, and rewriting the entire thing and then start marketing it around to agents and editors. I’m hoping that somewhere, in between rejection letters, someone will like it enough to want to publish it but if not, I’ll work on it enough to make me happy and then put it away in a box until another time down the road.

Occasionally, when I’m really deep into working on it, I’ll mention some of the characters and situations here. In this car story, Cecil is the nice guy (protagonist) and Floyd is the bad guy, also known as the asshole (antagonist). These two grown men have a history of not getting along and of competing against each other at car shows with their show cars for years. They also belong to a big car club in town and each of them has a friend/sidekick that tends to look out for them. Or do their evil bidding against the other, whichever the case may be.

The conflicts lie both with each other and within their own families as well as outside influences that get in the way of what each wants—to be top dog at this season’s summer car show series. The undercurrent of obsession runs throughout and the story begins with a warning for all car enthusiasts: Be careful of what you wish for.

Thanks for asking, catmoma J.! Always glad to answer questions. Feel free to ask away!

May 8, 2007

We had a beautiful day here, truly the first like it this year. Warm, sunny, dry, and just enough breeze to keep it from turning hot though the local news said it reached 80 degrees F. With that, I finished planting, transplanting, and cleaning up the backyard and pressure hosed a majority of the fountain. The frogs, we have two big ones now, kept me from completing that last part wherein I aim a forceful jet of water around the multitude of rocks to dislodge leaves and muck from the bottom. All the muck ends up in the filter which I’m certain is crusty and could stand cleaning but that’s a job we’d have to hire out as its huge and buried deep in a half a ton of gravel. There’s no way I’d have the patience to do that stinky, filthy, back-breaking chore.

Earlier in the day I got some writing done followed by more writing around dinner. I’m working on a couple of things at once—the car novel of course, and a scary short story which I hope will make people leave their lights on for a while longer after going to bed. I’m trying to keep a tight story while using a sparse amount of adjectives so it’s not lopsided once I get into the scary part but man, is that ever hard to do. I’m spending most of my time cutting words and looking for the odd yet right ones that will fill the space and meaning of phrases. And then I remembered that I jotted down a few interesting turns of words a few weeks ago when I ran across them in something bad I was reading. I hoped I might be able to use them in my short story or at least come up with something else along the same lines but my jotted list was useless. I’m back to grasping for elusive words.

Doesn’t being a writer sound like fun?

I can’t really complain. I wrote more today than I had in a week AND the fountain looks reasonably clean at the same time.

May 10, 2007

I finished my first short story today (not counting the flash fiction I finished last month which is considerably shorter) and I scared myself half to death in the process. Yes, I think it’s that scary. It’s fun to learn how to use simple, innocent words in the English language for imagery different from how some were intended. Words like splash, oiled, hitch, and scissored. I really sweated through the second half of the story. Scary things don’t come as easily to me as they once did back when I was younger and had bad dreams often. We can thank WS for that and for providing a stable home life.

Anyway, I’m pretty pleased with myself today since I now have two stories in inventory. After making the evitable edit suggestions and coming up with four or five more of the same, I’ll finally be ready to start marketing myself around (also known to some as selling oneself to the Devil) to small publications with hopes of landing in a reputable anthology somewhere. We’ve all got to start somewhere.

Yesterday was my car’s fifth year birthday, or creation day if you will, a date that seems silly to know but is important to those who are too deeply entrenched in owning a car like mine. I started out the week deciding to do something nice for it because I’ve been known to attach human feelings and emotions toward some inanimate objects from time to time and it’s now slathered under a coat of fine polish. It had only been two years since it had seen any and that’s an eternity by my picky standards.

I even applied some glossy goo to some of the engine parts. Good as new, or better actually. Even when it was right off the line and brand spanking new, it wasn’t this good looking. It could enter a car show this coming weekend, if I wanted to do such a goofy thing like get back into that fracas again. And I’ll assure you I don’t but that doesn’t seem to keep Monkeys from the old Monkey Car Club from emailing me and asking me to attend this or that. Trust me. If I were to jump back into car events again, the last people I would do them with would be the Monkey Morons.

May 15, 2007

This is the first stretch of good weather we’ve had this year. I’m taking full advantage of it and so, let’s interject a Generic Universal Blog Post here:

Clever title

Paragraph(s) describing weather/latest whining-bragging about (your area of expertise here)/long self-aggrandizing story keyed off a single word from clever title that is in no way related to this story/cool new internet meme.*

Additional paragraph(s) explaining relevance of same.

Paragraph relating topic to personal short story, experience or expertise.

Pithy summation with witty closing note here with or without URLs for three personal web picks.

Appeal to readers to do the rest of your work for you.

Insert comments/echoing sediment comments with closing emoticon/inflammatory counter-opinion/spam here.

*or insider joke for regular readers . . . like this footnote.

May 16, 2007

It’s much cooler here today and breezy . . . yet again. Envision a front yard full of things from not-so-tidy neighbors: Toilet paper and toilet paper rolls, Taco Bell wrappers, paper coffee cups, tinsel and enough foil bits to choke a moose (foil from what I don’t know). In our my attempt to surround the front yard with a berm and shrubbery to keep stuff out, wouldn’t you just know that the trash of others would find their way in through the only open space? A space that is only two feet wide? I should have left the whole yard flat and devoid of anything taller than mown grass for all the crap that collects out there. It might as well be the city dump on any day the wind gusts over four miles per hour . . . which is almost every day. The really weird thing is, trash days are Mondays. Why are we getting all this stuff today?

Additionally, why, after almost eight years of living here, am I bitching about it now? Because it’s taken me this long to get tired of it. Really, really tired of it. Read that last sentence with the caps lock key on. Yes, that tired.

I’ve got a lot of things here I’m trying to sort out, other things that I’ve discovered I’m tired of dealing with too, not the least of which is my nightly sleep pattern that would have me believe that the seven hours I lie in bed according to my bedside clock is a crock. It’s actually only five minutes. Or so my aching, tired body would say.

So, amongst the dozen other things bothering me this month, I am tired of feeling tired. Anyone else feeling the same?

Go on. I’m listening.

May 17, 2007

I didn’t take a nap yesterday. I also didn’t mean the end of yesterday’s post to sound like I would be bored with anything anyone would have said. Darla wrote to say that I sounded rude and I can assure her and you that was not my intention. I’m just tired, that’s all, and obviously my grammar suffers when I feel this way.

Lots of little things are bothering me this month for some reason or for no reason at all, and I’m not really sure what to make of it. I think I’m putting a lot of pressure on myself as I’m looking for that next big thing that will validate me in my own mind. In the past I’ve delved into working in a few male oriented vocations and hobbies, done some auto and kart racing, thrown myself into car show competition, vowed to create stunning gardens, dappled in home decorating, and with all of these behind me, I’ve been feeling a little small. Insignificant is perhaps a better word. Maybe that’s why I think writing will serve me well but dang, does it ever take a long time to get anywhere!

Sometimes I scare myself with some of the thoughts I’ve come up with. No, I’m not talking about some scary tale or situation I may be tempted to write a novel about at a later date; I’m talking about ordinary deep thoughts, revelations if you will that others have probably come to eons prior. I had a revelation the other day and that was that some famous families ought not to assume that the apple will fall close to the tree. Some apples will spout wings.

Therefore, all famous families ought to adopt worthy apples who may already be full of worms and abuzz with fruit flies, like myself for example, but are trying hard to land close to an equally worthy tree.

Confused? Okay, granted that was pretty baffling so I’ll just get to the point and say what’s on my mind.

I think author Stephen King ought to adopt me. I like cars, rock-n-roll, and writing just like he does. We’d get along swell.

I finished reading one of his sons’ novels recently and regrettably, I didn’t really find it written well at all. Yet, throughout I could almost hear Mr. King’s voice speaking to his son over the course of his life.

“The way into the hearts of readers is to find a common man’s voice and pepper your work with it liberally,” only with a heavy Maine accent, done only for effect, that might sound a bit like, “Thaw wahy intah thaw hahts aw reahd-dahs is tah find ah caw-mawn mahn’s vow-ece ahn pep-pah yah wawrk with it librahwly, ayup.”

His son peppers his story with voice but it didn’t work for me like it did for two decades with his father very early in his career. It sounded like a bad parody of his dad’s voice. Sure, the son may have similar interests, thoughts, and inflection in speech if for no other reason than that he grew up in the same household, but much of what was written in his son’s novel seemed forced and fake, like he was trying to get me to like him, trying to get me to become an ‘insider’ like his father used to be a master at.

Then again, anyone new to the son’s book or didn’t know the two were related might disagree and that’s okay. The thing is, I think I can do better; know I can do better, and it’d go a whole lot smoother and faster if I had Mr. King’s voice in my ear telling me what to do to get my stuff out there in the mainstream market.

The added bonus would be that I wouldn’t feel so small or lost and I don’t think this writing thing would take half as long as it currently seems to be taking. Heck, I could even come up with a Mainer accent if I had to. I naturally pick up on things like that rapidly. Just ask all those Canadians I irritated imitated that time we went up to Vancouver.

I don’t know what his reward for the deal would be. Maybe he could make me like his recent books and take up reading him regularly again. Or maybe I could be just another adoring fan, but a less annoying one that didn’t ask him to autograph everything in sight or ask him silly questions like where he gets his story ideas. Or maybe we could just talk, him and me, about this and that, about things of little to no importance if for no other reason than to hear a different point of view from a different person who lives in a different town but who is struggling to do the same thing. I’d promise to not talk too much about writing, in fact, I’d let him pick the daily topic. It’d only be fair and I like playing fair.

May 18, 2007

First off, happy Mt. St. Helens day to those who know and remember the day the mountain blew itself. I still can’t believe my good fortune to live within visual sight of the still-growing volcano.

Secondly, this week is season finale of several shows on TV. Here’s a run down of what I watch and my excitement of each:

Wow. Can’t you feel my exhilaration? I can’t begin to tell you how much better my life is knowing that I’m rarely glued to the TV anymore. Of course once they start making ANYTHING worth watching again (not likely to occur in my lifetime, yours neither), that could change.

Yesterday I organized the living shit out of our garage which had become a dumping ground for more stuff than I care to admit to owning. Today, I took everything to a Salvation Army drop off spot only because the Paws and Claws thrift stores are picky, picky, picky about what they will accept and days (hours) when they will accept anything. I didn’t seem to have anything they were interested in. I wasn’t too happy about that especially since I’d rather support them instead of the Salvation Army (I refuse to support Goodwill ever again). Salvation Army will take nearly everything which was exactly what I had to get rid of.

As for the rest of my day, I’m running aimless at this point. Yeah, I’ve got a dozen things I should be doing, but after yesterday and this morning I’d rather do something I want to be doing. I just haven’t figured out what that might be yet.

(Here’s the point at which Mary Lou will ask me again if I want kitten. . . LOL! Just teasing you, Mary Lou! BTW, she took in an absolutely adorable kitten last week. Go see for yourself!)

May 20, 2007

It was shaping up to be a great day. We had run errands yesterday knowing the rain was coming back today and so we focused our energy today on cleaning the house, doing a little reading, and me, working a little on my cat short story. Around 3:30 p.m. we were sitting in the library and had just patted ourselves on our backs for getting as much done as we had when a single yowl came from the adjacent pet bedroom.

We looked at each other not sure what it was we heard. And then we heard it again. It didn’t sound like a cat or anything we had heard before or so I thought at the moment. We rushed into the pet bedroom. All the other pets surrounded a pet carrier, the biggest one, the one that G.B. most often slept in and then that yowl came again.

I dropped to my knees and reached into the carrier just as G.B. collapsed inside. She panted for a moment, less than ten seconds, as I petted her and wondered what was happening and what I should do. That’s when I remembered a similar incident that happened to Vince, another cat we had back in 2000 and that’s when I realized what was going on.

WS asked what was happening. I was crouched in front of the carrier blocking his view and I think I said she was having heart failure. But before I could tell WS to call the emergency animal hospital, G.B. shook and took a deep breath. She let out a long sigh, eerily similar to Skitter’s final sigh a month ago.

And then she was still.

Never before have I longed more to have owned a stethoscope than at that moment. I mean, she couldn’t have died right then, right there, could she? Surely, she’s still alive. My eyes kept telling my brain that I could see her breathing or at least something moving. But it wasn’t true or if it was, if something were still moving, it was her chest that slowly shrunk further downward until her lungs were completely empty of air.

I said she was gone and WS let out a long sigh behind me. “It’s too soon,” he said and his voice broke.

I gently lifted her out of the carrier. She was incredibly limp and disjointed. I talked to her as I did so, hoping the movement would make her body take another breath, anything just so I could selfishly have enough time to rush her to the emergency hospital, even though she would have hated it, even though the travel in the car might have caused her heart to stop regardless; she dreaded trips to the vet so very much.

But she lay cradled in my arms no longer seeing, staring at me one final time. I closed her eyes as much as they would close and saw that her tongue was the deepest of blue, a sign of heart failure, and a signal I learned from Vince’s passing seven years ago.

And we started to talk to her, to tell her how much we were sorry and would miss her. The other pets sniffed her body and sat close by as if they knew something important had just happened. I told her all the things I had told Skitters a month ago in his final hours, to go find the others: D.K., Vince, Pinks, Bob, and the others who would be waiting for her and the same as I told Skitters, I told her we’d meet again some day to sit in the warm sun.

Within the last two hours, I’ve come to realize that the best place G.B. could have spent her last day was here at home surrounded by familiar things. She feared travel and the vet so much, more than once I was afraid that she’d have a stroke or something during one of her yearly checkups. She was the only pet who was this afraid but it went deeper than just the vet visits. Since early kitten-hood, one of a litter of six WS and I hand-raised when we were given the unwanted bunch when they were only eighteen hours old, G.B. displayed an overly timid personality; a complete one hundred and eighty degree difference from her sister Zooot or any of the other kittens at the time. Despite the quiet surroundings we’ve gone to great pains to provide her throughout her short, eleven-year life, she continued to be terrified of everything. Only we and the other pets were invited inside her trusted circle. Having to rush her to an animal hospital in her final minutes would have been devastating.

All is quiet now once again. G.B. has been carefully wrapped in a soft blanket and is tucked inside a small carrier. Tomorrow, when our vet’s office opens, we’ll take her in to say our final goodbyes and to be cremated just as we did with everyone before her. Our other pets are comforting us where we sit now, somewhat in shock that we would lose two in a month, and certainly not G.B.

The Queen, at age nineteen has started her nightly meowing. It’s almost dinner time and she reminds us that life goes on.

May 23, 2007

I’ve taken the past few days to slow down intentionally. I’ve been on the go, moving too fast since last October really, maybe a little before that with my writing and doing things on my mental to-do list that is constantly being added to. I’ve had doctor’s appointments and hair appointments and I’m on this South Beach diet with which I’ve lost 20 pounds but have been stuck in on a plateau since the end of February. WS, on the other hand, has lost 50 pounds. I don’t have to tell you how that makes me feel—a bit like a failure really, but I’m still not giving up.

But I may slow down posting here a little over the summer months. Just a heads up. In all reality, I probably won’t slow down a bit. It’s not my nature. My belief is that if I slow down, I’ll die and I’m not ready yet.

Today we got a couple of things in the mail that were difficult to read: A sympathy card for G.B. signed by everyone at our vet’s office and something that brought fresh tears to my eyes, more than the sympathy card did—a letter of confirmation of a monetary donation made from our vet’s office to the Washington State University’s veterinary department on the behalf of Skitters, who we lost last month.

We’re still not sure what to make of it.

Here’s what the letter says: (any typos found within are strictly my own)

Dear [us],

Worldwide, a close bond resides between pet owners and their companion animals. These animals provide emotional value that closely resembles that of a life-long friend, or even a member of the family. When a pet dies, the loss feels like we’ve lost a friend or family member and can be extremely difficult to cope with.

Washington State University’s College of Veterinary Medicine was contacted by Drs. [Four of our vet’s names listed but excluded for privacy purposes here] at [our vet office] that your beloved, Skitters, had passed on. You have our deepest sympathies for your loss. In honor of the special relationship shared between you and Skitters, [our vet’s office] has made a monetary donation to the Pet Memorial Program at Washington State University. Your pet will be memorialized on our website at http://www.vetmed.wsu.edu/depts-prd/memorial.asp. You can expect to see this memorial in the next couple of weeks. If you have a story about, or a picture of your pet, we would love to post it on our website. Submissions can be e-mailed to us.

The impact from gifts to the Pet Memorial Program is felt throughout the veterinary college and its programs. Pet Memorial gifts help support and enhance inpatient care and medical research while enhancing our student experience so we can continue to provide the best quality education and training for our veterinary students. We are deeply proud of our world-class clinical programs in neurology, imaging sciences, surgery, sports medicine, cancer therapy, and internal medicine, and we are strongly committed to the relief of animal suffering and the improvement of animal health and well-being.

Our success is greatly dependent on veterinarians and individual pet owners who share in our quest for veterinary excellence through the Pet Memorial Program. Thanks to the generosity of many caring individuals, including your veterinarian, the program is helping to support the work of our faculty in their continuous efforts to train the next generation of compassionate and competent animal health care providers.

Please accept our sincerest condolences at this time. While the bond between you and Skitters will never be replaced, we want you to know that the love shared is being extended to other animals on behalf of the Pet Memorial Program.

Warmly,

[Mr. Bayly’s Signature]

Warwick Bayly, BVSc, M.S., Ph.D
Dean

Wow, is all we can really say. Yes, Skitters was special. We always knew he was. We didn’t think anyone else really thought so. I mean, he went through the first half of his life completely bald and we all know what people tend to think of bald animals. Eww! So I went to the link provided and sure enough, Skitters is listed there with the dozens upon dozens of other special pets who have been nominated and honored by their veterinarians and veterinary offices around the country.

They also provided as well as in with G.B.’s sympathy card, a Pet Loss Hotline information card for help with grieving at 509-335-5704. Nice touch. The whole thing had me bawling my head off again like it had just happened an hour ago. Kind of puts things in perspective as WS said last Sunday after G.B. died completely unexpectedly here of heart failure within the course of 30 seconds. The really nice touch, and one we don’t see often, is that they got Skitters name right as well as ours. Nothing kills the mood better than typos and over the years, we’ve gotten tons of them. I think Skitters would like that too just like I think he’d like knowing that we sent his photo and story into this memorial site. Soon. I need some time first.

June 1, 2007

(peeking around corner)

Is it June yet? Close enough? Okay, good. Let’s all wave the crappy month that was May good bye, much like we did to an even crappier April.

(waves good bye)

–and lets get back to posting.

I watched Pirate Master last night on TV. Thursdays are one of our ‘no TV’ nights but we cheated last night. I wasn’t impressed with PM, in fact, before Pirate Court, I was thinking the whole thing resembled a bit of a cluster fuck. I’m sure it just needs time to sort itself out like Survivor and Big Brother.

News from the neighborhood is interesting this week:

Cap’t Dan and the Smokin’ Clan took their house off the market. Don’t know why. Maybe because it reeks of cigarette smoke, they fibbed on the For Sale flyer, and/or they wanted too much for it? It sat on the market three months. There are homes in our development that, after six months, still haven’t sold. Then again, there are those that sold within two weeks. Who knows how this thing works but now we don’t have to worry too much about some kid-laden family moving in and terrorizing our backyard.

But Cap’t Dan did install a terribly attractive in-window air conditioning unit and a 4×6 sheet of bare plywood over their upstairs window that overlooks our backyard. Looking at that eyesore every day is going to get old quick.

Which reminds me I need to fertilize our trees this coming weekend.

Mr. Wall Street hailed me the other day while I was roasting myself unintentionally out in the front yard in the 90+ degree heat. He and the wife spent Memorial Day weekend off together sans kids “to get a start on another one” he said. Why someone would take a moment out of their day to tell their neighbor that they were procreating? It was all I could do to prevent myself from rolling my eyes. That’ll make kid number five in a house that has three tiny bedrooms.

And then it came to me. Yeah, you do that. You go ahead and pop out another kid, and another, and another still. Go ahead and keep up pace with your friends that live down the street who already have six and another in the oven (who by the way, live in the exact same size house). Go ahead because I know what’ll come next and that’s what I’m waiting for. The inevitable “Honey, our house is too small!” And the really great part will be that because their backyard is every bit as small as ours is, they’ve got no room to build on an addition. They’ll have to move! Let’s just hope they do before Mr. Wall Street decides to rip out that huge deck and build that racetrack back there after all.

Yesterday was interesting as well. Once again, I was out in the front yard, tending to Limpy and his box when I overheard Mrs. Wall Street talking with her overly-fertile friend from up the street. I waved and called out a “Hi” when they looked my way and Mrs. Wall Street called over that she was going to start a “gossip group” in the neighborhood.

A what?

Apparently, gossip groups or gossip clubs are all the rage where The Wall Streets grew up in California. Who knew? And they asked if I had any to share.

If I had been drinking anything, it would have come flying out my nose.

You all know how much neighborhood news I have posted here over the years: How WS and I barely survived Drunk Tank Willie’s antics next door and The SportsOrNothings on the other side of us with their teenage kids and the fire pit. About poor Ms. Ears who kept us filled in on my ex-boss MsNoManagementSkills and her eventual marriage to DorkMaster when they secretly moved in down the street “to keep an eye on us.” The Dimmers have been terrible neighbors at best though I know things could be much, much worse.

I could have told them about ToyBoy and his latest obsession with flying remote control helicopters and his violent temper when he crashes them or how three neighbors had affairs going on with one another’s wives up until a couple of years ago and how one of them nearly killed another’s wife in a late night ATV accident while her husband was out of town and how the other covered up the evidence.

But in the end I didn’t tell them anything. I acted dumb. “Nope,” I said. I don’t know anything and I don’t see anything.” Mrs. Wall Street laughed and said she started the group because she knew everything that goes on in our neighborhood.

Oh really. . .

(I didn’t ask how that could be the case when her husband tells everyone she doesn’t get out of bed until eleven in the morning. I guess anything gossip worthy happens after eleven.)

June 2, 2007

Let me go on record right now how much I hate baby bird season.

What? You hate baby birds? How awful you are!

There. I filled in the opening line to all the nasty emails I’ll get with my opening statement. What follows is up to you.

For all the good it will do those people, let me say I like birds. Free birds that is, and no, I’m not talking about the song. I’m referring to birds that aren’t caged up for the sale and enjoyment of people who buy them. That isn’t how it’s supposed to be, by the way, and this is coming from someone who had a roommate with caged birds. Maybe it was the mess, and trust me, they are incredibly messy, or maybe it was the smell, or maybe it was all the squawking at all hours of the day and night mostly brought on by the fact the roommate often ‘forgot’ to give them water. I think she was trying to shut them up quicker. Me, I’d break into her bedroom and give them water and still get pecked half to death for doing so on top of having my pissed-off roommate move out and stiff me with rent. The birds didn’t fair so well after that.

Anyway, I hate baby bird season, free baby birds that is, because we get a lot of them and don’t have the best of luck seeing them through to adulthood. Too many wandering cats in our neighborhood and too many coyotes missing most of the wandering cats.

That last statement ought to really bring the hate mail out into the open but just so no one feels slighted, there are too many people living here who don’t pay attention to what is sitting behind their parked vehicle’s tires, or what is sitting in their yards before mowing them down with their lawn mowers, or what might be sitting on their porches before they let their unleashed dogs out. And let’s not forget the speeders living here too. Ever see anyone slow down for a (living) bird sitting in the middle of the road? I think I’m the only one. Ever see anyone stop for a baby bird standing in the middle of the road that doesn’t know it’s supposed to hop or flutter out of the way? I’m not going to post pictures of what happens in all these instances but it is taking every ounce of my will not to do something in retaliation. For the birds and their families, of course.

So you see, I really am a bunny-hugger, or at least a bird-hugger at heart. I just really hate baby bird season . . . but the sight of that baby robin hopping across WS’ toes out on the front porch earlier . . .

June 4, 2007

The weekend was hot and dry but lovely at the same time. We spent a huge amount of time outdoors talking and getting home maintenance things done. WS hand washed the entire back of our algae-laden house, not an easy feat by any means taking into consideration the house is a two-story and the vinyl siding is supposed to be white. Two sides left (the front that won’t need cleaning faces the sun 365 days a year and doesn’t get terribly dirty) as well as the walkways in back and the place will be good for another year or two.

We also filled the cracks in the floor in our garage using flexible cement caulk for a project I’ll start work on next week. The project might turn out to be a bust or maybe it won’t. We’ll see. I’ll post more about it when I start.

A patio light project for the back yard was a bust though. I bought the string of glass globe lights two years ago and it turned out there really wasn’t any way to mount them to our backyard umbrella like I had envisioned. So much for the Italian outdoor café look. I’ll wait until we build a deck and pergola.

Next door, The Dimmers actually helped nature briefly Saturday by rescuing a baby robin that had somehow gotten tangled in one of their trees and was dangling upside down on a branch. The baby and parents had been screeching for an hour and finally the sound brought out the neighbors. Apparently, a length of string had been part of the robin’s next and unfortunately had tangled around a wing and the feet of the bird as it was growing, stunting the little thing terribly. Mr. Dimmer captured the baby and cut away as much of the string as they could but later let their unleashed dog out front who found and mangled the bird later. Got to give them credit for trying. Got to take it away for not paying attention.

Mr. Wall Street stopped by to borrow a drop light that we didn’t have and told us their house was 90+ degrees inside. That had us completely baffled as they do have air conditioning. We do too and set at 74 degrees, our less-shaded house often feels chilly inside. Turns out they can’t justify using their air conditioning because, and I quote, “There’s no sense watching it suck money from our wallets when it’s on.” WS wondered if they knew they needed to clean their electronic filters every other month so the thing actually works well and graciously went over there to ask and find out.

He got a less-than-welcome reception with Mr. Wall Street claiming to know what he as doing with the filters. Even so, he was in the middle of installing a huge attic fan inside his house and by huge, I mean a 3×4 foot monstrosity that needed an equally large vent hole cut in their ceiling. He seemed pretty proud of it after working a day and a half on it and invited us over to take a peek. All I can say is they better hope none of their small kids are standing under that thing when he flips the switch. They and anything not nailed down will certainly be sucked up.

He also showed us a wireless temperature gauge he installed in his attic and even with the fan running, the attic sensor showed 107 degrees. I’m wondering what the heck is going on over there that their house is getting that hot on an 85 degree day. Maybe the previous owners, The SportsOrNothings, removed all the insulation up there? To be honest with you, it wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe I’m taking for granted how hot those spaces can get or don’t understand it completely. We don’t have any attic here whatsoever. All our ceilings upstairs are vaulted. Still, if they are hitting 107 in their attic and 96 degrees in their living space on an 85 degree day and they won’t run their air conditioning, how are they going to fare from now until late October? Not too well I’m guessing. What did they do last summer? I feel like I’m missing some part of the story.

Thinking more about this later has me convinced their decision will work to my advantage. The little private patio area I built on our east side yard hasn’t seen any use in years because of the meat-grinder-like noise their air conditioning unit creates (all our units in our development sound like this, by the way.). The unit sits immediately on the other side of the thin wood fence and honestly, when the thing is on and you’re sitting in our side yard, you can’t hear yourself think. I’ve basically ignored the space because of that reason, choosing not to fix or run the small fountain I installed over there and letting the ferns and flowering weeds take over because what’s the point? Now, after hearing that The Wall Streets won’t be running their air conditioning, maybe I need to revisit spending afternoons in that little garden space. It’s the coolest place on our property because it only gets two hours of sun a day and a breeze blows through it constantly. It’ll be like revisiting an old friend.

June 6, 2007

The South Beach diet continues. I’m still on my plateau at 158 pounds (since April) and I’m starting to eye the treadmill again. Ruefully so. Of course, I’ll have to wash the thing down to rid it of the good half inch of pale dust covering it. How I hate having to exercise purposefully in my adult years. It seemed so easy, fun actually and not exercise at all in a previous life when days spent in the desert at Canyon Lake or in the vastness of O’Neill pool was more the norm than not. I’m a Pacific Northwest woman now and it’s struck me for every one of the last eighteen years that the area would have one believe that thunder thighs and a saggy gut are the norm.

If I could just get a handle on my constant hunger that one is not supposed to feel on South Beach. It’s the menopause hormone imbalance everyone says but since when do I listen to everyone? I refuse to give into that excuse and I refuse to quit. Again I say I can outwait the plateau.

Baby robins continue to hop around the neighborhood. I’m not paying any attention to them anymore. Honest. The baby starlings are thinning out thankfully. Not too much squawking out back. Well, The Dimmer kids are getting pretty loud as is the norm every summer. They are still young enough to play outside, screaming their heads off in that annoying game of “I can scream louder than you can.” Another couple of years and they’ll spend their days inside, quietly glued to a computer or a game machine and someone else’s young kids will take up the game because it’s a phase I’m convinced and a game everyone’s kids play.

I didn’t fertilize the trees last weekend like I said I would remind myself to do. It was hot and I don’t like to fertilize when it’s hot. I should have done it yesterday or this morning when it was cooler and rainy but I didn’t because, well, I just didn’t get around to it. Typical me. I’m being lazy. Or maybe subconsciously I was worried that the baby birds would mistake the granular tree fertilizer for food and eat it. I worry about that sometimes. Again, me being typical me.

I should be writing today. I gave myself the month of June to get another short story finished from top to bottom; a story I’m already halfway finished with but again, I’m being lazy. Actually, I have no idea where I want it to go or end and that seems to be the problem I’m facing with several of my stories lately. I’m not sure how things progressed to that point either other than maybe it’s just a sign of poor initial planning on my part. Or maybe I’m just reading too many short stories lately that seem similar: Good ideas, good characters and situations but all basically die on the vine when it comes to the endings which aren’t really any at all, making me yell out loud, “That’s it?!?!?”

I have a writer friend who would probably say the authors didn’t write the hard part of their stories—that being the end of scenes or the end in general yet the stories are all award winners. It’s confusing but I’m going to work extra hard to not let that be the case for any story idea I come up with in the future. Until then, I’ve still got two shorts I need to find endings to pronto and the drive to work through this lazy slump.

Or maybe the endings will come to me like happened for the short story I finished last month. I was vacuuming because it always needs it around here and a perfectly good ending popped into my head. I wrote it out and it worked and that was the end of it. If only I could make that be the norm. Uh, finding story endings, not the need to vacuum constantly.

June 7, 2007

I was cleaning up my web Favorites list the other day and came across a bunch of sites that I can’t for the life of me remember why I bothered.

June 11, 2007

Another weekend in the bag. Did we do anything? No. Did we ‘do’ anything? No. Of course not. We’re not so much ‘do’ people. WS was on a tear to clean our shower and proceeded to get it nearly back to its once-beautiful sheen and so how could I really complain? Hard, mineral-y water blows as I’m sure clear glass and brass fixtures will tell you. And it’s always nice to see that lame-ass gift of a Leatherman I bought him for Christmas years ago be of some use.

We did have the misfortune to run into MsNoManagementSkills Saturday at the grocery store. Day-UM, but has she ever packed on the pounds in the past year. I honesty didn’t recognize her upon third look but there she was yakking up a storm at us. She told WS he looked good though he could “use a sandwich” which is the expression she uses whenever she sees anyone lighter than herself. He seemed to have gotten a kick later out of me telling him that within the year and sticking to our South Beach diet, he’ll actually weigh less than she does; not an easy feat considering WS is six foot six while MsNo is five foot four.

To me she exclaimed my hair was ’SO’ blonde and ‘SO’ long and that I had bangs. I reminded her that I’ve got the freedom to get out into the sun when we have any and that I have always had bangs and that I thought some people just needed them to look better. WS diplomatically stepped in at that point because he picked up the infliction in my voice that spoke of years of continued hatred toward this woman so I didn’t get to address her continued exasperation that ‘older’ woman shouldn’t have hair longer than the tops of their ears. On the good side, I also didn’t have to listen to her say anyone over the age of 30 should be shot. I heard too much of that when we worked together and I’m sure the grocery store wouldn’t have appreciated the fight that surely would have broken out between us when I called her on the fact that she is now over 30.

She said she is still having daily fights with her step daughter and DorkMaster’s ex-wife and I mumbled something along the lines of not being surprised. Then she showed us her latest tattoo done on the bridge of her foot that I thought looked like circus advertising for the angry red bunions further down. I smiled and bit the inside of my mouth to keep from asking if she had actually seen the tattoo, knowing that she’d have to bend over and pull back the rolls to do so.

I’m not a big tattoo fan but I have seen some truly amazing works of art on people. MsNo wouldn’t know a work of art from a wad of used toilet paper but I have noticed that she gets one whenever she feels she needs to impress someone.

Remembering a chat I once had with her before she ever got one, she said she was looking for a way to make people think she wasn’t stuffy, matron-y, and old (this being said at the ripe old age of 26). She didn’t really like tattoos; she decided to get one because young people do and she wanted her then-husband, FatHead, to think she was still young. No amount of me suggesting that it’s what’s going on between the ears is what makes someone young and that physical aging can’t be stopped, sunk in. In fact, she dismissed me as just another old person yammering about something I couldn’t possibly have ever known anything about. To think about it today makes me feel as if I were wasting my time trying to convince Lindsey Lohan that she hadn’t invented sex.

MsNo got her first tattoo a week later and a divorce a couple of months after that. Apparently, she’s talked DorkMaster into getting a tattoo himself—one he designed personally. Eagles or some such masculine thing. She said she has to shave his back for it to be seen and he isn’t interested in getting anymore anywhere else on his body. All he wants to do is play video games and he was leaving the house most nights to go do so. Some things never change.

I wonder who she’s trying to impress this time.

June 14, 2007

It’s Flag Day, a day I only remember because it was the birthday of my first friend . . . and perhaps why I don’t have many even now. She wasn’t a very nice person and was often led willingly down a dark path by the group of older girls that lived briefly on our street. That bunch found it funny to torment and torture ‘weak’ kids of which I was deemed but I called her my friend anyway because I had no one else.

She was two years older than me, ten years older socially and mentally, and she taught me not to pick zits “because they’ll get infected and they’ll have to cut out half your face,” how to pluck my eyebrows because there should be two, and that a menstrual cycle meant womanhood. These were all things my mother didn’t and wouldn’t tell me and to me, that made my friend even more of one.

Her family moved away three years later and she never said goodbye. She was in high school by then and I, still in grade school, was an embarrassment. You know how kids are.

Happy Birthday, my first friend, wherever you are. Too bad you couldn’t have stuck around to see I turned out okay after all.

June 15, 2007

Yippee for rain! I ought to hand water the lawn the night before more often if it’ll assure precipitation the following day. Rain is forecast for the next day or two and I have to giggle at all those Father’s Day car shows coming up. Yeah, I’m thinking this is a great year to let my car sit dry, shiny and comfortable in the garage.

With that, you just had to know more car talk was coming up, right? Well, lemme tell ya.

Two years ago Mr. Dimmer didn’t have very nice things to say about my car. I didn’t ask for his opinion; it came out of the blue one afternoon when he went on a tirade about how much better diesel engines were for the environment, the world, his wallet and his peace of mind. All said while giving my car the evil eye. He said that in twenty-five years, I wouldn’t be able to run my car, even start it up probably, whereas he’ll still be driving his new, reliable, diesel Dodge pickup.

People should learn when to stop themselves when they make statements like that because you know how things have a tendency to come back to bite.

Today, Mr. Dimmer’s ‘reliable’ diesel pickup sits in his driveway leaking diesel fuel and transmission fluid all over his driveway. He hasn’t driven it in a month and when he does start it up, it smokes and he shuts it back off and uses the mini van instead. Maybe he thinks it can heal itself if it sits long enough? Yeah, I’m thinking in twenty-five years, his truck will mostly be in a landfill. I’m still hoping my car will be in a garage somewhere looking for the next dry, sunny day.

On the other end of the scale, Mr. Wall Street told WS recently how he couldn’t understand anyone buying a BMW or Audi because they were just Volkswagens which is why he holds onto his 100K-plus mile, smoke-pouring Jetta station wagon. We’ll try not to notice the Dodge Viper t-shirts he’s most apt to be wearing anytime he’s out of his business attire and talking to us. I’m thinking he’s trying to justify what he has and that he’s never actually driven a BMW or an Audi for any length of time because I have driven all three and there is a HUGE difference in both power and handling. And I know a little about power and handling. But who’s going to listen to me? I’m just a chubby, middle-aged housewife who happens to have had the opportunity to drive nearly everything ever built.

I’m thinking he’s trying the subtle tactic with Mrs. Wall Street to get a Viper in his garage. And since starting to talk to her, I hope he won’t be too disappointed with the 1:18 scale die-cast model he’s getting for Father’s Day. I don’t think that’s what he really had in mind. I also hope he doesn’t mind the color yellow because the Vipers on all his shirts are red.

And so, he continues to look down his nose at WS’s car. All I can say is at least it’s not smoking, it’s as safe as a driven car can be up against SUVs on the road and WS has fun driving it. Mr. Wall Street? Well, I grew up in the ‘60’s, ‘70’s and ‘80’s and anyone caught driving a station wagon was considered driving Mom’s car. *shudder!

June 18, 2007

I’ve been neck-deep in short story reading lately in an attempt to better understand writing, particularly my own. So imagine my horror when I discovered that I write dark fantasy. Fantasy? Me? NO WAY! I hate fantasy and I hate science fiction too but only because I’m guilty of labeling and stereotyping. Let me explain.

In my mind, science fiction is about dorky-looking rockets crashing upon moons made of cheese. Fantasy stories are always about flying dolphin and talking unicorns. Not that there’s anything wrong with either; it’s just not what I like to read or can easily stomach. And I should know better because I have good writing friends who tend to write fantasy novels and to my knowledge, there isn’t a flying, talking dolphin or unicorn in any of their tales.

So, going back to my original train of thought, therefore in my mind, dark fantasy is always about vampires and zombies.

I hate vampire and zombie stories with every fiber of my being.

And so, what do I write?

Well, my most recent finished short story is about vampires, intellectual vampires to be exact though I was halfway through writing the damned thing before I realized that’s what I was conjuring up. That makes it dark fantasy and I think I felt a little sick to my stomach when I first realized it.

My first short story is about something a woman is feeding on her backyard deck, a monster to be exact and since the world doesn’t really recognize true monsters, not really, that makes that story a dark fantasy too.

Or horror . . . especially if you consider the bad writing.

Technically, I can market them both either way because of the fuzzy line that sometimes divides dark fantasy from horror. (By horror, I’m not referring to the splatter slash-and-gore variety that bores me and half the planet to tears. That’s not horror, its crap that’s created simply to shock the reader.)

So, can I actually write a horror short story? I dunno but you can bet I’m trying my hand at one right now. Will I ever write dark fantasy again? Most certainly, now that I better understand what I think I’m doing.

June 21, 2007

Assumptions, Comments and Other Faux Pas

For as much as I’ve been quiet here lately, don’t get the impression I’ve given up sticking my foot into things, such as my mouth. As much as I liked to think that I’d grow out of that phase as I got older and find some diplomacy and tact, I’ve come to accept that it’s just not going to work out that way. I suppose things could be worse.

Last weekend our neighborhood held its annual garage sale (this after much talk that the particular neighbor who ran it and incurred all of the costs, were over). The Howler Monkeys participated and got rid of a bunch of baby stuff, most of which was snatched up by the various families on our street who are on the frequent-breeding program and that our development seems to have become a haven for. This leads me to believe Ms. Howler Monkey has put having another kid behind her and joined the ranks of the very few left that aren’t popping more out left and right—that being me and the old woman who lives up the street.

It was a lovely weekend, misty, drizzling on and off, nice all around. The Howler Monkeys held their garage sale inside their garage but had a fully enclosed baby cage for sale and set up in their driveway. Mr. Howler Monkey thought he was clever and put their poor ignored cat, Limpy, in it and left him there. In the rain. The sides of the cage were only two feet tall but Limpy’s not a spring chicken anymore and couldn’t get out of it. They thought it was hilarious and called over to us so we’d notice.

We were sitting out front on our porch, drinking coffee. We weren’t participating in the garage sale because we spent the entire month of May donating our stuff to various charitable organizations when we were told the neighborhood wasn’t going to hold its annual sale. No big deal. It was a tax write-off that way. We’re not big ones for sitting through garage sales anyway, talking to people, wheeling-and-dealing, making change and trying to keep people from stealing us blind while we’re haggling with someone else.

I wandered over to The Howler Monkeys and smiled at Limpy in the cage while they kept laughing and joking over him. I mentioned that I didn’t think he’d be able to jump out of it because I had seen him have a hard time climbing their fence a few times when a loose neighborhood dog chased him. Remember, Limpy has no claws. Climbing a six-foot wood fence has got to be a little tough that way. Ms. Howler Monkey acknowledged he was getting old but she didn’t think he was that old yet. Eventually, he was able to jump out of the cage although a bit awkwardly. He was soaked but the weather was warm and he looked good a couple of hours later.

While I was over there, I saw an opportunity and casually asked how much the baby cage was. I didn’t really want it but I was going for bigger fish. Then I asked Ms. Howler Monkey if Limpy came with it, saying he’d have a good home, would become an indoor-only cat and explaining that we had lost two this past spring, not that we’re looking for another addition but that we both really liked him. You would have thought I slapped her.

“Nuuuoooooooooooo!” she said like Limpy was her most treasured possession and that obviously, I was on something. In fact, she asked if I had put a little something extra in my coffee cup that morning. I assured her I hadn’t but she wasn’t convinced.

I joked it off but the conversation was strained after that. Oddly enough however, she was back to saying hi and waving a few days later and Limpy’s still hanging out here on our front porch more often than not as usual.

Well, I tried. Doesn’t look like Limpy will become another pampered pet anytime soon.

Next, I can’t keep from openly commenting about the neighborhood’s booming population. You just know this had to happen sooner or later.

June 22, 2007

Our block is going through a population explosion this year it seems. Of the sixteen households on our street, thirteen of them are expecting a visit from the stork sometime this year. Of those thirteen households, seven have already produced four or more children. The biggest model of house in the entire development only has four bedrooms. I’m thinking that’s a lot kids doubling up and I’m wondering how many of those kids resent sharing a bedroom like I did as a youngster.

Doubling up wasn’t the topic of conversation the other morning when I was out working in the yard, half-eavesdropping on three members of the neighborhood ‘Gossip Club,’ all expecting, while they were standing across the street at the community mailbox. They were yakking up a storm and talking loudly enough for anyone within a block to hear what they were saying. It was not lost on me that they might have been doing just that purposely and if so, a big shout-out to my neighbors if they are here reading.

Some of the latest neighborhood news was about The Dimmers’ truck that I mentioned last week in its current disabled state. The Gossip Club says the reason Mr. Dimmer has it backed into his driveway is because he’s stopped making payments on it since its pretty much D.O. A. and he wants to make things easy for the repo man (not like last time when he swore to anyone who’d listen that he’d stare the next one down over the barrel of a shotgun).

It was also speculated that the real reason The Dimmers emptied their garage, a.k.a. the long-term garbage storage area, wasn’t because the smell finally got to them but so they could park their other vehicle inside just in case the repo man mistook the Dodge minivan for the dead Dodge pickup.

Soon a fourth very-expectant Gossip Club member waddled up and joined them, a woman who’s never talked to me before. In fact, she openly snubbed me when I tried to strike up a friendly conversation at a holiday progressive dinner we used to participate in years ago. Anyway, across the street, the talk soon turned to the obligatory questions that generally makes me feel queasy to listen to. “How many more days/weeks/months to go? Are you spotting yet? Is he/she/it kicking today?” If I hadn’t been in the middle of cleaning up debris from hedge trimming, I would have moved to the backyard to get away from all the baby talk.

And just as I made up my mind to move anyway because they Just.Kept.Going with the pregnancy talk, the fourth expectant mother called over to me, “We can tell you don’t have kids. Your yard is too pretty. Maybe we should drop off our kids so they can make it look like the rest of our yards.”

They all laughed then, all of them standing there with their hands rubbing their bellies bulging out from their skin-tight t-shirts and Capri pants, each with a kid on a hip and no less than a dozen others nearby in strollers or chasing birds, butterflies and each other.

Really, I should have just laughed and waved a delicate wave like royalty probably does when faced with such things. I could have just let it roll like water off a duck or acted like I didn’t hear or understand. I could have just smiled, or ignored her, snubbed her back even.

But instead, I was just me and there I went, spouting the first thing that came to mind like I’m apt to do.

“I didn’t choose not to have kids just so you all would pop out more to fill in the gap.”

I had more to add but I stopped myself there. I always said it’s good to know when and where to stop. Unfortunately for me, that’s advice my own mouth tends to ignore.

Something tells me I’m not going to be ‘invited’ to overhear any more neighborhood gossip.

June 23, 2007

So last fall, I attended a Science Fiction convention, NOT because I like science fiction because I DON’T (though I did like that part where Darth Vader tells Luke he’s his father). I went because of the writer’s programming; mini classes I tend to call them where people in the know come to talk for an hour about the various aspects of writing. A few big-name people were invited to talk about the bigger aspects of writing and from what I gather, all conventions and conferences do this. But I was new to this juncture and with newness sometimes comes ignorance. Sometimes even stupidity.

I remember sitting in on one of the mini classes, up front as I’m more apt to do because I’m not a wallflower and I can’t hear well if there are more than, say, a dozen people in a small closed room, and the topic was something along the lines of ‘How To Find an Editor.’ The room was packed, more than packed actually I recall when I looked around and was surprised to see people sitting on the floor in the aisles and standing so many deep along the back wall.

The lone speaker [name and gender withheld for reasons which may become obvious shortly] was someone I had never heard of before and quite frankly, hoped to never hear again. If there had not been so many people in the room, meaning I’d have to fight my way out from the front row back to the exit door, I would have got up and left after the fourth or fifth time the speaker mentioned how pointless it was for a new writer to try to get anything published in today’s world. The name of the class might have well been, “Writing to Get Published – What’s The Point?” or maybe “So You Want to Be an Author? – Good Fuckin’ Luck!”

I gave serious thought; still do sometimes, to giving up writing after sitting there listening for that hour, an hour I probably mentioned here I’d never get back. Of course now, I’m just glad I didn’t post the speaker’s name and go on and on about how much of an explicative that person seemed.

Hang on a second.

Okay. Just had to verify that last sentence. I posted a direct quote at one point last November, but no name.

Fast forward eight months. I’m learning the craft of writing short stories this year. I’m also heavily into reading short story anthologies and magazines this year, mostly in my chosen genre(s) and I’ve been perusing various publications to familiarize myself with the writing submission process.

Over the course of my reading, I keep running across that speaker’s name. A mention or two (or three, four and five) here, a book or two dedications there. It would seem that most of the places I’d hope to submit my work to in the future have had or currently have this speaker’s fingers dangling somewhere in the pot. This person is big; bigger than big. And important too. Big name authors love this person and small name authors dream of being in the same room on the off chance, they might accidentally gaze upon the same thing At.The.Same.Time!

And now I learn that in my chosen genre, if I were to want any editor on my side, this person, this boring, uninspiring, de-motivational speaker would be the one. Even though this person is more likely to tell me and every other writer that there is no point, everyone else in that same position pales in comparison. Sooner or later, this person is going to lay their fingers, however temporary, on my work. The genre simply demands it.

Yeah, and I almost said something, um, unflattering. Of course, now I understand that this person most likely only said those uninspiring things to ground the newbie writer, to help toughen up that writer’s skin for future rejection.

Whew! I’ll bet you thought I was going to say that I was publicly snarky toward this person, didn’t you? Go on, admit it. Okay, so maybe you aren’t surprised but boy, I sure am!

June 27, 2007

To quote Damone from ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High:’ “I don’t know what happened. I woke up in a great mood this morning.”

So today I’m saving the day by way of the washer, the dryer and the portable air compressor. After WS gets home from work, a time that seems to get later and later every day courtesy of his new creativity-sucking job position and his equally creativity-sucking boss, we must run off down across the river to get a new mattress protector or else sleep on a mattress covered with a paint-stained plastic drop cloth. I shouldn’t complain. That’ll only tempt the washer into breaking down again and then we’ll really be screwed.

Additionally, over the course of the past couple of weeks, computer problems have escalated again. This time, the problems are on multiple fronts. One is a big annoyance and prevents me from accessing my own site here until I change some kind of file number after uploading fresh material—difficult to do when I can’t access it in the first place until I go around and round out of my way through an ancient backward method. We think our ISP changed something and for all we do to change the settings back to the way things were for the past six years, it goes ahead and won’t allow anything to be overwritten and gives me constant 404 – You don’t have permission to access this page errors.

Um, my check that you cashed back in February for a hundred bucks says Yes, yes I do have permission, Mr. ISP person!

We had a few problems with our ISP earlier this spring that required multiple late night phone calls to them. We’ve been really happy with them up but they really blew the pooch on a couple of moves they made. Thankfully, they corrected them all after a lot of complaining on our part but getting to that point was like pulling walrus teeth. Out of a squirrel’s mouth.

The other problem I’m going to pin on Microsoft and one of their latest automatic updates. God, I hate those things. That is the Number 1 reason I hardly ever use my laptop. Every time I start up the thing, something needs to be updated. ALWAYS. Um, NO it doesn’t need this and/or that update! Let ME decide when I need a friggin’ update already!

Anyway, for whatever reason, a recent automatic update wiped out my Photoshop CS2 program, the ability to use JAVA and Outlook for email. While I didn’t need Photoshop until the summer season began, not being able to use JAVA for a couple of things was kind of annoying. What really blows is that I haven’t had email for a couple of weeks and didn’t realize it until last weekend. We hope to get that part fixed in the coming days and hopefully, I don’t have a million time-urgent things sitting in there. All I can think of is good thing I wasn’t waiting on a story submission reply.

Okay, that’s about it today. You can return safely to your homes.

June 29, 2007

Today, an adventure.

We’ve decided to revisit owning a couch. Sure, we have a couple of rattan chairs I still love that were the only seating in our sparse living room since getting rid of the old, much hated and pet-stinky couch, and I still prefer to sit on the hard rattan surfaces but now that Skitters has passed and that room has become off-limits to most of the rest of the pets, (i.e. the pets that tend to do most of the household damage), we’ve decided it was time for change.

We’re really cramming the room now with the addition of a couch and loveseat, more furniture than we’ve ever had in that room at once, but we’re okay with it. For the new set to fit, we moved a side table and the rattan chairs over to one end creating a cozy sitting area which meant we finally moved the 750 lb. beast, a.k.a. the elliptical machine into the entryway on its first leg of its future move out the door and into someone else’s home. Yes, we’re getting rid of it. Yes, it wasn’t used much at all, and yes, we’re willing to take a loss on it. The $900 machine is up for sale for $200 or best offer with the stipulation that the new owner haul it away themselves. Bring muscles. This thing isn’t called the beast out of jest. While I didn’t get much use out of it after claiming how much I really wanted one, I’ve found I use the treadmill way much more. I really like the treadmill and am using it three times a week currently for both brisk walking and limited jogging. An added bonus is that WS can also use it. The elliptical machine, on the other hand, wasn’t rated for his weight.

Another item we’ve added to our lives is a real kitchen table. This is something we’ve never owned, not at any time in our almost 20 years together. And I’ll add that we made sure the table came with chairs, because we’ve been known to not think of such things in the past. It came with four and we’re okay with that too. Finally, 8 years after being built, the ‘dining’ area in our kitchen can be used for what it was originally designed for. We’re feeling so 21st century.

July 2, 2007

I dreamt Mt. St. Helens went off again in a rather large and dramatic way. I dreamt it blew its front off this time which if it really did, would most likely send ash our way. We’re 39 miles directly to the south. That doesn’t take into affect wind currents though and we probably wouldn’t get any. In my dream, I was walking westward along a flat sandy bar on the Columbia River and had a clear view of the mountain over my right shoulder, and at a glance I could see a dozen or more fumaroles steaming heartily on the south flank like a smoky screen. Then as I watched, the front of the mountain blew out and rolls of grey clouds raced toward my town of Vancouver.

I dreamt I ran through the sand trying to get back to the car in hopes of getting home before the ash hit. Whenever I need to run in my dreams, my feet always feel like they are in sand or thick mud and of course, I can never get to where I’m going in a hurry. In the minutes it took to get back to the trail that led to the parking lot, a wide, thin slurry of grey mud started creeping down the embankment toward the water. And as I’m always apt to do, I wanted to touch the stuff. Amazingly, at least in my mind, the stuff wasn’t hot or even warm. It was just thin mud, no more than an inch or two deep but it was coating everything in its half-mile or more path.

Then I woke up. I’m not sure if that dream was more interesting or the one before it in where I was responsible for making sure Eddie Van Halen’s son Wolfie, was getting to his college classes on time.

Which all makes me believe that no one needs to eat six yogurt cups in any one day. Even if they are only 60 calories each and don’t contain any sugar.
Our South Beach Diet continues. WS is down 60 pounds and for the first time in his entire adult life, has bought a pair of shorts off the standard men’s rack. He’ll always need to buy big and tall shirts, for the tall part of the equation, but to buy normal size bottoms that fit is spectacular.

I, on the other hand, am still going through my slow-moe plateau. I fluctuate between 155 and 157 but at least I seem to firmly be out of the 158-160 lb range that hounded me throughout April, May and most of June. My weakness? Blue cheese, walnuts and vanilla soymilk. At least I think those are the culprits to blame (choosing not to blame myself of course). I’ve completely gotten out of the habit of eating an actual breakfast of an omelet or celery and soft cheese and got myself away from a steady 160 lbs because of it. Technically, I’m still on target though I know this month will be tough the further in we get. My personal goal is to be below 150 by my birthday at the end of this month. Five to seven pounds doesn’t sound like a lot; sounds easy to most people, and I have no doubt that if I were just looking for the number, I wouldn’t have a problem. The key is to lose it safely and permanently. I don’t want a couple of pounds creeping back on a day or two later. Still sounds easy? Well let me tell you it isn’t.

My ultimate goal won’t be realized until sometime next year. I’m shooting for something between 125-130 lbs. I’m not going to kill myself getting there and I realize it might be possible that my body won’t support that low a weight, not without more work and effort that I can’t comfortably maintain. We’ll just have to see. I think I’ll be happy with whatever weight my body settles on. I’m already so happy just to be down where I am now, all originally done without a shred of exercise.

July 4, 2007

Eighteen years ago WS and I were unloading a barn-sized metal storage shed of all twelve of my personal belongings in preparation to move from Phoenix to the Pacific Northwest at the end of the month. I was amazed and still am that someone would ask me to move with him to his home state but then again, I was certain the heat had something to do with it. Eighteen years ago today the temperature had reached a record of 121 degrees, and there we were, working in a closed metal storage shed. To ponder how many brain cells literally were fried that day would probably cause a few more to sizzle so I don’t recommend thinking about it. Yes, there was heat stroke involved. In Phoenix, that’s a given and everyone gets used to it. The temperature record, by the way, fell the following year when it hit 124 which was followed later that summer by 127.

Today’s temperature there is expected to hit 120. Yesterday, it was between 115 and 118. No, I don’t miss living there. N.E.V.E.R.

Anyway, it was July 4th and fireworks are illegal to buy there, although people still do, but way, way, way off in the distance, if we stood on a short cement block fence and leaned far over to the right, we could just make out what was billed as the biggest fireworks show west of the Mississippi. Little did I know at the time that every state west of the Mississippi lays claim to one of those kinds of shows.

Offhandedly, WS told me I hadn’t seen nothing yet, just to wait until he got me up to the Northwest and he’d show me a big fireworks show.

And then, when the 4th came around the following year and we lived with fifteen miles of the site of this supposedly big fireworks show at Fort Vancouver, he admitted how much he hated people and being around people and he didn’t take me to see what he had, in my mind, promised to show me. Years came and went and still we never went because he didn’t want to. A couple of times, we went on 4th of July outings at nearby parks with people who swore the fireworks from the big show would go off right over our heads and every last one of those people were drunk off their asses at the time and outright lied because we never saw a thing. Seriously. Not a single firework.

More years went by and I got to the point of watching it on TV because one of the local Portland, Oregon stations broadcasts it. I gave up asking if we could go long ago. Funny, we can hear the explosions from our house, always could no matter where we lived since moving here but can’t see them. Apparently, they shoot the fireworks off a barge parked downstream west on the Columbia River. We’ve always been too far away to see that.

So imagine my disbelief when this year WS said he was taking me to see this big fireworks show. I guess I still don’t believe it one hundred percent and it’s possible something will still screw it up. But to give him credit, he booked us a room for the night on the Columbia River slightly downstream from where the fireworks are supposed to be fired off. While we don’t have a river-view room, we should be able to see them from the hotel’s marina parking lot.

Finally, after eighteen years, I’ll be able to judge whether this or that far away show in Phoenix is the biggest fireworks show west of the Mississippi. Finally, WS is going to stick to his first promise to me. And naturally, you can expect my thoughts on the event later in the week.

July 6, 2007

WS nailed our 4th of July outing to the Red Lion hotel across from the Fort Vancouver fireworks show. From the marble and granite-laden river-view room we weren’t supposed to have but got anyway to a lunch and dinner of Copper River salmon and escargot to a mini-shopping spree and a front row seat to the Fort Vancouver fireworks show, everything turned out wonderful. It truly made up for eighteen years of waiting to see it. Leave it to him to take longer to do things but with results that turn out loads better in the end. It’s frustrating sometimes but always worth it.

Being as the 4th was in the middle of the week really kept the noise level down around home here too, I think. Usually our neighborhood has all kinds of stupidity going on surrounding fireworks, even with as dry as things usually are. That’s not to say we aren’t still getting Roman candles and bottle rockets shot at our 2nd story windows but its been reduced somewhat. This year, our area is extra dry and grass fires along I-5 and I-205 are cropping up everywhere, mostly due to people who insist on throwing their cigarette butts out their windows. And naturally, they end up rolling or being blow right up to the edge of the freeway asphalt where the grass begins. Poof and that’s all it takes for fire to race up the sides of the highway to the businesses lining the tops. Luckily, we don’t live anywhere near the freeways but we do have a ‘green space’ down the hill behind us. It’s just a matter of time before someone shoots something off in that direction and chaos begins.

This is the first year our neighborhood didn’t put on a huge official fireworks show in the eight years our housing development has existed. The guy who used to do it decided to stop after the city (of which we aren’t technically a part of) wouldn’t issue him a permit or insurance, both of which he sought after his personal fireworks display started pulling in close to a thousand people. Since we knew early on he wasn’t going to put on his show, WS’ planned outing was that much more special. No more backyard fountain-side firework show here.

During last year’s display in our neighborhood, a 9-year old girl held a sparkler close to her face and a single spark flew at her neck, as they can do, and apparently, she freaked out. Hearing the story later, it sounded like her group of friends; her ‘posse’ were more responsible for making her freak out than the actual incident itself. They teased her with stories about how her neck was going to get infected and look melted and disfigured. You know how ‘friends’ can be sometimes.

The guy who ran the display heard about the girl and he immediately shut everything down to the disappointment of everyone, and went searching for the girl’s parents to offer to take her to the ER or whatever they felt was necessary. He’s one of those overly responsible kinds of people. Only after a half an hour of searching did he find the girl’s parents at home a quarter mile away in a different housing development, drunk and having their own 4th of July party. They couldn’t seem to assure him enough that their daughter was okay but it turned out the girl had dollar signs in her eyes and wanted to go to the ER and get plastic surgery – all for a speck on her skin that ended up not being visible three days later (the fireworks guy kept going back to the girl’s home to check up on her).

That episode scared him into realizing how badly things could go and how he could no longer control every aspect of his fireworks show that had grown into a full-scale event. He told us last week he had just come from the girl’s home and would continue to check up on her every year for the next two years, as his lawyer’s suggestion, just in the off chance the parents get tired of hearing their daughter whine still about an invisible spot on her neck where a ‘huge firework hit her’ as she tells the story now, and decide to sue him for damages.

Back to our Fort Vancouver fireworks outing, it was both weird and cool in that we were only a half hour from home yet it seemed we were hundreds of miles away. That was also part of how special it felt. And who wouldn’t like a ridiculously short drive home after a 1 day mini-vacation?

Again, thumbs up, WS!

July 10, 2007

Supposed to be 102 degrees here today. I want to say that is ridiculous but every year, something like this happens. I won’t complain. I’ll just suck it up and stay indoors.

Note to self: Don’t forget eye exam appointments this afternoon. We’re trying out a new eye doctor. Our old doctor got too strange. Or maybe he just needed new material. Either way, I’ve always left feeling the exam wasn’t thorough and with an overwhelming urge to wash my hands.

I wrote most of the day yesterday. Words flowed like crap water on a short story I’ve had bumping around in my head for a long time and I made good strides on it.

Then I went downstairs and ate more yogurt. I don’t know what it is yes I do – it’s called Splenda but I used to hate yogurt. Anyway, 4-paks of the stuff have become a staple in our fridge and we are two happy South Beach dieters.

And finally, yesterday we had a drowning of sorts here. A month or so ago, we bought Maxx a toy. It’s a Busy Bee and if you know the movie “Best in Show” you’ll know the kind of toy I’m talking about. Anyway, Maxx carries Busy Bee around in his mouth at night while meowing and it really cracks us up, unless we’re really trying to get to sleep at which I’ll call out to him, “Nighty-night, Maxx. Go to bed.” After a couple more meows, that’s usually the end of the story.

Yesterday morning, I didn’t see Busy Bee outside our bedroom door where Maxx usually leaves it but I didn’t think anything of it. A couple of hours later, I went into the hall bathroom where his big food and water bowls are and there was Busy Bee, face down in the water bowl and Maxx looming over it. Then he fished it out. It was a drippy soggy mess and needless to say, it was odd. I told WS later in the evening and the first thing he asked was if Maxx was holding Busy Bee underwater.

Okay, we might have had a real problem there if that had been the case.

July 11, 2007

Hoo-hee, we hit a record temperature yesterday. Our area hit 104 degrees; just south of us in Portland set a record 102. Today we’re going through a cold snap at only 100 degrees.

Okay, that’s enough about that.

Yesterday I was near my weight low for all time – 154.8 lbs. Ate a big salad for dinner without dressing and this morning I was back up to 156.6. God but I hate weighing in everyday just about as much as I am hating this endless plateau.

I laid a dozen more tiles out in the garage today before the area hit 90 degrees. You’d think with all the sweating I was doing I’d drop a few pounds.

I’ve made the decision NOT to take my car to [a local place that shall remain nameless] because it turns out they aren’t the reliable, honest place they used to be. I don’t know if the business was recently sold and they kept the name but apparently, they now practice coming up with all kinds of ‘urgent extra and wildly expensive repairs necessary’ on many of the vehicles owned by WS’ coworkers. Additionally, when WS called them last week to see what a simple oil change would cost me, they told him they wouldn’t use the oil or filter I request, preferring to go with cheaper, no-name brands but at a higher cost.

I’m back to having to drive 40 miles one way to the dealership I bought my car at and needing to be there at the crack of dawn so I can get the oil changed and the tire sensor replaced sometime in the same day. I don’t dare go to the widely known ‘damage-happy’ dealership here in town, who by the way will charge me three-times over the cost of the dealership forty miles away.

No additional Busy Bee dunkings.

Seth goes in for his yearly exam Friday. He’s the nicest, most polite and sweetest cat we’ve ever had yet he’s also the only one of ours to ever bite our vet. Rectal thermometers aren’t fun.

And I’m nearly finished with short story #4 half a month before I planned to be. I’ve also crossed another five books off my reading list. I think I’m down to 16 or so left for the summer.

July 12, 2007

Is it just me or is July flying right along? I think it might just be me and probably because I felt like I took a vacation earlier this month. I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting older or what but I’ve never felt the need to take vacations before. This year, that feels different. It’s hard to explain.

Yesterday I thought I did a great job laying more tiles out in the garage but obviously the heat got to me sooner than I thought. Half of what I put down I did wrong and screwed up the pattern. No biggie, we have lots but it did mean I had to peel them back up and scrap up all the adhesive and re-clean the cement blah, blah, blah. Old tiles can’t be saved and go into the garbage. I laid more tiles the right way this time and even fixed one that straddled a filled crack in the cement and that was giving us a bit of grief. After a few days of looking at what’s finished, I really like it. And I’m happy enough with what’s involved with replacing tiles that may need it later on.

It’s only supposed to get up to 90 degrees Fahrenheit here today and though it’s tempting to go back out into the garage to work some more (because tile-laying can be fun sometimes), the thermometer on the wall out there is already reading 88 and I don’t need to spend tomorrow fixing screw-ups I might make today.

July 14, 2007

It’s another tile-laying day and I’m not enthused. I woke up early this morning feeling woozy for some reason. After a few more hours of sleep, my stomach feels better but I don’t feel like doing anything. Once I get going on that tile I’ll feel better if for no other reason than the fact that we’re getting closer to finishing the garage.

So what would I do instead if I could do anything else? Sleep probably would come to mind though I’m not sleepy, a first in a very long time. Go shopping? Ugh, purchasing the tile and Liquid Nails made sure the budget’s not going to take to shopping for a while.

July 18, 2007

Laid even more tile today in the garage. I think we’ve only got a dozen or so left but in order to finish that part of the project, I’ll have to move my car and that’s not going to happen this week because we’re being blessed with a week of lovely summer rain. Ah, sweet summer rain. Yesterday while I was out back snapping off spent daylily flowers with the sound of the fountain and the air being just right I was momentarily transported back to a little town in northeastern Arizona called Greer that I loved because it was so opposite of Phoenix. Green and wet and rainy and unpopulated, and for that brief moment yesterday, I might as well had been there.

I’m in the middle of reworking a couple of short stories and finishing up a Joyce Carol Oates book. Yesterday I hit upon a couple of stories of hers I really liked and identified with but only because she doesn’t really say what’s going on, leaving most readers to wonder, “What the heck is going on?” I like that in writing up to a point. Unfortunately, I’m learning that’s not so much a good thing in today’s writing world. I think there’s a fine line between indulging too much and not enough and letting the reader fill in the gaps. In today’s world, it would appear that what actual book and story readers there are left in the world, don’t have much imagination for the filling in part. A byproduct of instant gratification and too much TV/Information I think. Oh well. There’s always hope for selling to Hollywood.

Today, WS has a big presentation deal at work to get through. I, on the other hand, watched TV this morning as news helicopters were buzzing the neighborhood overhead. Apparently, there’s a hostage standoff going on about four miles south of us and we just happen to be in the outer loop helicopter flight path. Sounds like a normal day living in Phoenix to be honest with you, something I take great pleasure in reporting that I haven’t done in nearly 18 years. I’m typing this around 2 p.m. and the helicopters are still flying overhead. The standoff began this morning at 7:15 a.m. when an arrest warrant was being served and an officer was shot. Yeah, I remember first moving here and telling people right off that crime of this magnitude and bigger was coming to their then-sleepy town and people all but lynched me over it. Not worth talking about that much anymore.

So I’m sitting here after my 20-minute walk/run on the treadmill debating getting back into my short stories or finishing reading that book or maybe just sitting out front for a while with a bottle of San Pellegrino to soak in the warm summer rain. Ah, sweet summer rain.

July 19, 2007

I thought I was going to starve to death today but WS gave me the car and off I went grocery shopping for more walnuts and yogurt (those other food groups are just incidentals). My weight has sat at 153.8 lbs for the past two days. Only nine and a half days left to reach my goal of 150 or less. I might actually make it.

Of course, the past two days haven’t been without drama – the running out of vanilla yogurt and that fiasco with Chipotle’s food and senna leaf tea. What a spectacular burning sensation that left me with! Who could have known? I honestly believed I would be well under 150 lbs this morning after that combo (not intentionally, mind you) but no. I’ll try harder next time.

It looks like sometime this weekend we’re invited to a gossip-fest with the Wall Streets and The Gossip Club. Apparently, Ms. Wall Street remembered that we’ve been here in this neighborhood since its inception and has found time between breeding to want to know the scoop on the development’s colorful and lively 8-year history.

Will we tell her about DrunkTank Willie, his wife Leona and little bitches in training (BIT) number one and two? You betcha! How about that near-fatal accident he, Grasshopper, and the street slut got into and covered up? Oh yeah, they’ll get that one too. Or my old boss, MsNoManagementSkills, DorkMaster and Ms. Ears who all used to live up the street? Yep. How about The Baseball Team or maybe even the SportsOrNothings? Probably though I’ll draw the line at anyone who still lives or has close ties to anyone who used to live around here (though couldn’t I tell them an earful about The Dimmers next door?).

I don’t know what exactly The Gossip Club has been gossiping about over the past month because I haven’t seen too much worth mentioning around here in that time frame but I’ll ask. I figured after insulting them last month with my comments after one of them insulted our well-kept lawn (my interpretation) they wouldn’t care a hoot about us one way or the other. I’m already aware of what is said about the two of us here; how awful and terrible it is that we’ve chosen to spend our money on cars instead of children (if they only knew their SUVS cost more) and how odd we are because we sit on our front porch, watch children and are very quiet.

I think they’re more interested in what’s allegedly going on in the cul-de-sac up around the corner where a bunch of swingers supposedly live. Ms. Howler Monkey’s backyard overlooks that area so that’s where that info came from, and I don’t know how she would know that unless those residences suddenly removed their blinds and curtains. Stranger things have happened here though and something tells me that The Gossip Club is going to find whatever I have to add boring, old news at best.

Which reminds me to make sure I take a bottle or two of wine with us. It’s not like we’re drinking much of it for the time being.

July 22, 2007

It was supposed to rain all weekend and of course, like idiots, we believed that forecast. But we did deep clean the house in preparation for the Gossip Club get-together that never happened. Surprise, surprise. We can’t be mad about that because after all, the flakiness factor in this neighborhood stands somewhere around the 99.9% factor. Doesn’t anyone actually do what they say anymore, or am I just showing my age again?

Don’t answer that. I prefer to live without knowing.

I’m working on the theory that WS is having a love affair with his new weight loss and good looks. He denies it vehemently which in my mind, confirms it doubly. The turning point came when he discovered he could buy pants off the rack for the first time ever. It continues with his interest in going out places which he was violently opposed to in the past (not so long ago past either). If only he’d of listened to me and others that assured him over and over that no one cared what he looked like when he weighted 360 pounds, I might have been able to enjoy a few dozen outings over the years that can never be reproduced. I can envision a number of outings in our future where I won’t be so enamored to go if for no other reason than I may hold a tad bit of resentment for all those ‘lost’ years when WS was utterly and completely a stick in the mud. Yeah, I know that sounded bad. I’ll work on that.

The rain for tomorrow has vanished and the heat will be returning before the week’s end. At least the humidity will be more tolerable by then. Walking around outside yesterday was like walking around with a hot, wet blanket draped over our heads.

Next week, I hope to finish tiling the garage (still have to get baseboard material) and start work on the front landscape lighting that has laid out there in the side yard for three weeks. Next month, we might try to hook up a working doorbell again and hope it doesn’t burn the house down like happened to a neighbor’s family home last summer when they tried to fix the shoddy job the home builder originally did. We had a working doorbell for six wonderful months. Then nothing. And that’s where things have stayed ever since.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m okay living without a doorbell. I rarely answer the door anyway but it’s that pride in home ownership thing I get stuck on. We’re paying for this house so naturally, I’d like everything to be working and in the best possible condition it can be. I dread the day we decide to sell and have to spend months repairing everything. That’ll only reinforce my dislike toward owning a home.

July 24, 2007

I’m finally finished tiling the garage. It looks great I think and we only need three two more things for it: Baseboards and a place to store the boxes of extra tiles and that sweet Craftsman toolbox . During the entire tile-laying process, we attracted the attention of three neighbors, one we had never met before, and ran across one big black widow spider. I actually remember the neighbor’s name (a first) and I gently put the spider out back to fend for herself. The Dali Llama would be proud of me.

Over the past couple of days I had a major problem with my eye contact and couldn’t wear it. Sometimes, the two need to be separated: My eye needs a time out and time to calm down and the contact goes into a case and sits forlorn in a corner in the bathroom. Of course that rendered me fairly useless around the house. Couldn’t read (though later I dug out a page magnifier and with a bit of difficulty finished a Joyce Carol Oates book of short stories), definitely couldn’t write or use the computer at all, and couldn’t watch much TV without giving myself a headache.

I can’t get glasses for those rare times when my eye and a contact won’t cooperate because I’ve got too many bone spurs on the bridge and sides of my nose from years of parental ‘correction.’ Anything I set on my nose, sunglasses, reading glasses, etc, makes the area swell up and turn the loveliest shade of screaming, bright red that assures most cover-up makeup will run and hide from. So I stick with what works; that being a single contact for my one eye that needs help. This morning, the two decided to get along again and I haven’t had a problem since.

Yesterday, while I was walking around half-blind, I was out back and noticed a Chick-a-Dee following me around the yard. It flitted from tree branch to tree branch overhead and after I was certain that was what it was, I stuck my finger up and out like a perch, hoping it would land on it. It came close; within a foot and a half. There have been a number of birds visiting our yard this year that seem to not mind me working nearby. The two doves are a good example, though WS would remind me that they may well be terrorist-in-training doves as they are very aggressive in a way we’ve never seen before. When they fly in late in the afternoon, they take over the bird feeder and peck at anything else that might be nibbling there. First, we’ve never had doves in the feeder before. They’ve always fed from the ground under the nine-foot tall feeder. Second, we’ve always had ‘dove-ly acting’ doves before. You know, meek, gentle, skitterish. The kind stray leaves and tiny dragonflies scare off. Not this pair. It’s given me the opportunity to get within three feet of them though wouldn’t you know it; I never have the camera in my hand when that happens. I can say they have the brightest pink feet and big ones at that too.

July 30, 2007

I have been away and yet, not away. Not away in the sense that I didn’t go anywhere although for a couple of days I thought we would go to the coast or up to Seattle or anywhere like people tend to do during summer months until, once again, WS’ boss said otherwise and WS’ own thoughts of over-obligation (toward the job position he’s doing but not being paid for yet) stepped in, but away mentally from writing and yes, that meant blogging too (though I read many of yours).

During the past week, I finished a not-for-the-squeamish book called “Stiff” by Mary Roach, we decided on new interior paint colors for the whole of upstairs and talked of some laborious homeowner work we need to tackle this year, we went shopping and bought tires for WS’ car that desperately needed them because what little was left was just NOT going to hold out until September or early October for replacement, and I put another year under my belt.

There still hasn’t been any further talk of the Gossip Club getting together to hear about the neighborhood history and frankly, I don’t really think they are interested, like I suspected was the case. Ms. Wall Street has been upset with Mr. Wall Street; over what I don’t know but he has said in the past he always knows when she is mad because she takes up the entire 2-car driveway with her monstrous SUV and makes him park his VW on the street. The SUV has been parked and re-parked in the middle of their driveway since Tuesday. Must be a rough week at the Wall Streets.

Mr. Dimmer next door has started his yearly yodeling interspersed with hoots and hollers aimed at baseball games broadcast on the radio. Remember, The Dimmers don’t have air conditioning and more often than not, leave their windows fully open year around. We hear everything, and that rarely is a good thing.

Across the street, The Howler Monkeys, The Dry Cleaners and the unnamed neighbor have all pressure washed their driveways within days of each other. Equally, they have all left piles of mossy muck at the end of each of their driveways almost as to say to one another, “Fear me. My pile of muck is bigger than yours.”

The real neighborhood injustice of the month came when the supposed Doctor* living down the street had his house professionally pressure washed up to the point of where his big Christmas decorations still hang. And by decorations, I’m not talking about just lights (those are okay, I guess). Rudolph got his little red nose sprayed off before the pressure washer guy climbed down from the roof and knocked on the door to ask if it was okay to keep spraying up there. Mrs. Doctor said she didn’t care and confessed, “We’re too lazy to take Santa and his sleigh down. Spray away.” She could have said something about the yards of sparkly gold garland too but if she did, I didn’t hear it.

The pressure washer guy offered to take the decorations down and she shrugged her indifference. The guy removed Rudolph but the rest were left dangled from the roof, a cord of big C-9 lights wrapped around Santa’s neck like a noose. I have to wonder how many of the dozen or so little kids living across the street and next door are going to have nightmares over that spectacle.

“No, Santa won’t be visiting this year. Don’t you remember? He’s been hanging off the side of the Doctor’s house since mid-July!”

*I call him “the supposed Doctor” because, and this is my own personal feeling, that if he really is a doctor and living in this neighborhood, he certainly couldn’t be a very good one because this neighborhood isn’t one anyone would consider doctor-residence worthy. Those houses are across town; the ones with a million dollar view of Mt. Hood and The Columbia River.

July 31, 2007

Mary Lou asked a good question yesterday regarding our need to paint and my answer was so long (and complicated) I figured I might as well post it as an entry complete with photos so you can see our current dilemma. I also want to make it quite clear I’m not in love with painting but I feel I can do it well enough to not be afraid to pull out a gallon or five every year or two and tackle a room in a matter of a couple of days. Something tells me however, that after this huge project, I won’t want to see another brush or can of paint for a very long time . . . or until next year at the very earliest.

Mary Lou asked, “So when you painting?” Let’s start with what we’re painting.

My reply in comments (Now with corrected typos!):

“Well, we’ve needed to paint the big-ass wall upstairs in the library hall because it’s chipped badly around the edge of a cabinet for some reason. Crappy paint we figure. It was one of the first walls we ever painted upstairs. But it all escalates from there.

If we paint that wall a slightly darker Butter Pecan/Tan color we like a lot, we have to paint the other three walls (a medium Butter Pecan /Tan shade that matches the first darker shade) because currently they are bright apricot and Butter Pecan and Apricot look awful together. Those walls lead themselves down into the 17-foot high entryway which is completely Apricot color. But it will get rid of the Apricot color that dominates the entire upstairs. We’ve lived with that color for 7 years and are convinced it’s time to get away from it. BTW, it’s the color of our wedding nearly 18 years ago.

That leads us back to that apricot bathroom I just repainted a couple of months ago in order to get rid of the stencil and battleship gray paint in there. If you recall, because it’s such a small room, the color turned out orange and it glows. Quite literally and it is not pleasant.

Back upstairs and in the other direction, the big-ass wall leads through the open-space loft library and into the green walls I despise. Really, I tried to live with the Basil color but it’s to the point where it makes me feel green and not in a good way. We get a lot of light in the library and the Basil green always looked like regurgitated pea soup to me. Unfortunately, the pale green I do like looked like washed out grey in that light-soaked room.

Getting rid of the green means the library bath will finally be another color because it’s green too to match the library. If praying to the porcelain shrine in there, you only have to look up at the walls to bring on the next wave.

And then there’s the pet room at the far end of the library loft. It was the first room upstairs ever painted (and fully furnished) back when I used it as my first office. Currently, it’s got a chair rail that I stupidly glued to the wavy, uneven walls. Below the glued wood, the wall is painted pale turquoise with vanilla cream above. We’ll probably need drywall work in there after we pull the chair rail off but at least after repair and paint, it’ll match the rest of the house.

And finally (!) we HAVE to repaint the gym, formerly our shared office when WS and I worked for The Company. It’s got soft teal carpet we had installed in 1999 (I know, what were we thinking??!!?) and we painted the walls to match. Unfortunately, the sun through the skylight has faded the carpet to an even softer teal (not unpleasantly though) and chalked the eggshell walls mint-y green. Ugh. We’ll paint that to match EVERYTHING upstairs which will ALL be shades of the same Butter Pecan/Tan color I love so much (and is in our bedroom, our bath, and the kitchen.)”

As to her actual question as to when we’re painting, WS was kind enough to go get the paint we decided on yesterday after work and before the paint place across town closed. I wrote this entry up earlier and it’s a safe bet that I’m currently up to my elbows in paint right this very minute. First on the long list: The glowing orange downstairs bathroom. It’ll be all upstairs from there!

August 3, 2007

Hello! WS here with a quick guest post.

B is busy painting like a woman possessed. She’s completed most of the entry way, the big-ass wall and the library completed with only the upper parts of the wall bordering the staircase remaining in the biggest room of the house. Once that’s done, she’ll do the gym and the cat’s room. For now, the camera is still showing a photo from Friday morning before we disconnected everything and tonight we’re too damned tired to put it all back together. We’ll get that done tomorrow.

Also in the news, night before last, I completed my workout and a shower and was returning to the gym when I noticed something was missing from one of my fingers. My nice wedding band, that I was trying on after my weight loss to see if it loosened the ring enough to no longer have the chafing problems I was having with the purer gold content. Apparently it did…loosened it enough to fall clean off my finger. At first, I was sure that it must have been pulled off along with the gloves I was wearing during my workout, but checking it out yielded nothing. I went back to work to try to retrace my steps. Nothing. I filed a lost and found report and headed home.

That night and the following morning was spent thick in depression. I realized that as much as I value the cheapie ring that I do wear because it was the true wedding ring, I missed the one I couldn’t wear as well. It symbolizes the life we’ve built together and the point that we’ve come to where we’re no longer poor. One marks the beginning and the other marks the current.

So yesterday morning, in the hopes of tracking down where I might have lost the ring, I asked my team at work whether anyone noticed me wearing only one ring the day before. No one had noticed any such thing, but our department admin offered to send a notice out to the rest of the site admins to increase the number of eyes keeping a lookout. I was sure it was gone.

I went back to my desk in dejection, noticing as I walked back into my cube, that there was a place I hadn’t looked the night before. I had a box of spare computer parts that I had returned a network cable to just before I left the night before. I opened the box, removed the cable and lo and behold, there was a glint. My heart lept as I dug to the bottom of the box where my ring was sitting there staring at me as if to say, “miss me?”

A few minutes later, I had let B know I found my ring and gotten her advice on how to ensure the ring made it back home safely.

It’s now safe in the jewelry box. I haven’t figured out exactly where it goes from here, but I’m just incredibly relieved to know it’s not lost.

August 7, 2007

Hi, it’s B. Remember me? Yeah, I used to blog here, almost daily. No, I wasn’t famous or anything but I liked keeping a daily journal. That is until real life and a writing/reading/learning life got in the way. Oh, and let’s not forget carpel tunnel syndrome. As I’m typing this my hands are cold and numb from the wrists to the fingers. Typos abound! So let’s recap the trials of the past week, shall we, because, well, there have been some victories, some things gained and some things lost. Just for the record, before and after pictures will be coming shortly.

First off, the painting in halfway finished. I know, maybe you thought I’d be able to do the entire second floor in a week but I’m no spring chicken anymore. Even so, I busted my butt and completely painted the following rooms/areas from top to bottom in six days:

The tiny downstairs bathroom. The glowing orange room is no more.
The entire foyer/entryway. Yep, all 25 vertical feet of it. More on this adventure in a moment.
The upstairs library hall and bathroom. That puke-green color is history.
The library itself. No more big-ass orange wall. Ditto on the apricot wedding color elsewhere.
A painfully thin first coat on the gym entryway. This room is going to require at least three coats to eliminate the blue-teal color but I need to get the feeling back in my hands first.

That leaves the following rooms to complete sometime before the end of summer:

The gym.
The pet room.
The laundry room.

Final possibilities (mainly so they’ll match the rest of the house):

The master bedroom. (Getting rid of the aged look and that stencil I thought I loved once.)
The master bathroom. (Another tiny room that shouldn’t take but a day to complete.)

The good thing is that all the rooms have been completely transformed. I actually like them now (I hated the green, and the apricot had started to look pink to me a year or so ago. NO ONE likes a pink house). Everything is in shades of butter pecan, or latte’/cappuccino color as I am choosing to think of them and those colors go with everything. Our things no longer have to compete with the walls for attention; instead they finally complement each other. I WANT to spend time in the library now doing all those library-like things such as writing and reading more. It’s going to be a great cozy place to hang out this coming autumn.

The bad thing is that not only was I gone from posting for an entire week, I hurt all over. Well, everywhere but my hands. The reason for part of that is just six straight days of painting for eight to twelve hours a day. The other part is the tension I put myself through last Sunday while we were learning the ins and outs of a new multi-functional ladder.

The Cosco 21-foot ladder has more positions than a Chinese acrobat. Or maybe a Chinese melamine factory manager after his government gets through with him. All I know is that I felt like we were working on becoming the next Cirque du Soleil act while working on twisting, turning and positioning the thing into various angles and lengths so I could safely climb 25 feet up and over our hardwood entry floor just so we wouldn’t have to pay a contractor to paint about thirty square feet that previously, we couldn’t reach. The only things that were missing were some hoops and balls to juggle on the side. And maybe a goat. But let me just say this: Some people say you get to know the true self of the person you choose to spend your life with the first time you go on vacation together. I say it’s when you have to climb a 21 foot ladder sharply and dangerously angled out and away from the wall and positioned high over sharp-edged steps and you have to trust your life-partner to hold the ladder as steady as is humanly possible. No jiggling, no goofing around pretending to let it ‘slip.’ Just solid, tight holding. Only once did I mention my age and the inconvenience of having a broken hip should things go awry and it was all seriousness and sincerity until the job was finished a couple of hours later. Yes, it took a couple of hours. Don’t think painting thirty square feet should have taken that long? Okay fine. You’re all more than welcome to stop on by and see where and how many times that ladder had to be repositioned so I could get all the way to the ceiling and into all the corners. Then you try it. I’ll promise to hold that ladder steady.

Yesterday and today I am paying dearly for the tension that high-flying painting brought with completion. I think I probably tensed up every last muscle in my body every time I had to climb that ladder. Even my toes ache and that is no exaggeration. But that entryway was the hardest part and it’s finished and I know if I had to do it over again I could.

The really good thing? I know I won’t ever have to do it again. That’s the reason for the light-toned latte’ paint color we selected. When we’re finally finished with this place and want to sell it, the color ought to sell well. Then someone else can paint it.

Last week, WS graciously posted about his lost wedding ring and his finding it again. It was the Tiffany gold band we just bought a year and a half ago. Life may have taken a hard spin off it’s orbit if it hadn’t turned up. You see, on my right hand, over my original thin, plain gold wedding band, I wear an equally thin, cheap gold band that I bought myself back in 1986 to remind myself never again to buy a man a ring. It was a hard lesson to learn in hard times and I thought I had learned it well. Then a year and a half ago I decided it was high time we had good gold bands instead of our cheapskate original ones which were bought at the jewelry department at a Fred Meyer’s department store. I know I’ll probably get a ration of crap for saying it but that’s like buying diamonds at Wal-Mart. How good could a diamond be from Wal-Mart? Equally so, how good could a $49 dollar gold band be from a grocery store?

Well, it was the thought that counts and that thought has carried us through almost two decades which is a hell of a lot longer than anyone thought we’d last, save us who pretty much knew we were in it for more than just the hot sex.

Probably the worst loss over the past week was yet another computer failure. This time a big hard drive bit the big one; the hard drive that had fifteen years of music stored on it. Thousands upon thousands of mp3 files ripped from the 1000+ CDs WS owns plus all the bought tracks from Rhapsody and Yahoo/MM music plus years of tracks I collected (legally) from here and there plus various video files collected from car club functions—all gone. Wiped out. Did we have all this backed up? Well, we always meant to. Backing up all that would take a long time. I guess we didn’t figure in how long it’ll take to replace everything once it was lost. Heck, who am I kidding? Some of that stuff is irreplaceable.

But there’s good news there too. Being married to a nerd is often challenging and definitely not exciting or inspiring but just wait until a computer malfunctions around here. You’ve never seen the speed and seriousness that the problem is tackled, often with better than excellent results. In the end, WS was able to restore everything on the lost drive AND made backups. He’s got plans for the future where that will all be done automatically. And did I mention he installed yet another fan on the hot-running problem computer? Yep, nerdss. You gotta love ‘em, and you oughta get you one.

August 8, 2007

Yesterday I got to go out shopping in lieu of sitting around bemoaning not being able to do anything useful with my numb hands due to the carpel tunnel syndrome I brought upon myself after six straight days of painting the house. I guess that means my hands weren’t too numb to flash plastic but I didn’t do much of that either. I did a little grocery shopping and bought new doormats but only after I went to the IKEA store that opened three weeks ago down in Portland. Amazingly, I didn’t buy a thing there; this after expecting I’d come home with a carload of crap we didn’t need. The main reason I went was to see if I could actually get into the parking lot and then into the building itself since it’s allegedly been a madhouse since opening day. I also wanted to see in person the bookshelves we’ve been waiting some ten years to purchase (they are absolutely gorgeous, btw, from what I could see of them).

To the quarter of a million people who were already at the IKEA store by 10:36 a.m. (after the store opened at 10 a.m.), thank you for crowding every last aisle with your more-than-ample bodies and your poopy-smelling diapered, coughing and sneezing children. What? The local half-dozen Wal-Mart stores were full? Go shop there where everything is cheaper and they welcome you with open arms.

Because I spent a lot of time at IKEA trying to take in everything except the smell that not even the overly-spiced Swedish meatballs could overpower, I didn’t get the chance to stop at a couple of other shops I meant to before I had to go pick up WS at work. Today I planned to make up for that but WS’ car had other plans.

On the way out to the garage to take WS to work this morning, we were greeted with a flat on his less-than two week old tires. Nice and so typical. But for a switch, I could use my car as the support vehicle. Simply unhooked the battery tender, prayed for the promised morning drizzle to hold off for a half an hour and off we went without a hitch.

Of course, shopping will just have a wait for another time because I’ve learned not to leave my car sitting in just any parking lot. The big jump in car thefts in the area doesn’t help my thoughts on that subject either. I guess there’s not enough for young people to do nowadays what with all the stealing of iPods and robbing minute marts and taking meth the media would lead one to believe happens every other minute around here. Car theft, joyriding and car chases have to be lumped into the mix. When do we, the car owners, get to strike back? Because sitting around waiting for the call that often never comes about ones car recovery and conviction of the thief ain’t cutting it nor is fair, in my opinion.

Hmm, sorry about that tangent. I don’t know where that came from. Maybe my fingers are just feeling their oats after so many days of doing nothing. Today my right arm feels as if it’s been overextended a bit at the elbow and my right hand fingers are still a little numb but I’m sure things will be better in another day or two. I’m going to wait another week before I take up painting again and try to get a couple other projects finished instead; projects that don’t tax my wrists too much, that is. The garage needs its baseboard and door threshold strip, and the front yard outdoor lighting needs set up. I’ve got a couple of dead plants to uproot in the back yard and toss out and after-painting pictures to offload from the camera. I’ll get those uploaded here in time for the weekend.

August 9, 2007

WS’ flat tire adventure yesterday turned, um, more adventurous by day’s end. Turns out he cancelled his roadside assistance program because he was already paying for one with his car loan from the credit union. Or at least he thought he was. Turns out it only pays for tire repair reimbursement, not any actual tire fixing so we were left to our own devices.

Cue up one car with a flat tire in garage. Bring in one tired person who has never changed a tire before. Enter one woman with a bad attitude and a chip on her shoulder but with tire-changing experience. Let’s all cheer for a full-sized spare tire with plenty of air in it; truly the star of the evening.

You know, if I have to whine and complain much longer on why we don’t have real tools and a real tool box and a real floor jack around here, I think I’m going to have to go eat worms. And maybe serve some up for dinner too which will be a switch since I’ve basically given up cooking anything around here.

I’m sure WS would have done just fine and dandy without me standing around, making snide comments and watching him out in the garage as he went about changing his tire but I’d be willing to bet he would have taken a whole lot more time doing it than he actually did. I’d still be standing around waiting for credit for getting out the lug wrench that I’m sure he had no idea as to its whereabouts and my personal sports car jack when he discovered his own car jack was broken and unable to be removed from its holder in his trunk, if I didn’t think he already had a plateful of other crap on his mind. Still, it’s getting old feeling permanently on the back burner. Hell, most of the time I don’t feel like I’m even on the stove!

I’m choosing to believe it’s not WS’ fault. There’s a LOT of things going on right now and it seems like everyday brings a dozen more, all of which have to be dealt with Right.This.Very.Minute. I am not one of those things, and I am a fully functional adult who doesn’t need someone else to entertain me.

Now where’s that damned Sears Catalog?

August 10, 2007

Throughout the heat and the painting and carpal tunnel and bad attitude I’ve been sticking to our South Beach diet. I might screw up a lot of things along the way but I’m not going to screw up that. I was three pounds away from my wished-upon target goal by my birthday at the end of last month but I’ve also been on a slower-than-slow plateau since April and the only way my body fights through those kinds of things is persistence.

A week or so later and I’m within a pound and a half. That’s 150 pounds to you and me. Three pounds lower than that will be my racing weight, 147, and one I haven’t seen since 1984. So close and yet so far. It’s all downhill from there.

I was 140 pounds when I divorced in 1980. 135 pounds when I got married the first time. 130 when I got my first and second jobs and 125 in my freshman and sophomore years of high school. Before that I haven’t a clue because my mother refused to own a bathroom scale (she was morbidly obese way before that’s what it was called). Doesn’t matter anyway because in my wildest dreams I wouldn’t go below 125 pounds no matter how many pleading phone calls I get from Nicole Richie. My ideal goal is between 130 and 135 though I could certainly live with 140. I might grumble a bit but I could live with it. Anything lower would all be up to me to decide how hard I want to work.

140 pounds; only 11 and a half pounds away. Sounds terribly easy doesn’t it? You have no idea.

August 13, 2007

No pictures of finished painting yet. Yeah, I’m disappointed too but it’s for a good cause. We’re backing up all our files first, every last thing we have to many DVDs, and that takes computer priority. And that gives me time to get more painting done except I haven’t done much of it lately (and my wrists and hand thank me profusely for the rest).

I have been on a redecorating kick however, one that I’m holding HGTV responsible for. Recently I’ve been addicted to their home-staging/selling shows where professional decorators come into a home that no one’s interested in buying for some reason and the decorators move furniture around and repaint the walls. Now we’re not selling our house but these shows have made me realize just how much fake greenery I have here propped up all over the place. I’ll admit it’s an embarrassingly large amount, like in every corner and on top of every shelf. No frou-frou cutesy pink or blue flowers; just miles of ivy and fern and grape vine, all studded with orchid sprays or bunches realistic-looking lavender or sunflowers or chrysanthemum or name-your-own-favorite-flower depending on the season. Yes, me, the woman who hates a home to look feminine. I’ve got enough fake flowers to fill the interior of a large family-sized sedan. I should hope for that many flowers at my funeral.

Apparently, decorating with fake foliage and flowers is a big no-no nowadays. Many would say it ALWAYS was a no-no, even when using the highly realistic-looking material. All this stuff evokes thoughts of grandma’s house they say and if nothing else, I don’t want to live in a grandma’s house. So I’ve been denuding, or de-flowering if you will, nearly the entire place. I can’t go completely cold turkey just yet but I will admit the place looks a lot better now that we aren’t armpit-deep in fake plant material. I had no idea how much of the stuff I was piling up.

So the question is, where do you send hundreds of dollars worth of fake ivy, fern and flowers when you’ve decided enough is enough? Name anything and I’ve probably got it. Any takers?

August 15, 2007

Early this morning, Sam Waterson told me to Wikipedia myself. As a writer and aspiring author, I know this is a good idea. I also consider myself smart enough not to argue with a lawyer. Sam Waterson by the way is the actor who plays lawyer on television’s Law & Order better than most lawyers play lawyers.

Authors are wholly responsible for marketing themselves; a reality unknown by most people and with half a mind to listen to Mr. Waterson, I dabbled with typing up a possible Wikipedia entry on myself, interspersing the time with putting yet another freshly painted room back together. The gym, formerly known as the office, is now Cappuccino in color which helps tone down the original frosted teal carpet. Six rooms painted, four to go. I’d be heavily into painting the laundry room right this very minute if I hadn’t woken up with carpal tunnel syndrome once again numbing my right hand.

I’d really like to leave the laundry room painting for WS to complete since he did the fabulous job painting it apricot a few years back but he’s got enough work and projects on his plate for half a dozen people. No, things haven’t let up. His boss hasn’t let up. Life hasn’t let up and in fact, more stuff is being added to the list daily. We’ve talked about this and decided the best route right now is to get used to the heavy load. The only question up in the air now is how much longer will WS hold out before he cries “Uncle!”

I’ve never known him to cry Uncle.

August 16, 2007

This morning, as I went out front to check on and feed Limpy, the Howler Monkey’s ignored cat, a young voice came screeching out from a window across the street.

“STOP FEEDING OUR CAT!”

It was the youngest Howler Monkey who, at age five, recites everything his parents say. I resisted the urge to holler back any number of the following retorts:

“You mean this matted and ignored cat who’s half-dead from lack of attention?”

“I’m surprised you remembered you have a cat!”

“Stop ignoring your starved cat!”

And maybe my personal favorite:

“Mind your own damned business!”

I chose to ignore the shout. Limpy, by the way, is doing well as long as he stays over here where there is food, fresh water, attention and a terrific heated box for him to sleep in.

August 22, 2007

Yesterday was a very fall-like day outside and I took advantage of the cooler weather. As I was out back, The Dimmer’s dog started barking and a woman wearing an orange Comcast work vest entered The Dimmer’s back yard. Almost instantly, Mrs. Dimmer met her before their usually friendly dog attacked. Once quiet resumed, the conversation between the two women went something like this:

Mrs. Dimmer: “I need to reconnect our phone lines differently from where they were. My husband cut the lines last week.”

Comcast worker: “No problem. How many phone lines do you have?”

Mrs. Dimmer: “Four.”

Comcast worker: “…”

Mrs. Dimmer: “We had one for the kitchen, two upstairs and one in the garage. He said the line in the garage was already cut, probably by the previous owners of the house.”

Comcast worker: “…did he say why he cut the lines?”

Mrs. Dimmer: “My husband says there’s clicking sounds on the lines like someone is trying to access them all the time.”

Comcast worker: “Okay, so it wasn’t because he doesn’t want anyone here at home to using the phone?”

Mrs. Dimmer: “Oh no, I’ve got a cell phone. The thing is now whenever we touch anything metal in the garage we get an electric shock. I don’t know if that has anything to do with the cut lines but my car’s in there and I can’t get it out.”

Comcast worker: “Okay, well, I’ll certainly check the phone lines out. It looked like the line to the garage had quite a bit of damage done to it and that could certainly have caused the clicking sound over the lines but it shouldn’t affect electricity. You’ll want to have that problem checked out for you and your family’s safety. After I repair the lines, I’ll mark the locations of them so when you’re able to get [local electric company] out here, they won’t accidentally damage them.”

Mrs. Dimmer: “Okay, thanks. And you’re going to hook up the lines differently from how they were before, right?”

Comcast worker: “Differently how? I can reroute the lines if that’s what you mean?”

Mrs. Dimmer: “Yes, I don’t want them in the same place. I want them hidden so no one can see they’ve been fixed.”

Comcast worker: “I can do that but it’ll take some time and I have to leave to go pick up additional parts. We should have most of the work completed by the end of the day. Are you able to keep your dog indoors if I have to leave your gate open?”

Mrs. Dimmer: “Oh sure, just as long as you’re done before six p.m. Thanks!”

Mrs. Dimmer then returned indoors and the Comcast woman started spray painting lines across their patio and yard. Minutes later, I noticed the Comcast van leave and The Dimmer’s dog finally quieted down. I don’t have a clue what any of that was about. It was just odd I thought. Why would Mr. Dimmer cut his own phone line(s)? And why would anyone have four lines in the same small house? Oddity abounds.

Shortly thereafter, I noticed the Mennonite group making their rounds through the neighborhood again. I finished my work, cleaned up the mess and ‘hermitted’ myself inside again. Our area has been hit hard by this church group in the last three weeks and it would seem they are Hell-bent on talking to every last soul on the block. Since they refuse to acknowledge our No Solicitors sign, I refuse to answer the door and so they keep returning here. Apparently, I’m one of the souls they feel they need to save and while I admire their persistence, I drawn the line at entering my personal retreat, the boundaries at which I consider any and all of my property lines. I didn’t want to look up and find one of them climbing the fence into our backyard as if they really would in their long dark dresses, black stockings and clunky shoes just as I’m certain they didn’t want to look up and find I was chasing them back out with a nail-studded two-by-four.

August 24, 2007

So apparently in this area, if you have a P.O. Box, you can no longer pick up your mail without showing two pieces of ID first. If two people’s names are on the P.O. Box, i.e. a married couple, BOTH parties must show their ID before either can pick up the mail, but only during postal business hours mind you. Either of you work during those hours or for whatever reason, say…life in the 21st century gets in the way? Guess you’re screwed. All part of Homeland Security courtesy of our government.

Great, just great. A middle-aged, fat woman and her overworked husband can’t even pick up their mail anymore without jumping through hoops. Gee, I guess the U.S. is safe from me receiving the new IKEA catalog. Is everyone happy now?

No? Well how about this one. We’ve been dying to get out of town for the past three months just to get away from WS’ job and boss and the next immediate emergency that demands he give two hundred and twenty-five percent of his time and attention at all hours of the day and night. Okay, maybe I was looking more forward to getting away than he was but I’m pretty sure he was with me for some small portion of that desire. By getting away, we were not looking for a weekend or even an entire day at this point. Just a few hours on the coast or in the mountains or something and this weekend was going to be the one, that being after countless other weekends were foiled by this, that and/or the next thing. So because it looked like the planets were going to align, naturally I cancelled all other plans and that was all it took.

This morning, on our bi-annual dental visit, the car’s brakes light went on. These new-ish cars and their modern electronics I tell you. I’m used to driving things until the squealing and grinding noises overpower the stereo turned up past eleven and I notice the ears bleeding on countless drivers next to me on the road. The light going on in his car basically means, “Get your car to the shop pronto and fork out the mega moo-la or you ain’t going nowhere very, very shortly.”

Great. Good thing we hadn’t wanted to GO ANYWHERE!

August 28, 2007

While WS’ car brake job has turned into a multi-day fiasco, let’s move on to other things. The Wall Streets are fighting, again. Nothing new there. He’s left home with all the kids (three under the age of three) while she retaliates by shopping. Same ol’, same ol’.

Mrs. Dimmer had her phone lines fixed and got her van out of the garage at last. Mr. Dimmer has taken a job down in Medford, Oregon for a couple weeks a month because he’s basically been blackballed up here in town, and from what I can gather, he didn’t want his wife using the Internet. So he cut all the phone lines. Doesn’t appear that she electric shock problem has anything to do with us or why we’re going through computers and electronics like water and our main household surge protector that was installed when we built our house, at a hefty price and specifically for this kind of problem, has yet to be tripped. We’re just going through a run of electronics failure. If we didn’t have so much, it wouldn’t be a big deal.

I still have those four final rooms to paint. We removed the crappy chair rail from the pet room and yes, it took drywall off with it. I patched the strips on all four walls and now it REALLY looks like crap. In the next day or two, I’ll get in there with a sanding block and try to improve things. We might have to hire out for drywall repair if not. I’ve got a can or two of that drywall texture stuff but I’m not too keen on wanting to use it. Still, if I’m going to sand it anyway or at worst, hire someone to fix it, I might as well give it a shot.

Still no pictures. The camera’s focus is screwed due to something WS did to it and he says he can’t figure out how to get it back to the way it was. Or more than likely, he literally does.not.have. a spare minute on any given day to dig out the camera instructions and fix the setting. Given me and electronics lately, I don’t think it’d be a good idea if I were to fiddle with it.

August 30, 2007

Happy Birthday to my ex. Are you happy with my sister? Oh yeah I forgot, you didn’t stick with her either regardless of how you swore you would until your dying day.

Since I’m having a dry spell with my writing and not one to sit around on my butt, I’ve been working in the yard doing that pre-pre-fall cleanup. Monday I trimmed and edged and deadheaded and removed more plant debris from our front yard than I knew could ever exist out there, and in the process, I got something in my eye; the one with the contact. Since then, my eye has swollen and itched and gone back to it’s usual size but is still itchy. Yesterday I finally had to take out the contact leaving me unable to do much else but tackle the back yard. Or at least the beginnings of the tackle.

WS says the fountain is too overgrown and he said he’d like to see it thinned out a bit and you know, trying to look at it through his eyes, I think he’s right. It has been five years, or is it four since we had it put in. Nonetheless, I over-planted the entire space purposely with the intent on thinning as things grew in. And boy, have they ever! Yesterday I eradicated the Ajuga, or as much of it as I could find. It’s a nice ground cover but it gets icky when it over populates the area and as a result, dies back in mass. Plus it looks terrible in the winter months. I landscaped our backyard to look good year around so that particular plant had to go. The vine maples needed trimming but the heavenly bamboo had overstayed its welcome. Snip, snip and the back of fountain has opened up.

Three and a half heavy duty trash bags later (and that’s after filling the yard debris bin), I still have a couple of days worth of digging up and disposal of plants here and there to do but what a difference already. I honestly didn’t notice how much the fountain was being overrun with things before but I sure notice it now. So much nicer. So much less overcrowded. I can see things again…like the fountain itself! (Yes, it was that bad.)

Hopefully, my eye will calm down and I’ll be able to put my contact back in so I can get back to painting. Just two more rooms complete would make me happy. Just two more rooms.

August 31, 2007

Okay, really now. Enough is enough. We are no longer amused if that’s what you electronics and/or electrical things thought might be happening. You lost our attention after the washer went out earlier this year. You lost our patience when the main computer ate the music file hard drive last month, not that you weren’t already treading murky water with all the other computer snafus lately, but I’ll say this: If no one’s come forward yet today to say anything, let me be the one to tell you how far you’ve stepped over the line this time. Icing up the air conditioning compressor and lines on one of the hottest days of the year? Knowing the cost of repair may outdo the cost of WS’ recent brake work? Pure genius or maybe pure asshole-ishness. You aren’t going to break us, you hear? Yeah okay, maybe break our thinly stretched wallets but not us. Are you LISTENING???

September 1, 2007

Was the weather cooler yesterday? The mostly day-long cloud cover would say “Yes!” but our well-insulated house would laugh and say, “I can hold heat very well, maybe better even than the sun!”

Yes, we’re spoiled because up until Thursday, we had air conditioning. You go live in Phoenix for twenty-seven years without air conditioning of any kind and tell me you wouldn’t gladly pay for some method of cooling the air around you. (All you heat freaks? You haven’t walked the hot, dusty miles in my toasty shoes.) In the off chance you don’t know, hot temperatures are murder on people with Multiple Sclerosis. It isn’t too fun either for people who’ll live out the rest of their years with hot flashes. The really great thing we’ve discovered about having broken air conditioning, specifically broken over a long U.S. holiday weekend, is the unique opportunity to pay not the usual price but up to three times the standard price of a service call and labor from not one air conditioning company but ALL the local companies.

Of course, the adventurous type might be persuaded to go online to Craigslist.com and hire someone named Yipkan to come out, look at the problem, chain a hamster to our free-spinning compressor cage and demand payment of five hundred U.S. dollars. Cash only. No check or the hamster gets it.

At the risk of feeling extra whiny and if you’re not quite sure you understand the point of this journal entry, let me go on record saying life sucks right now. If someone were to check my biorhythm chart, it will show flat-lined at the lowest level possible; for the past three months. I’m probably being extra sensitive to it but it seems like everyone around us has spent the last six months going here and there on vacation while we have stayed chained up at home paying to fix some dead or near-dead computer or car or household appliance. Actually, let me be more specific by saying I’ve stayed at home. While WS leaves home every day to go to work which certainly can’t be much fun, he’s also too busy working to notice and dwell on most of what’s been breaking down like I have been. Or noticing who is getting away on vacation and to where and how often. Or that things just keep breaking and as a result, get left on the back burner to be fixed at some less-than-probable future date.

Why did I want to buy a house? Oh yeah, I didn’t. That was WS’ idea.

What you say? Just take a day, a few hours even, and just go somewhere, anywhere to get away? Ha! Tried it. Five times. In every instance, something major has broken down. And now, more often than not, WS’ body won’t cooperate in some vile and disgusting way that no one in their right mind would confess online except maybe someone depressed enough to not care a hoot about but remembering that this what is the “in sickness and in health” part is all about.

And in a couple of those cases when we thought we might get away regardless, WS’ boss has raised his hand and said, “I need you here working, now, as in right this minute.” His boss never forgets to add, “Don’t bring up the topic of compensation for time away from home and marriage because it’s not going to happen. Ever. Your wife needs to deal with it.”

So I’ve been trying to lose myself this summer with painting the house in a non-personalized manner, in the off chance our relationship doesn’t make it through WS’ latest transition into corporate robot and one of us decides to move out and put our house up for sale. (Don’t worry – that won’t happen but it’s not like I don’t think about it with all this lonesome time on my hands.) I’ve also tried losing myself with over-gardening which means digging up and throwing out plants that I know I’ll have to thin out sooner or later, again if and when we put the house up for sale because HGTV says overgrown jungle houses don’t sell well. And I’ve come to anxiously listen for the sound of the FedEx truck pulling up with the latest décor item that all HGTV designers agree looks smashing next to that other worthless Chinese mass-produced trinket that the UPS guy delivered last week, all of which no one will ever see.

I’ve started cleaning out bathroom drawers because it was time and really, who wants to apply fifteen-year old perfume that has turned the color of and smells like gone-over brandy? Or use bandages bought eons ago that look like they were used to wrap an Egyptian mummy? I’d thin out our clothes closet too but the fact is I’m within ten pounds of actually being able to wear some of the things in there, even if most of those items were purchased in the ‘80’s. Maybe by then, those clothes will be back in style. Doubtful, but I can dream.

And really, how many games of Bejeweled 2 can a person play during the course of an entire day? Apparently, eighty-two I’m sorry to report.

Okay, in reality I’m confident that things will turn around once autumn arrives, like things tend to do every year. Everything will be hunky-dory once more. We’re not fond of summer when hot weather accentuates every little annoying thing. Having the air conditioning go out on the heels of a one thousand sixty two dollar brake job which was on the heels of losing a major hard drive which was on the heels of losing a main computer and some software and all our email which was on the heels of countless other things I don’t want to recall at the moment going all the way back to the beginning of the year just makes me want to sit in a tub of spaghetti and wail like an overly-exhausted brat.

The good thing is that September is finally here, even though I hate the month of September too, and to remember is that once this month is gone I’ll get over myself and everything else; all of it, at least for a while. The bad thing is I’m not sure I’ll ever get that spaghetti baby picture out of my head.

September 4, 2007

Clearly, something had to be done. The thunderstorms we were promised never came, neither did the rain showers. Cooler weather? Ha! Where? Not here and like silly little minions, we sat around all weekend and waited for all the above.

But then WS had a trick up his sleeve that I, for one, wasn’t going to say anything about until we were off on a special trip, to the mountains in search of cool weather, a sprinkle of rain, a dusting of fog and the early signs of autumn. He took a much-needed day off from work today, extending the horrifically hot, pathetically-air conditioned Labor Day weekend by an extra day. Two hours after dragging ourselves out of bed, we were sitting at 6000 feet in 48 degree air while mountain breezes perfumed with the scent of wild flower bouquets washed over us. Then we went into a 4-star restaurant and ate bread for the first time in eight months. And it was so good, I purposefully consumed sugar in the form of a whipped cream, English toffee-topped, cinnamon stick-laden hot cocoa called a Snow Cap a couple of hours later while WS ate his second big salad of the day. In between the two meals, I wrote page after page of notes in a notebook I took along in an effort to capture the essence of the day for future reference.

Oh, and did I mention we hiked 500 feet straight up Mt. Hood as well? Yes, us. Hiked. As in lifted one foot after the other for forty minutes in an upward fashion toward the summit of a world famous, glacier spattered mountain. Maybe the most astonishing part of that was that the hiking part wasn’t my idea. Yeah, it was the former Mr. Eww, I-Don’t-Hike, I-Don’t-Even-Walk’s idea. I am so proud of him! We could both tell it was a strenuous effort but we didn’t get all that winded. What an accomplishment! In all honesty, short of moving from one house to another, it was probably the most physically active thing we’ve ever done together, with the emphasis on the ‘together’ part.

It’s amazing what a little ‘us’ time can do to one’s perspective on the world. Yesterday, and throughout most of the summer actually, I’ve been this close >< to throwing in the towel on som many things and for the most part, I feel a lot of that has been washed clean. I’ll need to remember today because there’ll be little ‘us’ time in the months to come (most likely through the rest of the year into next February at least) so the next time you read my whine, whine, whining, someone please remind me to think of Mt. Hood. It might not stop all the bitching and moaning but it’ll go a long way to putting a smile back on my face.

September 9, 2007

It’s been an odd week. A short one due to WS taking Tuesday off after the 3-day U.S. holiday followed by two days in the office he then followed with a long dental visit, a brief conference call from home and an unplanned, oddly-timed grocery shopping trip. Mary Lou unexpectedly was admitted to the hospital and I spent a couple of days worrying about here. She’s home now and if you’ve got the time, you ought to go say welcome home.

Even though WS hinted at going to the beach this weekend, we didn’t make it anywhere else out of town unless you count Portland as out of town, something I don’t really count since the city is so close, but we did buy some more books (like we weren’t already starting to stack them on the floor for lack of shelf space) and yesterday afternoon, we looked into getting a new car for WS sometime next year when mine is completely paid for. I think we freaked the salesman out more than once and I’m certain he doesn’t think we’re serious in the least. No one tends to take us seriously probably because we don’t look like the kind who knows anything about fine automobiles.

*giggles

I’m not complaining about not getting out of town. Everyone and their 3rd cousin are going out of town this weekend because all the local weather people said to. The coast is supposed to be glorious this weekend and that’s exactly why we’re not going. If I want to be elbow-to-elbow with that many people, I’ll go to the mall on the Sunday before school starts…which is exactly what I did last weekend. BIG mistake in the crowd department. BIG payoff in the shopping portion of the day. For a woman who doesn’t like to shop all that much, and downright hates to shop for clothes, I did alright. More on that later though.

The next time I complain about not getting out of town, I’m going to look up JimBob who is great at keeping me honest and forcing me to remember it wasn’t that long ago that we did something. I felt like an idiot (as I should) when he pointed out the 4th of July fireworks trip and Mt. St. Helens before that, neither that were that long ago. Smacked myself in the forehead, I did. Gosh but I can get whiny. Thank you, JimBob. Why is it you don’t have a blog yet?

Thanks go out to my fellow writer friends who keep trying to get us together and me out of the house. Sooner or later it’ll happen. Hopefully when it gets cooler. Hot weather plus hot flashes guarantee everyone around gets splashed and that’s something that just grosses me out.

At least there is less of me now to get sweaty. Last week I finally reached 150 pounds and it lasted for all of two days. Today, I’m back at 150.2 but generally my weight has been bouncing around the 151 to 153 lb. range. Annoying as all get-out but I’m used to it by now.

I told myself that when I hit 150, I’d get myself one pair of 34×36 inch 501 Levis (button-fly). I did that and they fit beautifully. No pinching or squeezing anywhere. The big problem now is what to do with the half dozen pair of 38×36 inch 501 Levis AND the half dozen pair of 36×36 inch of the same. I’m not keeping them, that’s for certain. Onward to 32×36 sizes.

September 11, 2007

I’m a day behind. I thought the U.S. 9-11 anniversary was yesterday and I didn’t post anything as my way of giving silence, the small way I prefer to honor such things. Hearing about the Utah elementary schools choosing to and in some cases refusing to, observe or say anything about the tragic event (with other state schools here and there around the country planning on following suit in the future) on the grounds of “It’s too traumatic for children” is, in my opinion wrong.

No, we don’t want to beat anyone over the head with it over and over and over. Yes, sooner or later we need to look forward and move on. But with a personal addition, I do believe in the following:

* “Those who choose to ignore the past [and/or are sheltered from facts of true events] are doomed to repeat it.”

• Paraphrased from philosopher George Santayana who originally said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Okay, now I’ll be silent.

September 12, 2007

Lots going on around here, or at least in my neck of the woods. Let’s see, school started this week and for some reason, there is an over-abundance of kids waiting for buses at the two local pick up corners, an over-abundance as in three to four times as many kids as any previous year. Now either other nearby bus stops have been eliminated or lots of families have been working overtime on that whole ‘populate the earth’ activity. Except most of the newcomers are older kids. It’s odd. And destructive. Let’s just say the barbarian hordes are trampling the absolute hell out of the surrounding yards. Thankfully, that’s not us at this time.

This year, the bus stop corners have divided themselves into two groups: The housewives and the house husbands. Never before have men been present at the bus stops. Now there are large groups at both stops, and in much larger gatherings than that of the housewives. Sure, the economy is still struggling here, but I find it hard to believe there are that many men, at least not on our street, that are out of work or at best, give one hoot about their kids and seeing them get picked up in the mornings. That is also odd, but I don’t think it’ll last long.

Still no word from The Gossip Club or Mrs. Wall Street and wanting to get the skinny on past neighborhood history. Mr. Wall Street still yammers on about the wife swapping club up around the corner in one of the cul-de-sacs but after he mentioned it the last time around, it was clear he was talking about Drunk Tank Willie and Leona who used to live next door to us, not in any cul-de-sac and his information was five years old at best. Still, he didn’t seem to want the correct information and appears to be happy passing around outdated, wrong info about people he probably knows nothing about.

The Howler Monkeys have adopted another Howler Monkey, also known as a second dog that howls like the first one. Sounds like the new one is mostly confined to the garage like the first too. They still take little-to-no interest in Limpy who stays over here for the most part. Limpy is looking fairly ragged despite my daily brushings. I was never able to get the vast majority of his last winter’s long coat removed but at least his thick, hot undercoat is gone and he hasn’t a single mat. He’ll look great by December just in time for freezing temperatures but with his heated outdoor box, I think he’ll do fine.

After months of incompetence and numerous attempts to hide the fact that she was in over her head from the get-go, MsNoManagementSkills has quit her job according to an end-of-summer email I and countless other people received this week. She’s not exactly looking for another job yet but that didn’t keep her from asking if anyone had an easy job lead for her. Basically she’s looking for something that will allow her to stay home, name her own hours (no more than six hours a week or less), full medical and dental benefits plus 401K, stock options and three weeks paid vacation at a starting salary of $40K. Doesn’t want much, does she? If she threw in the request for a body makeover without having to lift a finger and still be able to eat all she wants, I might think she was joking.

And finally, Mr. Dimmer may be up to his old trick of leaving early in the morning, as if going to work, waiting somewhere nearby for his wife to leave for work, then coming back home for the day. Then, he leaves again before his wife can come back home from work making it look as if he’s been gone all day. I caught a conversation over the weekend while I was outside and it’s possible he’s trying to pull the wool over his wife’s eyes again. If you recall, he did this once before and was caught. Mr. Dimmer has also been what he calls “Blackballed” from working construction in the Portland/Vancouver area, whatever that means, and has only been able to find work he says, some five-six hours drive (one way) away.

During a visit to the nearby community mailbox, a neighbor mentioned something to Mrs. Dimmer about talking to her husband here in the neighborhood during a time when he should have been down in Medford, Oregon working. At least Medford is where Mrs. Dimmer said he should have been and that the neighbor must have had his days confused. The neighbor was very adamant that no, Mr. Dimmer was home, beer in hand, jawing away and that they talk often, usually every day. Mrs. Dimmer looked pretty upset but she didn’t do her usual high-pitched squealing, stomping feet/rain dance routine thing this go ‘round and in fact, other than during the Monday night football game on TV (during which Mr. Dimmer yells and hollers as though someone has his nipples in a pair of vise grips), things have been pretty quiet over there.

September 16, 2007

We’re celebrating our birthday this weekend. No, not our real birthdays, but a collaborative birthday we decided upon since we both don’t like our summer birth dates. That probably sounds weird but there it is.

For our birthday, we finally buckled down and are in the process of replacing all of our library bookshelves. That meant a long, strenuous visit to Portland’s IKEA store (who knew you had to pull your own merchandise, even if it weighs hundreds of pounds??). It also meant removing, wiping, and stacking hundreds of books from our ancient bookshelves into another room for temporary storage, getting rid of the old shelves; four tall ones and four short ones, and lots and lots of vacuuming. My eyes itch horribly now and in a few hours, my lungs will probably want to seize up but I’ll make sure I survive long enough to see the boxes of new shelves delivered, assembled and restocked with our books, hopefully rearranged in some semblance of intelligence. There’s nothing quite like trying to find a particular book you’re positive you own but can’t for the life of you locate.

Friday was WS’ hair cutting appointment and he convinced me to go with him. Good thing I did too because it turned out they had me scheduled as well. I went ahead and requested that my hair color which had over the last few months gotten very blonde, be returned to something similar to my natural color minus the grey. I guess my hair was very porous even with all the conditioning I’ve been doing lately because the color turned out nearly black. Of course, under the salon lights it didn’t look black but a nice, shiny medium brown. Once I got home though, I scared myself to death every time I passed the bathroom mirror. I have to say, how unnatural looking this currently is. Now, if I wanted to start an old woman goth trend . . . I do have a skull and crossbones t-shirt in my closet just looking for an excuse to be worn.

I’ve since washed my near-black six or seven times and it has lightened up a little. If I really wanted to, I could call my hair stylist person who would gladly make time for me to come in and change the look but I think I’ll leave it for a week or two and see how much more it might lighten up on its own. But the next time I go in, I’m definitely going to ask for a color somewhere in between the old blonde look and what I’ll have at the time.

Back to cleaning up the library before we start moving stuff back in here. By the way, the indoor web cam is sitting on a short wall in the library. Now that the shelves are gone, there isn’t anywhere else for it to sit and so the view isn’t very good. As soon as we can get one of the shelves put together I’ll get it back up where you can see our progress.

September 17, 2007

Two words for IKEA’s delivery service: It sucks.

Things didn’t go quite as we expected them to or as we were told they would go yesterday in getting our new IKEA bookshelves and nothing pisses me off more than to be forced to pay good money for bad service. Yes, I have taken into account they were delivering 900 pounds of unassembled shelving on a Sunday, and yes, I understand I might be taking someone away from watching a football game. But that’s why I paid the money and why they have a job that does such things on weekends.

We were called Saturday afternoon and told our delivery would be between twelve noon and four p.m. on Sunday. In reality, we had to call the delivery service around 5 p.m. Sunday to see if we would even see a delivery truck that day. The bored, irritated woman on the other end blandly told us the delivery guys were running about an hour behind and to hold our horses. Sure would have been nice to have gotten a courtesy call about that delay earlier when we were fretting about errands that couldn’t be taken care of.

Just before 6 p.m. Sunday the delivery guys called to say they were in Aloha, Oregon and they would be here in 45 minutes. Sure, we said, knowing full well they were an hour or more out regardless of how far over the speed limit they intended to drive their big truck to get here. I’ve driven that route, in my sports car with a bunch of other ‘wannabe race car drivers’ and it’s virtually impossible to make that jaunt from there to here in 45 minutes.

Nearing 7 p.m. on Sunday, the delivery guys finally showed up, promptly blocked The Wall Streets driveway next door which set Mrs. Wall Street off, and started pulling and setting boxes of our shelving units outside the truck. In the rain. Yes, it rained here yesterday. Not surprisingly, it didn’t start until after 4 p.m. If they had only been on time . . .

Right away we noticed some of the boxes looked suspiciously unlike the pristine, unmolested boxes we ourselves had pulled from the IKEA shelves Friday evening, and unless there were a pack of rabid, fighting raccoons in the back of that delivery truck, those weren’t our boxes.

Imagine my surprise when we were told yes, apparently at some point in the day, there was a pack of rabid, fighting raccoons in the back of the truck. Or, in other words, gee, sorry if you wanted your boxes in mint condition, there was a lot of other things piled on top of them and them’s the breaks and all that. But if it makes you feel any better and because you cast us wry looks the entire time we were here, we’ll dump all the extra bubble wrap we had in the truck out in your yard and drive off without it. No really, you won’t mind paying the extra five or ten bucks for the additional garbage pick up. Thanks for shopping with IKEA and see ya!

Needless to say, the tip WS had in his pocket with the intention of giving it to the guys, stayed in his pocket. As for the boxes, yes, they looked bad and wet too. But everything contained within, everything unpacked thus far that is, with the exception of a couple pieces of discolored wood and the crushed and destroyed entire side of an extension top, appears perfect. Amazing. I never would have believed it given the shape those boxes were in.

Eight years ago, when there wasn’t an IKEA store within 250 miles of us, we mail-ordered a few sets of bookshelves from them and spent the better part of four months exchanging and sending back entire units for anything resembling undamaged ones. The shipping costs back and forth were astronomical. At the time, IKEA wouldn’t pay for us sending them anything back after the first two or three and in the end, we probably spent more on shipping than on the shelves themselves. But trust me when I say we could not find anything, ANYTHING, in book shelving anywhere else that fit what we wanted. Today I consider that reason number 83 to learn woodworking.

After the delivery guys left yesterday, WS got right to work assembling those shelves, and tried not to think about how much further along he would have gotten and how quickly we could have gotten the library back into order had the delivery not been nearly three hours late. I’m trying not think about the day wasted in waiting for something that a simple courtesy call could have gone a long way toward helping not become a waste. Or perhaps I’m jaded. But our one hundred and fifteen dollar delivery fee says differently.

Anyway, we’ll have to make another trip to IKEA to exchange the ruined parts before all is said and done. As it sits now, half the shelves are assembled. WS would have been up at least until 4 a.m. if he had wanted to get them all assembled. But he was tired and angry and there were hammers nearby and I didn’t think staying up until dawn on a work day would have been a good idea.

Once the shelves are complete, we’ll work on getting the books organized and back in place throughout the week. Pictures will be posted shortly thereafter and after that, I’ll get those photos of the finished painted walls (with before shots too) up too.

September 18, 2007

MsNoManagementSkills’ plight continues. For those new here, MsNoManagementSkills was my old boss who really put both WS and I through the wringer the six years we worked together. She even moved into a rental house up the street within viewing distance of our house “to keep an eye” on us. We later surmised she was trying to live our lives. But thankfully, after two years, she moved away. Unfortunately, she convinced her new husband, DorkMaster, to get a job at the same place WS worked and sometimes I wonder if that wasn’t another attempt to “keep an eye” on us.

Earlier this year, DorkMaster was laid off but in an odd twist of fate, he was rehired, again as a temp over the summer. That decision has since been reversed. The problem is, he didn’t tell his wife until the day before he was let go but he made sure she had other things to worry about.

Last week, MsNo sent me and countless other luckless acquaintances an email filling us in on her life to date, telling us she quit her job and was looking for leads for another (in which she wouldn’t have to lift a finger to earn a healthy paycheck). She had just gotten back from her third cruise to Alaska having thought this time around to take her husband, DorkMaster. But he hated it and spent the entire two weeks sleeping in their stateroom while she shopped and ate because she says that’s what one does on a cruise, adding that the shopping here at home is boring. I’m wondering how many sweatshirts one cares to own with “ALASKA” emblazoned across it under which is displayed a picture of a moose.

I got another email from her last night in which she goes off on a tirade about how unfair her life has become. DorkMaster was laid off with only one day’s notice, she wrote (in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS), and said she was forced (FORCED) to go back to her recent employer and ask to be rehired. She’ll be working there again until the end of the month but it’s not so much because of the money but for the benefits. And why?

We all know how much DorkMaster hates working. If he could figure out how to pull it off, he’d sit in online chat rooms all day talking sex to anyone and everyone he can. It’s what he does and all he used to brag about at work according to his coworkers (most of who work with WS). Well, he figured how to pull that off for a while by intentionally “falling” down the stairs.

When you think of it, there’s no other reason why a severely out of shape, 280 pound guy would purposely run up and down the stairs repeatedly, taking two and three steps at a time, hoping for an accident. But that’s what he did and that’s how he jokingly explained it to his coworkers when he called in “broken” on his very last day of work.

Did I mention as a temp, he didn’t have insurance benefits?

Only MsNo had benefits but remember – she quit her job.

Now she’s trying to backpedal and get her old employer to “erase” her few days of unemployment so her benefits will still be effective. She wrote, “Let’s hope they didn’t already send in my paperwork.” Yeah, because otherwise, she’ll have a huge emergency room bill to pay and there’s not much money left in that $100,000 Home Equity loan left after their Alaska cruise.

The second great part of this tale of woe is something we knew and sounds like she doesn’t. DorkMaster wasn’t “laid off with only one day’s notice.” That’s not how that temp agency rolls. DorkMaster would have had a minimum of two weeks notice. The actual likelihood is that he was told a month in advance that his assignment would be ending the middle of September. So basically, he knew he was going to be laid off while he was on that Alaska cruise. But he didn’t tell his wife and now he’s laid up with a sprained ankle. One has to wonder if she knew she was going to quit her job as soon as she got back from the cruise but didn’t tell him until after she did it, which was mere days before he threw himself down the stairs.

But let’s not forget the highlights. She doesn’t need a job at the moment, she reminds us, but she’s got a husband who’s unemployed (UNEMPLOYED) and spending the next six-to-eight weeks with his purple ankle propped up on the couch. Doesn’t sound all that bad to me. At least one of them is working and he’s got his wireless laptop within reach, right?

September 19, 2007

It’s talk like a pirate day! I used to have lots of fun on this day but that was back when hardly anyone was into the whole pirate thing. It was cool then, now it’s mainstream and as unique as, well, mayonnaise.

My day today will consist of reading and slowly working on getting the library shelves back into some kind of order. It’s supposed to be nice outside; ridiculously nice with mostly sunny skies and early autumn temperatures in the low 70’s F. I guess that means I ought to go out there to check it out once or twice, regardless if I feel like it or not. It makes me think of pumpkins and wanting to go shopping for some. How about you?

And now translated in Pirate-speak:

Shiver me timbers, me hearties, its talk like a pirate day! Arrr, me used t’ have lots o’ fun on the day back when no other seafarin’ blubber lubber was int’ the whole pirate thin’. Aye, t’was savvy then, now it be unique as buried treasure but ye scum ridden weevil shaggers wot’ll n’ver get me booty! Gar, where can I find a bottle o’ grog t’ drown me sorrows?

Gar, today wot’ll consist o’ cipherin’ and slavin’ gettin’ the library shel’es back int’ order. Avast, it be nice on t’ seas; smooth sailin’, aye. Me guess that means me ought t’ go topside thar to cast me eyes wiv the Cap’n’s spy glass once or twice or elsin’ me skippers be scuttled! Ahoy, it makes me think o’ purloined barnacles and wantin’ t’ go plunderin’ for some. What say ye, ye quiv’rin’ rapscallious dogs?

September 20, 2007

It’s taking much, much longer than I had estimated it would to get our new library bookshelves assembled. Part of that is because I’m not the one putting them together and that’s a good thing because I’d probably rush the procedure and screw them up in the end. The other part is that WS has once again gone nearly completely AWOL due to work demands. Ah, the corporate world where no one can hear wives scream. Yet I shouldn’t complain. It’s what has allowed us to get these cool shelves, and everything else, in the first place.

Everything else lately has included my newfound girly-ness. Nope, I’ve never, ever been a girly girl; never saw any point in it, never understood why anyone else would either. Women who can’t do this or that because they might break a nail, or get their low-slung $300 ripped and faded jeans dirty, or, heaven forbid, run for their very lives on skinny stilettos waving their jeweled hands above elbows painfully tucked in their sides– nope, all pointless and silly and really, is any of this attractive? I mean, really?

And then I lost 33 pounds and fulfilled a promise I made to myself to try on some kind of women’s pants, just to see what my size is, anything other than men’s 501 button-fly jeans I’ve spent the last thirty years of my life in, for the very first time in my entire life. And now I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to wearing them. Mark your calendars because the world will never be the same again. Hell has indeed, frozen over.

Earlier this month, I went to a store I always considered as one of the banes of the world, one of reason’s why society is so screwed up. I’m not going to say the name but it has two words – one the opposite of the word “new” and the other is a particular shade of blue, because this place was running an ad on TV, an ad I actually took notice of for once instead of making wry faces at it and openly jeering.

I intentionally walked into that store that just happens to have an outlet in my town with the intent of trying on women’s jeans. Did I mention this would be a first? Ever? That I’ve never worn them before and have never known what my actual size is? Well, I put on a stern face and bravely moseyed over to the piles of denim like I knew what I was doing, as if I had done this every day of my life.

“Oh me? Oh, I’m here every week. Just looking to see what’s new. Don’t mind me.”

In all reality, I was completely lost and half scared to death. My brain kept repeating, “What are you doing? What are you doing?” And it was getting louder every time.

I picked up a size 20 and a couple of size 18s, one in a normal waist rise and one in a slightly lower waist and headed to the fitting rooms.

Three minutes later, I exchanged the size 20 and size 18s for a 16 and a 14. A few minutes later, I exchanged them both for a size 12 and a 10 and I’m happy to report that after twenty years of fat-dom and another fifteen years of living in ‘man pants,’ I discovered I’m currently a perfect size 11 . . . a size that store doesn’t carry. So I bought a pair of size 12 because the size 10 was a little too snug.

Okay, there’s a fib. I was so deliriously happy I bought four pair of size 12s, two black pair and two blue pair. And then the following week, I went back and bought another pair of blue, a low-rise, partially-faded, long boot cut pair that I want to live in for the rest of my life.

Or until I feel comfortable enough to move down into a size 10.

Me, in a size 10. It’s boggles my mind. I haven’t been a size 10 since I was like, nine years old. Yeah, so I realize the fashion world is notorious for changing sizes all the time. What a size 10 is today will be a size 18 tomorrow. Let me live the fantasy for the time being, all right?

Of course, you know what had to happen next. I couldn’t wear these new jeans, women’s fashion jeans, mind you, with car t-shirts, most of which have car polish or paint or something icky on them. No way! I had to, HAD to go shopping for shirts, no, correction – I HAD to go shopping for ‘blouses’ to go with my jeans, and why would I want to buy big, blowsy XXL blouses that hide what I’ve been working on? Hint: I didn’t.

And then I discovered shoes. Not Vans, or men’s DG skate shoes, or even more flip-flops. I’m talking high heel Mary Janes and soft, scrungy suede boots with buckles and straps, both of which begs for something plaid or maybe a deep gray sweater dress.

Yes, I said dress. I know. I need psychological help now. Especially since I’ve also discovered purses. And I’ve packed away all my Hawaiian shirts. And I’ve been thinking about shiny patent leather.

I’m not even going to get into the makeup and jewelry part . . .

September 25, 2007

What a whirlwind the past week has been. Between getting our library back into some semblance of a useable room, a nasty bout of food poisoning courtesy of Golden Tent (over by the mall if you are a local) and a shopping spree courtesy of WS, just so you know I haven’t been sitting around bemoaning something or other, I have also accomplished the following over the past six days:

Changed this blog’s colors to those reminiscent of cappuccino and chocolate, didn’t exercise for reasons shown in a photo below, ballooned to 154 pounds, became intimate with all the bathrooms in our house, lost those four extra pounds, had a bad dust allergy attack, bought a size 10 pair of jeans that I can ‘almost’ fit into, found a 10 cent Euro, had Shrimp Louie, ate chocolate for the first time since January, got two pairs of boots, bought a suede jacket WS picked out, got fitted for underwear at Victoria’s Secret, decided sweater dresses aren’t for me, watched WS buy his first iPod, downloaded photos off the camera, patched holes in a wall, got a pumpkin, have come to embrace my hair color, learned to apply a new and different (for me) kind of makeup, am learning current fashion do’s and don’ts, thrown out some of my old Vanity Fair magazines, finished one book and am a quarter the way through the final one for the year, finished ALL the laundry . . . twice, ordered a pirate-like blouse, got insomnia over a really bad movie, ran out of a favorite evening tea and am loving our fall weather.

And now the photos, before, during and after of our new library. I apologize heavily in advance for any slow load times, especially for dial-up readers.

September 30, 2007

Fall has fallen and no one is as happy as I am. I feel more alive at this time of year than any other. Nature looks prettier, things smell better, the air feels cleaner. Nutmeg and wood smoke and crisp apples and fields of pumpkins finishing up growing. Ground coffee and cinnamon and hearty bread and the feel of hard, tart cranberries in my hand. Pine boughs and foggy mornings and having a chilly nose from standing out in the misty air waiting for the sound of returning Canada geese. Yellow, orange and red leaves have started to dot the hill behind our development. Our vine maples are touched with orange and our burning bush is tinged with red and everywhere, the blue-green of the cedars are fresh and washed of months of accumulated summer dust.

The lit baked apple candle is giving off its delicious scent upstairs and the pumpkin candle downstairs mixes with the aroma of homemade ham and bean soup in the kitchen. A basket of red-hued pecans in the shell wait for someone to patiently dig into them while just outside the window, blue scrub jays swoop and squawk, begging for more whole peanuts to fly away with and bury. A gray squirrel sits at the feeder, unwearyingly nibbles on mixed nuts. Back inside, in front of the TV, a pet is napping, burrowed into the crook of WS’ arm and I’m up here, typing and thinking of making pumpkin custard. Sugar-free, of course.

Welcome, autumn weather. Please stay a while.

October 1, 2007

It’s October 1st and that means it’s my opening day for research for my upcoming National Novel Writing Month project. After three years of writing along with thousands of other people around the globe all participating in NaNo simultaneously, I can’t think of fall without thinking of writing a novel, albeit a bad novel, every November. To know it’s free (even an Internet connection isn’t necessarily required) and that none of the 50,000 words needed within November’s 30 days have to be good ones, is, well, I don’t know why more people try to give it a go.

This year, I’ll be writing the second half of what I started last year, hereby known officially as ‘The Car Novel.’ The first half introduced Floyd and his rich but emotionally vacant wife Marilyn, Scratchy, Floyd’s sidekick and the guy you love to hate, repair shop owners Cecil and Peggy and their friend and shop manager, Vernon, and poor Ace Hanson who alone deserves to have his part written, along with a cast of others including the Street Kings car club and the car show world in general.

The second half of the novel continues the feud between Floyd and Cecil. Deceit, crime, bankruptcy and loss mix with achievement, realizations, personal growth and triumph to the end though as in real life, some people remain the same and some just never get it. As I’m digging out last year’s first half of The Car Novel and sorting through notes jotted here and there, I’m struck by how smart we were at the time to put all our writing stuff in one general area. This has kept me from tearing apart the library yet again as well as my side of our bedroom where I used to keep all kinds of things – car magazines, club newsletters, catalogs and books. Now all that stuff is on the short wall side of the library and the disaster zone is kept to a reasonable amount of space.

October 4, 2007

Today I’m wearing a size 10 pair of jeans and they aren’t tight. In fact, they feel like they want to fall down (must go put on belt). They are low rise jeans, pre-washed and probably designed for someone with butt cheeks; something I don’t have much of. They are a looser fit pair of pants and that’s the reason I am in them. I originally purchased a size 12 in this style but they were huge. A simple exchange and now I can feel good about all my South Beach dieting. I’ll note here that all my other pants are still size 12’s and that I’m still on my 150-153 pound weight plateau.

Several readers have emailed me asking about being on a low carb diet and here’s the thing: South Beach, the diet WS and I have fully embraced not as a diet but as a permanent lifestyle, is NOT low carb. In fact, it’s filled with carbs left and right. We’re eating more veggies now than probably at any other time in our entire lives. The things we don’t eat are the white things: Bread, rice, pasta, potatoes and sugar, nor most fruit at this stage. We also avoid the sugar vegetables: Carrots, beets and some squash, being a few.

I’ll admit it took a little bit of time to get over thinking what I thought all along was ‘good, nutritional eating’ actually wasn’t good at all. Most of that stuff is engineered to make a person crave more, even if you were already stuffed to the gills.

Enough diet talk. I’ve gotten all my notes together for The Car Novel and later this afternoon, I’ll dive into re-reading the story. Last November, I wrote some seventeen chapters (for a total of some 55K words for National Novel Writing Month) and early this year, I added another six chapters. Two of those were potential chapters meaning I liked them but they didn’t fit with the current flow of the plot. Those will be tucked in later on in the story.

After re-reading it, I’ll take some notes, then go over some thoughts and suggestions my writer friends had on the parts they read. Ris read most of what I had written and she’s the edit and suggestion queen in my eyes. Then I’ll start compiling an outline for the second half of the book, deciding what edits, changes and suggestions for the first half need to be incorporated into the second half. That way, after NaNo, I’ll go back and make the suggested changes to the first half (much, much easier than it might sound) so the whole thing fits together (hopefully) seamlessly.

The really good part is that I’ve got the entire month of October to do this in. No painting (the pet room is still unpainted), no library organization, no autumn decorating, no limited shopping for fall/winter clothes. WS even rebuilt my Car Novel playlists for me to keep me in the right mood. And this is as good a time as ever to post those:

Get Your Kicks on Route 66, I Get Around, Chantilly Lace, Sloop John B., Let It Ride, That’ll Be The Day, Rocket 88, Beep-Beep, Cool The Engines, Sharp Dressed Man, Living in America, Fly Away, Just Like Paradise, Rhythm from a Red Car, Steve McQueen, Smooth, Runnin’ Down a Dream, The Look, Gimme All Your Lovin’, Tuff Enuff, Bad to the Bone, The Boys of Summer, Perfect Day, Take My Breath Away, Maybe Baby, No Particular Place to Go, Turn! Turn! Turn!, Hot Rod Lincoln, On the Road Again, She’s So Fine, 409, Green Onions, Love Potion No. 9, Why Do Fools Fall in Love?, Highway 49, Vehicle, Slow Ride, Dead Man’s Curve, I Can’t Drive 55, I’m In Love with My Car, California Dreamin’, No Sugar Tonight, Wipe Out, The Little Old Lady From Pasadena, Fly Like an Eagle, Little Deuce Coupe, La Grange, Reelin’ in the Years, Walk Right In, Love Rollercoaster, Sirius, Mississippi Queen, Get Ready, The Midnight Special, Sixteen Candles, Do It Again, Runaway, Red Rubber Ball, Feelin’ Alright, At The Hop, Driver’s Seat, Rockin’ Down the Highway, Youngblood, The Stroll, Radar Love, Rebel Rouser, Fun, Fun, Fun, Life in the Fast Lane, Karn Evil 9- 1st Impression, Louie, Louie and Battle Without Honor or Humanity.

Obviously, not every song is directly ‘car’ oriented but to me each triggers a car memory either from the past or very far past. Nor do I have every car oriented song ever created. These all just happen to be from CDs I own outright myself (a big shout out here to the RIAA!). All told, my car playlists come out to about seven hours of music which is enough to keep me thinking about the main vehicles in The Car Novel: A 1936 Willys Coupe, a 1941 Ford Club Cabriolet, 1963 Split Window Corvette, an extreme custom built 1927 Ford T Roadster Highboy w/Deuce rails, a totaled 1983 De Lorean DMC-12 and a souped-up, lowered Lexus ‘ricer.’

October 7, 2007

Those of you with official ‘Dead Electronics at B’s Place’ Bing-o cards, please place a mark or corn kernel on “Modem.” Again, that was “Modem.” Anyone with a Bing-o yet? If so, you know the drill. Bring your card up front so we can verify it and if you’re a winner, you can collect your prize and we’ll begin another round shortly.

It was bound to die sooner or later. After all, it was eight and a half years old. Who’s ever heard of a computer component lasting eight and a half years? Keep in mind it was a Motorola and one of the first cable modems ever available in our area. I’ve got Motorola CBs that have lasted decades but cable modems? Nope, no long lives here.

But not to dwell on the unpleasantries of the past two days in which there was lots of non-Internet accessibility as well as lots of head-banging in search of answers, I’ve spent a lot of time with my Car Novel chapters from last year, rereading them and making notes to myself (which sometimes read as though I’m talking to myself . . . only different slightly) and keeping the fort here under control.

The Queen, still feisty after almost 20 years, continues to try to eat The Boy whenever we allow her to roam the library where The Boy likes to hang out. The Boy, on the other hand, while cute and all, following me around like a puppy because he’s come to like me, will begin hissing the very second he sees The Queen. He’s all big and brave sounding about it too, until she gets within a foot of him and then he starts whining like a little girl about to be stuck with a pin. Which isn’t too far off the mark. The Queen does only have one tooth left and it’s a big, sharp one.

Our little orange girl Zooot whines and cries from the spacious, yet still-unpainted, gated pet room to be allowed to roam the library but once she is, she whines and cries to be up on my lap regardless of whether I’m sitting or not. Once there, I whine and cry because she insists on digging her claws into my legs every single time. This is the very reason she isn’t allowed downstairs anymore; the route to which has also been pet-gated off. She learned very early soft things are for ripping into – furniture, rugs, thighs and no amount of training, clipping or yelling has done anything to stop her.

Her buddy, Cameron a.k.a Stretchy Toe (his Indian name), rarely says a peep. He was a feral kitten once and though tame enough for us now, he keeps mostly to himself. But let him see Zooot claw something and he’s all over it like a starved bum on a ham sandwich.

And finally, there’s Seth Ezekiel, Viscount of Cute, Earl of Orange, Lord of Cardboard. We’ve received several deliveries to the house over the past month or two and he demands to inspect every cardboard box once it’s been emptied of contents. Then, usually, he falls asleep in them, no matter the size box.

Currently he’s got two boxes, one slightly larger than the other and he hasn’t quite decided which he likes better. One he sleeps in during the day (because I wear him out being the hard taskmaster I am), the other he sleeps in overnight. He better make up his mind quick because I don’t plan on tripping over them much longer and hey, look! Trash day just happens to be rapidly coming upon us. Tsk, tsk, Seth. Make a decision or I’ll make one for you!

October 8, 2007

It was an exhausting Sunday, not because of anything we did physically but because of an argument. There may or may not be yet another Multiple Sclerosis thing going on with WS involving his concentration, or lack of it. And naturally, as his primary caregiver, it’s my duty to constantly evaluate his every move, action, reaction, constantly evaluating and re-evaluating, looking for weakness physically, mentally, emotionally – whether or not he’s walking okay, or is wobbly that day, or perhaps shouldn’t drive for a while, or isn’t thinking clearly. Constantly, constantly evaluating. It takes the loving, caring emotion out of a relationship right quick. And that constant watching and evaluating makes me the bad guy, the one who questions everything.

Have I mentioned recently this is a thankless job? Yeah, I thought so too.

I’m a hard ass to live with; I’ve never been one to admit anything less. I probably should bite my tongue more often than I do but then again, that’s part of the reason I thought I found someone with whom I could be myself with. I’m not going to back down from an argument, nor am I going to start claiming my overly-sharp memory is hazy just so someone else can win an argument. I’ve asked for an apology if and when it is discovered I was correct on a point I tried (poorly) to make, a point that got lost in ‘semantics.’ Funny how that’s okay when the shoe is on the other foot.

Anyway, we ended up making jokes about our old age and things we’ll probably say to one another when I’m in the midst of Alzheimer’s and WS’ brain is half eaten away by his MS. It’ll be a hoot, really, I’m sure of it, and as long as I can keep him from parking his wheelchaired butt on my oxygen line, I’m sure we’ll still continue to get along more than not.

October 9, 2007

For the past five days, I have been delightfully chilly. For someone who has always run more on the warm side and since my forced menopause three years ago, run more on the par-boiled side, feeling chilled is a delicious thing. I’ve also slept relatively cool for those same past nights, meaning WS hasn’t had to wear a life preserver to bed for fear of drowning in my sweat. I sleep with a tall fan blowing directly on me and a tiny, personal fan blowing on my face yet until five nights ago, neither really did much to allow me a full, comfortable night’s sleep. It was always ‘on with the lightest of blankets, then off with the blanket, and then back on with the blanket followed once more with throwing it off.’ Lately, I’ve been able to sleep entire hours without resorting to the blanket on/blanket off thing and I really like it. So much so, yesterday I daydreamed briefly about how great it was to sleep at night.

Sound odd? You better hope menopause never happens to you then.

MsNoManagementSkills has been out of a job for a week and a day and I have already received three emails from her. Her first one I ignored. In her second one, sent to countless people on a master list, she revealed she finally had time to email her ‘friends’ but that she seemed to have lost so many. Could any of us recommend some new people to add to her email list?

I have to admit I saw red. Today, I’m thinking she’s just an idiot.

Her third email asked for ideas for things for her to do with her spare time and it pissed me off again. I fired off yet another ‘Remove me from your email list’ request, not adding ‘please’ like I foolishly did the last time. We’ll see if she gets the hint.

This is classic MsNo behavior. When we used to work together, she’d slack at her work which would get so far backed up, the company CEO would have to reassign it to me and other coworkers to keep the company’s customers from reporting us to the Better Business Bureau. Then, within a day, MsNo would ping us in chat asking for non-work related ideas for things to do in her new spare time. Over and over this happened, and yes, the company CEO knew about it yet chose for whatever reason, never to do anything about it. Well, that’s not exactly true. MsNo got raises and more stock options than anyone else and got to take trips paid for by the company.

Sad how nearly three years after being laid off and not having to work with her, she still gets my goat.

Bahhhhh!

October 10, 2007

I feel like I’m running around yelling, “No time! I’ve got no time!” Yet I know I’ve got just as much time as everyone else. I’ve just overly filled mine this autumn leaving things I’d prefer to do out in the cold without an hour to spare. I’d like to go to a few new places in town, now that the weather has gotten cooler, and participate in a few things I usually do at this time of year but my dance card is full and I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

On the weight front, I’ve decided to pick up the pace on the treadmill regime, going from about three and a third miles a week to four and a half. I can’t trust myself with making sure I work out later in the week; almost positively no workout on weekends due to time constraints, so I’ve started front-loading the week with extra walking. So far, so good. After three straight days of walking twenty minutes a day, I’m back down to skirting 149 pounds. One more treadmill session and some weight work this week, most likely tomorrow, and I’ll be good until next Monday.

I’m also able to run (that’s right, I said R-U-N) up to a full minute now. That has never happened ever at any time in my entire life. While I may have had to walk to school barefoot, uphill in both directions, in waist-deep snow under the hot desert sun, I’m spoiled in that we never had to run further than 100 meters in P.E. class. “Ya get heat stroke that way,” was the general consensus back then.

WS is working on hitting 250 pounds and if he does, he’ll be a full 110 pounds lighter than he was at his heaviest ever. He had to take his original wedding ring in to get resized smaller last week and you’d think they’d pay him for all the extra gold they’d have to remove (and keep as a result). Nope, doesn’t work that way…though I think it should. No word on whether he has any plans to take his expensive band in to get resized. That’ll take a trip to downtown Portland, an area he absolutely despises, to a place that’ll charge a whole lot more for the work, I’m sure. Then there’s the issue of whether he’ll be able to wear it at all anyway. I think he’s allergic to the higher metal content and if that’s the case, I might as well wear it on a chain around my neck or something for all the good it does sitting in a box around here.

Hmm, I wonder if that place would buy it back if WS was interested.

In more self-improvement news, I’m on my fourth different variety of facial makeup this fall. I originally started with just Oil of Olay lotion and let my zits and bumps and redness and southwest desert wrinkles hang out for anyone to see. Then someone talked me into trying makeup to make myself more presentable and so I tried the Bobbi Brown line of makeup. But after a while, I ended up going through entire bottles of concealer all over my face because I was trying to cover up the rashes and hives the stuff gave me. It ended up feeling like a wearing a thick mask whenever I’d put any on, which was only when I went out in public.

Last month, I got rid of the Bobbi Brown stuff (it’s not wise to mix and match makeup brands because they are often formulated to react adversely, and intently so, with other brand names) and I bought a line of Neutrogena makeup – Concealer, foundation, eye cream, finishing mineral powder.

No dice. Within the hour, my face was red and itchy. So I packed that stuff away and bought a bunch of L’Oreal’ makeup. I thought that would do me fine until the third time I put it on and hives sprouted up all around my eyes and along my jaw line. A shame really, because briefly, I really liked their wrinkle-reducing eye cream that actually looked like it reduced the wrinkles. Another $70 worth of hardly used makeup that’s destined for the trash can.

This week I’m trying out the Talc-free mineral Physician’s Formula and on the one time I wore any, it seemed to be okay. There is no eye wrinkle reducing cream sadly but who am I trying to kid? I’ve got wrinkles, big deal. Who cares?

Then one of our cats insisted on sitting on my chest and kneaded my neck and chin. Yes, I’m allergic to cats (but I will not get rid of them!) Later in the evening, I noticed my chin was itchy and a little red but no hives there or anywhere else. Later in the week I’ll don the stuff again to see what pops up. Or doesn’t.

Dang, it’s a pain in the ass to be a girly girl! And expensive! My old 501 Levis, baggy car t-shirted, Vans shoed, grey-haired, crappy makeup clad self is starting to sound appealing again I think.

October 14, 2007

We are officially ready for Fall. Today we stacked and covered all the backyard lawn furniture, brought in the wind chimes and big umbrella and grouped the potted plants. Inside the garage, I made room for the one tender potted perennial I wanted to try for a second year to winter over and packed away the last of the painting supplies until next spring. I wasn’t kidding anyone by leaving the five gallon bucket of paint sitting out with a Saran-wrapped paint roller and brush, both still dripping with paint from last August, and claiming there was still a chance I’d get to the pet room before Christmas. Just isn’t going to happen. I’ve dealt with it. Everyone else needs to move on.

Surprisingly enough, just as I was getting used to our garage possessing a black hole, I actually was able to find the last two outdoor furniture covers I bought last spring to replace the new ones that mysteriously went missing last year. As a result and for the first time ever, all the patio furniture out back is covered this year. Good thing too because in lieu of a real kitchen table and chairs, every year we’ve brought in three or four chairs and the small outdoor glass side table to use in the kitchen instead of leaving them outside uncovered. This year, the space usually reserved for those chairs is taken up with a dining set and we don’t have an inch of extra space indoors. The dining table is much nicer, I’d say. I’ll get over leaving everything else outside WHERE THEY BELONG.

Added bonus: We don’t bring in all those hidden spiders when we used to bring in the outdoor chairs. The pets aren’t pleased though. Spiders usually end up as cat toys around here unless I find them first.

While outdoor furniture and moved pots were settling into their pre-winter spots, WS mowed the lawn and set the garbage at the curb while I packed away the backyard garden hose, put the Styrofoam cover over the faucet and made sure all our house vents were covered as well. The front hose and faucet will be okay for another couple of weeks but I’ll keep an eye on the night time temperatures out there just to be safe. I’m still surprised to hear of neighbors who have never thought to cover their faucets yet whine about busted water lines come frozen, icy nights. Or wonder why their heating bills are so high yet they’ve never covered their ground-level house vents. Many of those people also complain that they have mice, not realizing (or paying attention enough) that the mice got in through their open vents and simply crawled up into the walls from under the house. The Wall Streets fall into this bucket and no doubt, we’ll hear an earful from them before the year is out.

Then I brought up the subject that exhausts WS every year around this time when I make him think about it – Where do we want to hang Christmas lights in six weeks? Yes, that time of year is just six weeks away. Do we want to put lights up at all? Yes. Do we want to hire out the job? No, too expensive for too short a period of time ($350 for about two weeks – ridiculous!). We like to get them up Thanksgiving weekend, work on fine tuning the week after and turn them on December 1st. Do we want to add more, cut back or do the same as every year? Maybe a little more or maybe the same amount but in different spots. Do we want lights just for us in the backyard? Probably.

I’ll mention here that other than the lights on the house itself which is usually a single, straight line across the roof that I attach but that he ‘feeds’ me, WS doesn’t help much more with the lighting. Basically, if I want them up, I do most of the work. I don’t know why thinking about it exhausts him but every year I get the BIG sigh which tells me the whole subject just wears him out.

What usually comes after all this is talk about decorating indoors. Do we want to set up trees indoors? Do we want to set up both trees; the huge one downstairs and our romantic bedroom tree for us? Do we want to decorate everything else as usual or pare it down? When do we want to start tackling the job, knowing that just the downstairs tree takes eight to ten hours to assemble and decorate? Do we want to spend the money to get a pre-lit tree to replace our artificial twelve-footer?

I didn’t ask this last group of questions but I will before much longer. Our Novembers are crammed full of so much stuff, anything not discussed months in advance gets dropped and lost in the shuffle and that only leads to misunderstandings and hurt feelings. This year, WS’ job promises to suck every last second of his waking moments. I can accomplish a lot on my own but I want to make sure we’re of the same mindset before I start planning anything. Really, I’m only trying to ease the load but I don’t think it’s seen that way very often.

Anyway, it felt good to get things tucked away in preparation for winter. The fall rains start back up again tomorrow, they say, and promise to stay until next spring. Later this week, we’re having our natural gas fireplace checked out and readied for cold weather and The Queen needs to go to the vet for her annual checkup. After that, we’re ready for a season of writing, snuggling and hoping for snow.

But you know I’m already making a list for things to get done next spring . . .

October 15, 2007

I woke up feeling a little woozy this morning but I blew the feeling off initially. Yesterday I promised myself and anyone within listening distance (that would be WS) that I would accomplish several things this week that I’d been putting off for months; mainly repotting that spider plant given to me by coworkers during the waning final moments of the company I used to work for. I honestly wish I could find this plant another home. It reminds me of that horrible job. It deserves to be loved more than I want to direct at it. But I can’t stand the thought of killing something and so instead of dumping the gift into a nearby trash can, I kept the hopeful green cutting wrapped in a moist towel-ette and smuggled it back from California. It’s been given a good life: water and natural light and kept away from pets who want to eat it. And it’s rewarded me with two streamers of tiny white flowers and new green and white spider babies.

Sometimes it sucks having a green thumb.

The other indoor plant that needed repotting was a three foot, twenty year old bottle palm (also known as an elephant foot palm). This plant was one of three whisked into the Pacific Northwest from our old residence some 1400 miles away. Of the three, two still thrive. The third, another bottle palm that at nearly five feet tall and a hundred pounds was older than WS, succumbed to an injury sustained shortly after we moved into this house.

Honestly, I’ve thought of Craigslisting both plants as well as the eight foot, thirty-year old Potato vine tree happily flourishing in our foyer and the ten-year old Orange bush prospering in our kitchen. But then I remember how much like silent, patient friends these plants are and how they alone survived all prior ‘housecleaning’ bouts in which I’ve eliminated entire greenhouses worth of tropical, indoor houseplants because sometimes, even us green thumb types get tired of tending things from time to time. Oh, all the giant bird-of-paradise, philodendrons and ferns that have gone, chopped, killed and discarded, before these last few indoor sentinels.

The repotting is finished, the vacuuming and laundry done. I exhausted myself with attempting another go at organizing our miniscule master bedroom closet. Next year we hope to hire California Closets (or a similar, more local company) to maximize the five foot by five foot space. Then do the same with the smaller pet room closet, the two foot by three foot gym closet and the hall entry closet, bringing to a close my attempt to organize every last square foot of this place.

Of course, it’s an ongoing plot, laden with pitfalls, too many kitchen gadgets, craft items and all those unopened and dusty bottles of spirits I once thought to serve at the many parties I envisioned us hosting, not realizing that WS really, REALLY didn’t like people well enough to want to invite any into our home.

We’re going to work on getting rid of some of those over the next year and using the space more intelligently. Like for nothing because I know, after collecting things for this place over the past eight and a half years, I’d like to see a cupboard that is completely bare. Or at least one with a little breathing room around some of the things we plan to keep. I’m tired of things being stacked, crammed, shoved and piled on top of one another. I’m tired of having to move heaps of things to get to other things. I’m sick to death over the thought of how much I have spent on stuff I don’t see any future for yet at one time, I just HAD to own.

I feel like I need more space. How typically wasteful American that sounds. Next thing you know, I’ll be considering purchasing an SUV simply because I can. And I’ll bet I’ll whine later about how disorganized it’ll become too. Ugh. Time to go lie down.

October 16, 2007

I feel a bit better today than yesterday. Could have been the ten hours of sleep, complete with vivid dreams that I enjoy. I don’t know what yesterday’s woozy stomach and blurred head was all about but I wish the bladder infection I was left with would go away too. I haven’t had one of those in decades. I don’t take baths (showers only), I don’t have sex (it’s an MS thing) and I keep myself clean. Maybe the re-introduction to underwear is to blame? Or pants made from something less than 100 percent, breath-able cotton? Whatever the cause, I’m taking cranberry tablets and drinking quarts of water. It’ll be better soon.

I didn’t have a good time at the vet with The Queen this morning. Apparently, they said we were supposed to have brought her back in for re-testing of her thyroid two weeks after her last appointment. That was a year ago and news to us. So the vet was less than cordial.

Then they said we were giving her medication wrong; that it only stays in the system for twelve hours. So us giving her a quarter tablet every three days isn’t do anything for her. Funny that because giving it to her how they recommended last year nearly killed her yet they don’t have any record of our alarmed phone calls OR their recommendation that we significantly reduce the medication amount and frequency of administration.

Ahem. It’s been nearly 18 years since we’ve butt heads with anyone at our animal vet center and I’m sure my recovery from whatever I was suffering with yesterday made me a little more short and pointy than I would usually be but damn it, don’t tell me I’m paying for expensive medication that you say now that I’m not using correctly and then say you have no record of us talking at length with your office after several worried days of having a limp, vomiting, lethargic pet or of your office telling us at what dosage to reduce that medication to. That crap just pisses me off and you better get your office record shit together. My twenty-year old pet is healthy, happy and back to her usual self of trying to eat The Boy. Can’t you and your office just be happy for her? Do you have to stand there with my file in your hands with your wide, deer-in-the-headlights eyes and shaking head and make me feel like I regularly beat my animals?

Okay, it wasn’t that bad but it felt like it. Or maybe I just need to go lie down again.

October 17, 2007

The latest email from MsNoManagementSkills is a hoot. In it she waxes on and on about her husband, DorkMaster, spending so much time playing video games instead of anything else…like looking for a job maybe? Remember, they are both out of work; him laid off and her of her own choice.

“This for all you women out there with out of work husbands. Is your man addicted to Halo 3 too? Any job prospects on his horizon? I wish someone had told me this is what married to a geek would be!!! Anyone know how to get him away from the computer? Other than damaging it or hiding parts! I don’t think either would go over very well!!”

First off, exactly how many women does she know with out of work husbands?? And there she goes again, looking for a job without having to lift a finger although it sounds like this time, she’s asking for him. There wasn’t any mention of her getting off her butt and getting one instead but knowing them both, that’s exactly what he dreams of happening.

As for the wishing ‘someone had told her’ bit, she was married to a geek the first time around. She knew darn well what she was getting herself into. I get so tired of the “I’m a victim” whine. I wish someone had told her how much of a whining bitch she’d sound like at this stage of life.

And the getting him away from the computer part? Again, she knew what she was getting herself into. Let’s not forget that’s how they originally found each other when over IM (Instant Messenger) she was best friends with his first wife and basically stole him away. Let’s also not forget that she’s bought him nearly every kind of computer, laptop and game system invented over the last three years to keep him occupied and away from IM-ing any other women. And now she wants him away from all those toys? Boy, I knew she was poor at paying attention to anything not revolving around her but this really says to me the Honeymoon.Is.Over!

October 19, 2007

If you couldn’t tell, I’ve had a couple of snarky days. I don’t know why really but I’ve just felt off for some reason. But tonight I think I figured out why and it only took an old South Park episode to show me the light.

For the record, I’m not a South Park fan (though there is that World of Warcraft episode I adore!).

The cartoon was about something, uh, oh yeah, it was a closed circuit school news thing and it was so over the top, I realized it was speaking volumes to me; that life doesn’t have to be all about getting things perfect or even getting them right all.the.time. Yeah, I know. Most people wouldn’t see the episode that way but bear with me.

You see, this is what I am. I’m an overachiever. It was beaten into me before I could even walk most likely but my parents were never happy so I tried that much harder, at everything. As a result, they were that much more disappointed.

I never really knew what exactly it was they were looking for because licking their shoes wasn’t it, nor was being the fastest swimmer on the city swim team some five years running. I don’t think anything would have made them happy yet here I am, all these decades after they’ve died, still trying to make them happy because that would make me happy. Or so I thought. I was over the top and always trying to get it right all.the.time.

I’ve been putting a lot of pressure on myself lately, particularly around my writing. Next month is National Novel Writing Month and I thought I had my 50,000 word project all lined up. But then I started reading the first half of the story I need remember and internalize in order to write the second half to, and I spent the last couple of days doubting myself, berating myself and generally feeling down because I’m not sure I can pull it off. Not the right way and not in the over the top way it needs to be written. WS says he knows I can finish this story, in November even, but I’m not overly convinced. Am I trying to finish it because I’m trying to make someone happy? Am I trying to live up to someone’s expectations, like my own shaped by perpetually disappointed parents? Do I even know enough anymore about the world I was planning on writing about? I’ve been away from it for a long while now. What if I can’t remember half of it?

I’ll probably remember it all, but that’s beside the point. Again, I’m putting a lot of pressure on myself and I probably should stop doing that…someday. Maybe tomorrow but probably not. Maybe after I’m gone because I can’t help but feel a great sense of accomplishment when I complete something I pressure myself into. I’m not a failure, nor a quitter. I’m an overachiever and trying to get it right all.the.time is what I do best. Someday I might not be but I think it’ll be after I’m dead and gone. Yeah, that’ll be the right time. But not now.

October 20, 2007

I’m still slogging away, re-reading and editing my NaNo project from last year, trying desperately to prepare for next month novel writing adventure. (3 chapters left to read through plus the original outline.) Really, it doesn’t need to be this hard but I’m choosing to make it so. It’s my overachiever-ness (not to be confused with over-cheesy-ness which resembles something my brain made my fingers type at first). National Novel Writing Month isn’t supposed to be about quality of those required 50,000 words. It’s supposed to be about fun and silliness and quantity of words toward 50,000 and, well, more fun.

When did I forget about the fun?

I didn’t. I just transformed it into something that no one else would see as fun. Kind of like lifting weights until your arms and shoulders burn and feel like they’re going to fall off. Who in their right mind would think that was fun?

*raises hand*

No one else? Okay, I’m sure there’s something fun you do that anyone else would see as hard work. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself.

Anyway, it’s my own fault I’m working much, much harder at this NaNo thing this year than I ought to be but it’s because I know this story, this silly car story, is worth it. I know what could lie around the corner for it once it’s finished; the best is the biggest sense of accomplishment I’ll have felt in years. That 3-book deal with a top publishing house? The Nick Cage movie option? Hot Rod Magazine making me Garage Gal of the month? Book signings at car shows around the country and photo ops with one of the original ‘Dukes of Hazzard’ General Lee Charger?

All frosting, baby. Sweet, creamy frosting.

October 23, 2007

It’s 70 degrees F. here and sunny for most of the week, a common occurrence in October though I personally will feel more relaxed and comfortable when the usual Pacific Northwest fall rains return with a vengeance. With all the wildfires in Southern California, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the vegetation growing in our densely planted backyard. Yes, I know our climate is different than the arid California desert but we live in a forest. Ever hear of forest fires? Yeah, they happen here too. And for as much as has been chopped down around here, there’s still the risk of one starting up.

In a recent wandering out in our back yard, I noticed our Fraiser Fir isn’t doing well this fall season. This isn’t a tree that goes into a die-back style of dormancy, especially at this time of year when it’s usually lush and deep green. I’ve mentioned this tree before in bafflement over it’s attraction of various scary-looking winged insects. So to lose ten-foot tree after five years won’t be a terrible loss (as much as the loss of any plant usually bothers me deeply as a kind of failure of nature). It opens up the possibility of what could be planted there instead, or as my original point of this entry began as, planting nothing. Planting nothing would leave a fairly big gap that low lying shrubs and grasses would take over eventually. I won’t like the look but still, the tree was a cornerstone plant; one of several and one of only a few specimen evergreens and maybe I should plant something there regardless.

The wildfires also renew my resolve to cut down the fifteen-foot white bud (the white version of a Redbud of which this particular tree was supposed to be one of). It’s crammed and squeezed in a three foot gap between a Hinoki cypress and a trio of white bark birches. It’s horribly misshapen as a result and I only enjoy at its painfully short blooming time in late spring. It’s suffering and looks awful. It’s time to go.

Stupidly, four or five years ago, I planted another trio of white bark birches right up against the side of our home. The thinking was twofold: To camouflage and bring interest to the vast vertical side of our house and with a row of maples on the opposite side, to create a canopy of summertime leaves over a sidewalk. Talk about fire hazard, not to mention what birch roots will eventually do to the house foundation! But gee, it sure looks cool and inviting during the summer months. Is time up for those birches as well? Only time will tell.

Another specimen evergreen, a Vanderwolf pine is also yellowing up along the back wall of our yard. Luckily for me, I know this is normal at this time of year. Still, with the Fraiser Fir going south, am I certain I don’t have an evergreen blight back there? I’m pretty certain that’s not the case but I’m second guessing myself now. Losing the Vanderwolf would leave a big hole…that I could immediately fill with a deciduous maple, an brilliant October Glory maple for example. But again, leaving the spot open would probably be a better idea even if the squirrels and birds would rather I didn’t. Currently, they enjoy that pine tree more than anyone and I love seeing them use it.

Also, this past summer, I removed buckets of Ajuga, another ground cover I was once in love with. Unfortunately, Ajuga appears to be one of those kinds of plants that if even a snippet of root remains in the ground, it regenerates itself by leaps and bounds. Guess what I’ll be working twice as hard at to remove next year?

I envision next spring as one of massive cut back and removal of the dense plantings back there. Our property was originally planted seven years ago with that in mind. Now that things have become established, not everything should have to compete for space. For things that can easily be found homes for, I will do that, but others will go into the yard debris bin to be made into compost. At least I won’t be disappointing Mother Nature in that regard.

October 25, 2007

A letter to the over-breeding mother who lives down the street:

I’m not going to ask why you insist on driving your mini van the 400 yards from your driveway to The Wall Streets’ driveway next door twice a day, every day because, after pooping out eight children, I can only guess you see your legs useful for something other than walking. I will however, thank you for wasting gas and adding pollutants to the air. In that, you’re just like most Americans.

I won’t even ask why you insist on bumping The Wall Streets extra-large SUV four times a day, every day, with your driver’s door so hard it sets the SUV’s alarm off, again four times a day, every day. Nor will I ask Mrs. Wall Street why she lets it screech continuously until it finally, mercifully, shuts itself off minutes later.

I will ask, no, demand to know, Mrs. Breeder, why you put your seven-year old son on your lap and let him drive home twice a day, every day, that 400 yards without at the very least the benefit of a seat belt. Do you think this is what all the ‘cool’ moms do? Do you think nothing could possibly go wrong with him behind the wheel, on your lap sitting that close to the steering wheel and air bag? Do you possibly believe that even though your husband is a military man with an overabundance of bravery, courage and sense of obligation coursing through his very loins that your seven-year old son isn’t learning something that you and the rest of your neighbors may come to regret when he steals his first car (which hopefully, will be yours by the way)?

I’d also like to thank you for showing your responsible nature as a parent in doing so, and in teaching Mr. Wall Street that this behavior is okay. I had a very hard time yesterday evening not staring in disgust as he let his four-year old daughter drive their SUV monstrosity. You know where she drove it – to your house. Maybe your son and his daughter needed to discuss the environmental impact their joyrides were having on our little corner of the planet.

In closing, I like to state that I believe this kind of thing just makes you look like an irresponsible tool, an idiot and a moron. I don’t care if this is what your own parents used to do with you, either in the backwoods hill and hollows or deep in the heart of a city setting, or something you might have seen other parents do which in your mind, makes it okay. It’s not. It’s reckless, it’s careless and it shows how little respect you have for anyone else living in this neighborhood and in this world.

Your neighbor who is counting the months before you and family are transferred back east.

October 28, 2007

My plan to write the second half of the Car Novel for November’s National Novel Writing Month has completely fallen apart from no one’s fault but my own. The novel was a big project and probably an over ambitious one at that for my current writing skill level. A discussion with WS over the outline last night showed major flaws in the story that, at this time, throws the whole thing out the window. So I’m going to fall back to Plan B which will be 50,000 words of outline-less, unresearched rants and rambling I’m titling “Punt” for lack of a better description . . . the kind of thing you’d read here actually; not really a story or novel, however, within those 50,000 words I’ll try to explore some different writing styles. Who knows? I might just learn something.

The month of November also continues to cram itself full of things and events I wish I had the time to attend. Ozzy Osbourne is coming to town next month and really, how much longer do you think he’ll be touring? I last saw him in 1976 or 1977. Thirty years was a long time ago but I made previous plans to try to attend something else that evening, something else I don’t really have the time for either but would be a good thing for me to attend, writer-wise. And I mean really, as much as I like Ozzy, he’s not going to do a thing for me and my future writing career.

In November, we’ve also got a couple of obligatory dinners to attend for WS’ job, two pre-holiday soirées, a three-day convention mid-month, an author’s group reading and a few writer meetings. Let’s not forget the U.S. Thanksgiving (and our 18th anniversary on the same day) and our annual start of the holiday light decorating season which will take considerably longer than an hour or two if the traditional arguing is involved. None of these things could have moved themselves to December I’m sure, and that’ll leave December, a month usually reserved for festivities, holiday celebrations and family get togethers, basically empty for us. Well, other than for recovery time.

In neighborhood news, I’ve got something on The Dimmers but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow because WS, Mr. Patience-But-Only-to-a-Point, is trying to work on a networking issue and I’m holding up the show.

October 29, 2007

Mr. Dimmer ‘allowed’ his truck to be repossessed again. I say ‘allowed’ because that’s the term Ms. Dimmer used when she stood in front of her house loudly, very loudly actually, telling her new carpool buddy that was half the equation of why she would need to make carpooling a more permanent solution. The other half was because Mr. Dimmer had just totaled the small, economical car that Ms. Dimmer’s brother had loaned them a mere two days after the very uneconomical truck was repossessed. Reason for the accident? Probable drunk driving but “everyone does it” was the excuse given. No word on any DUI charges.

Mr. Dimmer is now driving Ms. Dimmer’s mini van, a vehicle he’s professed to hate. No word either on why he’s driving it at all because the jury’s still out on whether he has an actual job or not and isn’t spending time at the local watering hole instead. One thing is good though: He’s spending a lot of time away from home; a blessing for this neighborhood that in Halloweens past have been terrorized by his combination drinking and over-self medicating.

And speaking of Halloween, a ‘holiday’ I used to love every bit as much as Christmas, after a seven year self sabbatical due to a couple of horrid families that used to live in the neighborhood, I’ll be partaking in scaring the crap out of youngsters this year dressed in my beloved Grim Reaper costume (because Halloween is supposed to be SCARY not cutesy!).

I gave long thought (as in three years) to whether I wanted to participate in any way, shape or form in Halloween ever again and it’s very possible this may be my last year of doing so. But I wanted to give it one last shot. I used to have fun dressing up (within my very limited budget), the scarier, the better. And because I’m not yet convinced that fun no longer exists for people like me, I’m willing to give Halloween in my own neighborhood, another chance. WS, however, does not share my enthusiasm and will not be partaking in any festivities.

Now, that said, if anyone tries to tear my costume or any part of my costume from my person, swing a fist or leg at me, knock me down, steal the candy bucket I’ll be carrying, threaten to egg our house, vandalize our yard, urinate in our driveway, light our house on fire, rape me and/or hold a gun to my head or a knife to my throat or any other maliciousness of the stupid, macho and definitely un-Halloween-y kind, that’ll be the end of it for me and you can safely assume I’ll have nothing but the worst to say about this neighborhood and Halloween for the rest of my days. Yes, all of those things have happened and what was I doing at the time to deserve any of it? Standing in our own driveway, draped in a black cape from head-to-toe, silently handing out candy bars. And yes, I still believe some teenagers and parents of those teenagers should be shot. All I can hope for this year if any of this happens again, that the local police take it seriously this time and not write it off to “Kids will be kids. They said they were only kidding.” My bruises and aching muscles said otherwise. But hey, why listen to a middle-aged woman, right?

Let’s hope things turn out well. That’s all I have to say on that . . .

. . . other than to add that at the stroke of midnight on the same night, I’ll be back inside, costume-less, and sitting here next to WS, typing my fingers off for the start of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). My goal will be to get 4,000 words typed before going to bed. And yeah, they’ll probably be words about nothing, or on how Halloween turned out because the goal of NaNoWriMo is quantity, not quality. Simply type 50,000 words in the month. They don’t have to be good words.

(Want to participate in NaNoWriMo but think stabbing yourself with a Spork sounds like more fun than counting words? Here’s a tip: Type your 50,000 words in a Microsoft Word document. In mere seconds, the program automatically counts your words for you freeing up your time to type even more words. Try it. It’s addicting!)

Yeah, it’ll be the veritable Barrel of Monkeys around here that night. Of that you can be sure.

October 30, 2007

Looks like I might have spoken too soon on that whole Halloween participation thing. WS’ is having ‘issues’ with his MS and the ability to feel his feet. Yesterday was an adventure driving home for him, he said, and that puts me into chauffer mode for the rest of the week. Interestingly enough, he’s had a MS flare-up three of the past six years around this time of year. Work stress related? Could be. Project ends and beginnings are this time of year as are job performance rankings. He’s also been under an enormous amount of pressure this year doing a higher-end job since April that he’s not being paid a penny more for. To make those matters worse, it doesn’t appear he’ll be getting the pay raise that normally goes with the job next February either because of company crackdowns on pay increases. (But boy, let’s hand millions more to the CEO and all his vice presidents for their annual Christmas bonuses. We worry about keeping up with our electric bill so WS can keep sending out work updates via email at midnight while company vice presidents are buying islands near Fiji to give to their grandkids!)

His flare-up (which will be number 4 or 5 this year alone for anyone keeping score) could also be season-change related which is the direction I’m leaning toward. The season going from spring into summer seems to be another MS exacerbation time. Kind of makes me wonder what would happen should he ever live some place where the temperature is cool and constant year around. Would he have a flare-up year around or hardly ever? Would it matter? Probably not. There’s no cure for MS other than death.

October 31, 2007

There’s nothing like a great incentive to get one into the Halloween mood. My favorite incentive is to dig out my Dremel, some polishing compound and a good wire brush wheel and spend an hour or so standing in the driveway noisily sharpening my scythe. Oh, how the half-sunlight we are enjoying today glints off the long curve of the sharp, shiny metal.

Then, of course, there are those who don’t enjoy the ear-piercing screech of metal to metal or the pretty, flying orange sparks. But that’s okay. I only sharpen the scythe once every seven years while Mrs. Wall Street only slams doors and windows once, twice, thrice . . . oh, every few hours.

Happy Halloween. Welcome to my neighborhood. Stay safe out there.

November 1, 2007

Well, that whole novel writing thing has started and I’m very pleased to say I’m off on a tear. It’s closing in on 4 a.m. now and I’ve got 5,031 words typed in just over three hours. I chose as the first part of my 50,000 written work the first topic in an outline I hurriedly put together yesterday, “Why I chose to forgo writing the second half of the Car Novel.” I think I made good work of my excuses not by whining but going over everything I now know I should have added to the first half but didn’t. This will be great for when I do actually get around to finishing that story.

And if the other eighteen items on that outline drag this many words from my brain through my fingers and onto the screen, I’ll be able to toss that outline in the trash after item number 10 which, by the way, is entitled, “What’s eating Blogeois today?”

Like you’d think I wouldn’t touch that subject . . .

After a few hours of sleep, I’ll get back to it. The next topic on my outline might be more difficult to put into as many words. I need to try to figure out what daily outside influences persuade and manipulate me into writing in the style I’m most apt to, how often or not I write and the subjects I lean more toward writing. Let’s see, life experiences, neighbors, future hopes and dreams? Yes, yes and definitely yes.

November 6, 2007

Well, that was a fast week! That silly novel writing thing is still going on until the end of the month but that’s really about all I’m going to say about it, other than to confess I’ve already written my 50,000 words. Yep, 10K a day in a rambling memoir of sorts about everything I’ve learned about writing over the past four years was my secret goal and I flew through it. Boy, does it ever stink too! Good thing it’s all about quantity of words this month and not quality!

Now I’m back to working on The Car Novel like I should have done in the first place but at least I don’t feel under pressure now.

WS is in the early stages of yet another MS exacerbation. This has been a rough year regarding that. I think this makes number four or five he’s had this year alone. He’s never had this many so quickly after each other. He’s walking with his cane this week and I have to take him to and from work. I’ve also been running the errands and tomorrow, will need to do some grocery shopping. All I can say is that it’s a darn good thing I got that NaNo thing out of the way early because with all this chauffering, I’m already having a hard time concentrating on my writing. WS is participating in the NaNo thing again this year and I’m happy to say he’s already halfway finished.

Hmm, it would seem I talked a lot about that writing thing after all.

Okay, well today I drove down to Portland and did something for myself. I got my wedding ring cleaned and polished and then walked ten blocks or so down to Powell’s Books where I picked a little something up to celebrate that thing I did but didn’t mean to yak too much about here. I can’t say what that little thing is because I told WS he couldn’t see it until after he was done with his writing.

Either I’m very clever or very mean. I don’t mind being called mean. I am what I am but I wish I thought I was clever more often.

Anyway, the thing is nothing worth making a big deal over. It was just something I saw and figured it’d be interesting and after all, they say you need to take the time to celebrate your accomplishments however and whenever you can. We always say we need to do that and in some people’s eyes it might look like that’s all we ever do but in all honesty, we rarely celebrate anything we do. I don’t think that’ll ever change much; it’s just not who we are, but for this one time, for this one accomplishment, I wanted to do just that.

November 7, 2007

I’ve felt on top of the world the past two days. Today however, um, not so much.

WS decided to stay in bed late this morning and forgo an early conference call meeting he had told me about the night before. So when I woke up naturally well after dawn, meaning without the aid of an alarm clock or the sound of the shower going, I freaked out a bit to find him still asleep in bed. Later on, I thought it seemed like he was taking an extra long time with getting ready for work (as if he’d want to go or something) and to some extent, I felt like I was standing around a lot waiting for us to leave the house.

I probably should have enjoyed that time because the rest of the day pretty much sucked.

I had to go grocery shopping alone, something we usually do together in the evenings or on the weekends but this month is anything but usual. I really wasn’t looking forward to it, not in the least. In fact, you’d be safe in thinking I really hated the thought of going today.

Now when I shop alone, I tend to buy two of everything (that is, if it’s something I already don’t normally buy ten or twelve of, like Dannon Lite & Fit vanilla yogurt cups) but my plan is to only use one shopping cart. I don’t know what my aversion to multiple carts is, but there it is anyway.

And so, imagine if you will a single shopping cart literally overflowing with stuff, packages of fresh cranberries mashed up against Snuggle dryer sheets, organic grain-fed, cage-free eggs crammed next to extra large, heavy bottles of V-8 juice, fresh diced, syrupy mango chunks cavorting with bottles of Bean-o, all jammed tightly together like white on rice and all bought with the intent of perhaps never having to grocery shop by myself ever again.

Yeah, my mind sometimes works in odd ways like that.

So as I was trying to steer my over-stuffed and very top-heavy cart to the end of a long line of people waiting to be rung up and checked out, a manager guided me and my cart to a line manned by a young male cashier who had just placed a ‘closed’ sign at the end of his conveyor belt. That was the first time I felt daggers coming from his eyes.

I was two-thirds the way finished with emptying my cart and waiting for the cashier to move the conveyor belt so I could continue when I thought I saw him intentionally rip a hole in the plastic bag he was loading. He didn’t seem to be bothered in the least that I was standing there with an oversized bag of grapes in one hand, a 12-pak of double roll toilet paper under an arm and balancing three boxes of vanilla soymilk in the other hand, waiting for him to move the frickin’ belt, watching him literally throw cans of tomato sauce and beans into a bag and then deliberately punch a hole though the bottom of it before swinging it into an empty waiting shopping cart. The swinging momentum was the only thing that kept everything in the bag and he did it over and over again.

My mind kept telling me he really wasn’t doing this; that he really wasn’t intentionally ripping holes in the bottoms of the bags with his fingers, knowing that the weight of the items in the bag would then split the whole bag wide open; that I wasn’t really seeing what I was. And my eyes kept registering that this was a very, VERY angry young man who was taking his frustration of having to ring up and bag an extra large grocery order out on me. And my watch kept reminding me that I really, REALLY didn’t want to be grocery shopping at all today and things would be better once I just got home. So I kept my mouth shut and told myself it wouldn’t, no, it couldn’t be as bad as it all looked.

But don’t you know it just had to be?

I’m here to tell you that in no known universe or dimension are fifteen boxes of soymilk meant to be crammed into one thin plastic bag, nor are a dozen medium cans of tomato sauce and two dozen cans of kidney beans meant to share the same space. That pair of hot-house tomatoes I lovingly selected from the produce department? Yeah, well, I’m sure the tomato sauce in the cans have more body after discovering where the cashier put those tomatoes . . . under the 200 fluid ounce bottle of Tide detergent. The grapes thoughtfully bought for the raccoons? Might as well open them a bottle of wine because the grapes were completely smashed into pulp (it looks like he might have squeezed them hard at some point).

Out in the parking lot, all but two plastic bags ripped the rest of the way open as I tried getting them loaded into the trunk of the car. At the rate I was going, picking up can after can and box and bottle one after the other out of the bottom of the shopping cart and off the parking lot asphalt, I figured I might as well of had a dump truck drop a pile of groceries in the car for as bad as it looked. Again, I questioned stopping and going back into the store to look for a manager to complain but honestly, I just wanted to get away from this place and get home.

Back at home and unloading the trunk, normally about a two to three minute job, took twenty minutes. Yet again, I considered calling the store manager and complaining but I didn’t for reasons that I still don’t understand. I guess I just felt helpless from the get-go, of being directed to go where I wasn’t wanted from the start. It was my own fault I let it go on as long as I did and in thinking that, the rest of my day slid downhill.

After picking up WS from work almost two hours later than was originally planned due to his ever-increasing emergency meetings, I told him my grocery tale of woe and headed for a local restaurant because the very last thing I wanted to do was go home, look at all that dented and mashed food and make dinner. The restaurant near our house is one with fairly good food but who’s service runs hot or cold. The last two times we’ve visited, we’ve ended up walking out without paying for dinners we didn’t order.

Tonight’s experience wasn’t any different and again, we walked out still hungry when after a forty minute wait, we were presented with something we wouldn’t have ordered if we had had guns held to our heads. As I told the manager (because I wasn’t going to let this round go without complaining), we’ve had nothing but bad service the last few times we’ve come but it’s no one’s fault but our own in trying to give them another shot. It’ll be a long time, if ever, that we’ll be back. Sorry Mcmenamins, but you don’t get any more of our money.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the grocery store though if I really wanted to spend more money and burn more gas I could go to another location, but if you happen to live locally and visit the Fred Meyer store on 164th and McGillivray in Vancouver, you better hope you don’t get stuck with a young cashier named Blaine or you might end up feeling as sorry as I did today.

November 12, 2007

It’s nearing mid November and the east winds and fall rains have finally arrived for good. Its trash day today and vehicles driving up and down the street have to dodge rolling trash cans and tumbling recycle bins left and right. The sad thing about this weekly autumn/winter phenomenon is that more than half the homes with wandering garbage cans have at least one person at home at the time. There’s really no excuse for letting the bins and cans blow around up and down the entire length of the neighborhood for hours on end other than sheer laziness. Maybe those soap operas are too riveting. Maybe their TVs and iPods are turned up too loud to hear the banging noises. Maybe they just don’t give a rat’s ass. That’s the one I’m betting on because I know most of these people and they think that way about everything.

With the wind, hopefully will go the rest of the leaves to where most of the trash cans are at the moment – down at the west end of the street. I made some decent strides toward vacuuming as much of the thick matted piles from our trees (and The Wall Streets next door) as I could over the past few days with WS’ help and completely filled the yard debris bin with shredded leaves. WS is still in the midst of an MS thing, still needs to use his cane and I still have to drive him to and from work everyday. Everything else I have to do alone for the most part or cut any outing we might attempt together painfully short, and if this sounds like I’m whining, you’d be right.

At no other time do I ever feel so insignificant and small, so helpless, so alone, so isolated and so guilty than when he’s having an exacerbation. It’s all about caring for him and his MS, all about the MS in general because it quite literally affects every.single.thing. in day-to-day living.

When do I get any attention? Well, buck up sunshine. I don’t get any attention nor should I, especially during spells like this and that’s the reason for the near overwhelming guilt. This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of marriage that no one expects they will have to actually go through. Oh, you’ve got a cold or the flu this week? Poor baby, get some rest. Oh, you’ve got something more serious? Hmm, isn’t that against the rules or something? This is where some people embrace that throw away society we’ll all had a hand in building and they find a new spouse, one’s whose whole and sound and hopefully won’t do the same when your health fails.

But on the good news front, WS finished his NaNo 50,000 word novel last night, with lots of November left over, and he’s got a week’s vacation coming up next week. We’re both planning on going to next weekend’s OryCon, Oregon’s Science Fiction Convention – the same one I attended last year and came away so energized about my future in writing, but we’re going to have to take it one day at a time leading up to Friday’s opening with how WS feels and whether he can walk okay. It’s a very crowded, cramped place and he hates crowds with a passion already. With walking issues already a factor, you can imagine what a worrisome nightmare it could and probably will be for both of us.

Well, there goes the long school bus barreling down the street like it does every single day and there goes The Howler Monkey’s flattened trash can lid flying up onto our lawn. I guess I ought to go fish that out and walk it back across the street. Maybe I’ll feel creative and lay it on the hood of her big SUV. Think she’ll notice it later this afternoon when she peels out of her driveway (which by the way, she does while ignoring her own toppled trash cans lying in the middle of the road)? Me neither.

November 13, 2007

Once again, I pissed off someone near me today. No, it wasn’t WS or a friend (at least I hope I didn’t though I think I’m no longer on a certain email list for some reason so maybe). It was someone I was standing next to in line at Office Max, someone I didn’t know but invited me into the conversation. Kind of. Well, it was implied that I was being invited into the conversation. And since when don’t I look for reasons to talk to complete strangers anyway? Yeah, well . . .

I was standing in line at Office Max, buying stuff I really didn’t need but I love office supplies with every fiber of my being which may prove why I deserve to be a writer, or maybe a teacher but we all know how much I hate kids so that can’t be right, but strangely that does play into the story of what happened today.

I was standing in line and the woman next to me, the one having her ten-percent post consumer recycled paper manila folders run up was talking to the cashier about how she was all about reducing the size of her carbon footprint on the planet and how she had changed all the light bulbs in her house to the curly low energy ones, how she was making it a point to drive her SUV more efficiently and her husband was considering buying a hybrid, and how she had had her entire house repainted last year using low emission chemical paint and on and on she went. “Good for you,” the cashier finally said when the woman stopped talking long enough to come up for air. And then the woman smiled a big, ol’ ‘ain’t I just the shit?’ and ‘I deserve a holiday named after me for single-handedly saving the planet’ grin.

Then she turned directly to me with that look on her face that said she was going to ask me . . . something. She might have meant to ask me what time it was, or what day it was, or what’s the secret ingredient in Twinkies for all I know, now, hours later after the incident. I knew she was going to ask me something and I was certain that something was going to be related to the conversation I was practically already a part of by simply standing next in line.

Then the cashier stopped and turned to me and that’s when I took what obviously, well, obviously to me anyway, was my cue to speak, to reply to the question that hadn’t been asked but was so implied, the question of what have I done to reduce my own carbon footprint upon this planet. And so I spoke and because lately, I’ve been all about editing words and keeping things short and sweet and to the point, I only said five words. But if you know me, you just know they had to be words I honestly can’t believe come out of my mouth sometimes. I looked at both of their expectant faces and said:

“I chose not to breed.”

The woman remained silent and her overly-botoxed face tried it’s best to crinkle up as she tried to comprehend what I had said, as if I was speaking Klingon. Then her mouth turned very decidedly downwards and she turned, snatched her bag of ‘green’ office supplies (which, by the way, was packed in an evil plastic bag), and left the store.

The cashier, on the other hand, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Good for you,” and rung up my stuff like she probably does dozens of times a day for dozens of customers to whom she may very well say, “Good for you” to each and every last one of them.

I’ll admit I felt a little bad afterward but a little good too. Finally, confirmation for making a choice that had just as much to do with wanting to help the planet back when it was less-than-popular to even think such a thing as not liking kids to begin with. I just hope that woman went out into the parking lot and hugged her SUV before driving home.

November 19, 2007

*Big breath of air*

WS and I went to Portland’s Science Fiction convention (called OryCon) over the weekend and it was tiring. It was very good in all things writer-ly because so much of the hourly lecture programs are about, for and led by published authors of all genres, not just science fiction stuff. Anyone who writes fiction or non-fiction would benefit and I think WS now understands why I came back from attending this convention last year babbling for months on its merits. Simply put, the convention rocks and you can not beat the price of admission – Three days: Twenty five bucks (if paid before Dec 1st; Forty-five to fifty-five bucks if paid closer to the weekend of the event).

Wisely, I purchased this year’s admission on the final day of last year’s convention and hoped I’d still be around to be able to enjoy the event. I also bought an admission for WS which I figured would be taking a huge chance that he’d want to attend at all and/or that he’d be upright and be able to attend at all.

Part of WS attending this year is the reason I feel so tired and a little out of sorts today. As you may have guessed, I worry more about WS than anything else period. To be more specific in relation to this past weekend, I worried if his latest MS flare up would allow him the ability to stand upright and walk. There’s a lot of walking at OryCon because nearly every hour, the lecture programming changes. A lecture in one room will be followed by a different lecture an hour later, and usually, the lecture I want to attend next is in a completely different room, often up one or two floors of the hotel that hosts the event. Have I mentioned yet the elevators barely work? Yeah, it’s the same as last year. Just add ten minutes to the commute time of one lecture to the next anytime elevators are involved. Thankfully, the escalators work and work exceptionally well. Unfortunately, there are only escalators for two of the four most used floors.

But WS’ MS cooperated well enough he didn’t even need his cane all weekend and today, he’s still upright with balance only being a tiny issue here and there.

Over the weekend, I also worried about him getting in a funk or getting angry about something, anything, imagined or not and wanting to go home or sit somewhere and sulk because that’s his usual personality but none of those things happened either. He was wonderful and I think, had a good, positive experience.

So did I worry needlessly? Are you kidding? The moment I decide that’s the case will be, has always been, the exact moment everything falls apart. So I worried every waking moment and that I have found, is tiring.

But back to the great weekend: While I wasn’t as outgoing, (read: extroverted) as I normally am because I didn’t want to do or say anything too gregariously or try to introduce WS to anyone because all those things tend to embarrass and/or piss off WS, I still participated in the two late-night open read sessions (of which rock my world personally) and asked a well thought out question here and there at a couple of lectures. And once again, I was struck with the discovery that there is such a tremendous wealth of knowledge to be absorbed at these things. There are so many intelligent people there, both lecturers and attendees. I get warm fuzzy feelings just thinking about being in the same room with some of them.

On the other hand, there are a few crappy lecturers and I honestly think I can do a better job. I might be fooling myself here but I don’t think so. If the creators of OryCon were ever to approach me to sit on a lecture panel, I’d jump at the chance, even more so if I actually knew anything about what the session was about.

But then again, there are also so many geek girls and guys who sit in the audience and make some lectures almost painful to endure (emitted body sounds and smells, speech limitations, socialization skills or extreme lack thereof, etc.) that I’d need to work on my personal ability to handle the like. I don’t wrinkle up my nose anymore, haven’t for years, when talking or dealing with these kinds of people and I am usually able to graciously extricate myself (and WS) from conversations involving them, but what does one say when, for example, the Amazonian Queen of Girl Geeks, yes, the one who puts all displayers of Plumber’s Crack for all past generations to shame, commandeers every lecture, every conversation, every topic toward some trivial, and often non-related, thing that once happened to her and is more than willing to expound the importance of said thing for the entire hour, no, the entire day without the slightest apparent inkling that she is boring everyone to tears around her AND eating up lecture time? How impolite would it be to put up a hand and attempt to interrupt to ask that she kindly shut the hell up? She’s an outcast like most of the rest of who attend these things but why make oneself an outcast amongst outcasts by being rude?

Or what does one say to the woman sitting directly behind you in a serious writing lecture, who is noisily shoving into her face a burrito that reeks of the vilest, foul smells one can imagine? Or the “Powder Puff” women who caused me to have an asthma attack and within the first ten minutes of a lecture that I really needed to attend, to leave to stand in the hall sucking on an inhaler and cough to clear my lungs?

Or does it just mean such a person might find more tolerance and camaraderie not with who I consider the intellectual bunch on the writer’s panels but in the oddness that comes with the anti-social Goth/Japanese Anime/Furry/My-Pirate/Historical-Costume-Is-Better-Than-Yours bunch who hang out in the back of the lecture rooms or after hours at the various hotel room parties where Tiki bars are set up, hallway mattress surfing, Political and religious debates, topless dancing, pixie-stick/NOS/same sex/phone video sharing and other unmentionable things take place? WS is anti-social in a similar way as many of these people. None of them really like anyone but they have chosen to let a few in, formed cliques and shun the rest of the world. Can a singular person be a clique? I don’t think so but what if they expect their significant other to be a member too? I think I’d make a sucky member and would be more apt to want to be part of the rebellion clique, you know, the people who stand in front of military tanks or set Safeway’s live lobsters loose.

Anyway, I’ve gone off on a tangent (No! Ya think?). I had a blast over the weekend at OryCon; probably could have had even more fun if I chose to, even though there’d be the chance I’d piss someone off or worse, look like a stalker or something. On the last day of the event, we bought our tickets for next year’s convention, OryCon 30. WS says he felt fully re-immersed in the writing world he had fallen away from due to job changes and he seems to be excited about the prospect of writing again.

When we came home after spending one night there at the convention hotel, The Queen had not eaten The Boy, the Earl of Orange hadn’t ripped up the window blinds too badly and the place generally felt like the warm cozy resort we left it as. WS is on vacation all this week and so what better day to discover our heater isn’t working and some of our new landscaping lights have gone out? Sounds like another great opportunity to rant write to me!

November 21, 2007

Because of the dry weather our area will be experiencing through Sunday, the holiday season has officially begun here at Casa Blogeois, and that means the Christmas light and tree assembly has begun. Yes, it’s early. Yes, I suspect no one will suffer frostbite this year either. That’s all I’m going to say about that today.

Later this afternoon, plans were to make a South Beach diet pumpkin pie. A local Wild Oats store had both whole wheat phylo dough and real whole wheat (not icky, nutritionally-poor enriched whole wheat) pie crusts. When that pie will be made tomorrow morning, no sugar will be used in the pie filling and limited Splenda will be used (because I’m a little allergic to it I’ve discovered). Whipped egg whites with a smidge of double strength vanilla flavoring will be used as the whipped topping (this is delicious, btw) in lieu of those supposed fat-free, sugar-free frozen toppings which is all fine and good if you don’t mind all the other crap coursing through your arteries like Acesulfame K, the chemical sweetener that was pushed onto the market by the FDA who repeatedly has admitted it was inadequately tested. Ace K, as we call it here, has been shown to cause cancer more readily in humans than aspartame and saccharin combined, and the bonus tip we’ve found is that it makes WS faint, as in literally fall down and lose consciousness. Yeah, we tend to stay away from that shit whenever possible.

Tomorrow’s menu includes turkey breast, fresh green beans with ham bits, cauliflower mashed ‘potatoes’, WS’ famous cheese spread on whole grain crackers and rolls, Soy egg nog (excellent!), orange cranberry compote and pumpkin pie. I’ve been craving pumpkin anything lately. The couple of baked custard pumpkins I made earlier this month did absolutely nothing to whet my appetite. Luckily, I found cans of plain pumpkin filling without added sugar in a fast-dwindling section of our local grocery store. It would seem more people this year are trying to enjoy tomorrow’s holiday without feeding the sugar addiction than ever before. Good for them!

This evening, while WS was assembling the big-ass tree for the foyer, a family of four raccoons, a mother and her three babies/young teenagers, came and ate Limpy’s food right outside the glass front door while we stood there and watched. Two of the littler raccoons were too spooked by us but the bigger of the three and the mother sat right there, looking up at us and wolfed down his food. Oh well. It’s expected to be about twenty-eight degrees F. here tonight. As long as their bellies are full, they’ll create enough body heat to keep themselves alive. Wild animals that can survive below freezing temperatures night after night (or day after day in colder climates) have always impressed me.

And finally, tonight marks my twenty-eighth anniversary of leaving a rotten marriage and is the cusp of me and WS’ eighteenth anniversary. Those were a scary ten years alone for me but I wouldn’t change an ounce of those times for anything in the world. They made me who I am today and steered me in WS’ direction. Happy almost anniversary, WS. Wanna sign up for another eighteen?

November 22, 2007

I got out of bed in a great mood this morning, which is rare because I don’t really like getting up in the morning at all. Just not a morning person I guess. But today was different and I had a pie to bake. WS already had peppermint coffee brewing in the French Press, already had pets fed and was starting his own portion of the cooking for the day.

Then our microwave died.

But we weren’t fazed in the least. In fact, we discussed whether we really wanted to replace it at all. Since going on the South Beach diet, we only use it to steam the occasionally vegetable, opting rather to sauté them on the stove, or reheat the occasional leftover, but we rarely even have those anymore either. Basically, the microwave is mostly ignored and Gawd knows we certainly could use the extra space in the kitchen!

Half an hour later, we discovered that sometime over the course of the last few months, our toaster had died too.

But again, we weren’t fazed in the least. Bread isn’t something we eat too much of anymore and gladly so since it sticks to our ribs and stomach and hips and butt and then there was the fact that our toaster was originally a gift and a cheap one at that. If we wanted a new one, we could certainly afford a nicer one.

A while later, after we were lamenting a bit over how odd it is that electric things seem to die around the holidays here (the heater repair bill earlier this week cost us $350 for a new controller board which replaced the original eight-year old one that had cracked or something), WS discovered our food processor was dead and that’s when he brilliantly discovered it wasn’t the food processor or the toaster or even the microwave that all had given up the ghost today, the one day we’d need all of these things. It wasn’t even the outlet that all these things were plugged into and which we thought was the problem initially. A circuit breaker had tripped somehow and after resetting it, all was well.

I was worried for a good hour or two about how that could have happened. We had extra wiring and circuit breakers installed when we were building the house to keep such things from happening, having learned that lesson from The Pit, the rental house we used to live in where you couldn’t use a blow dryer while thinking about plugging something else in elsewhere without blowing the circuit for the entire back half of the house.

After going through everything that might have been the cause for our kitchen adventure earlier, WS has me convinced that occasionally, surges just happen and trip the breaker. It’s never happened before here but you know me, I’ll keep my eye out for any other possible culprit.

Dinner went off without a hitch after that (okay, the cauliflower ‘potatoes’ were a little softer than I would have liked – they were still delicious!) and later, I spend a couple of hours working on the Christmas tree in our entryway. I even kept to my vow of organizing and de-cluttering by throwing out ancient broken and ugly decorations that I’ve hauled around with me for the past twenty some years. Sure, our garbage pick up next week will be bigger than usual and cost a little more, but man, think of the extra storage space we’ll have. It almost makes me misty-eyed to think about that anymore! And I can’t believe what bad taste I once had in Christmas tree decorations. NO ONE needs neon pink and mint green crocheted ornaments. And that miniature town I made from rough hewn scraps of mildew-y wood and painted with Sharpie permanent markers? Ugh! Good riddance!

WS is being a really nice guy right now and vacuuming pounds of glitter off the floors. I’ve decided this year to use ribbon on the tree that I bought nearly ten years ago; ribbon I’ve never taken off the spool because it’s the most heavily glittered thing I’ve ever seen. Oh, it’s beautiful, all laser cut out of heavy brocade something or other, but I honestly don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. I remember that it was fairly expensive stuff but I think somewhere along the line I decided I didn’t want to make that big of a mess by using it.

Ha! Holiday decorating is always a mess around here and regarding this ribbon, I need to either shit or get off the pot. I’ll decide after the holidays whether it was worth the trouble using it and if so, I’ll make just as big a mess rolling it back onto its spools before packing it back away for next year. If not, it’ll go into the trash with anything else deemed too much trouble. (I’m already thinking it’s not going to be worth the trouble of using it again. If I know anything it’s that blowing glitter out of my sinuses months after the holidays are over with isn’t fun in the least.)

Well, tomorrow’s the big shopping day and the day we usually don’t do any shopping at all because of the crowds. We’ve got a day or two of nice weather left here and we’re going to use it to put holiday lights up. We won’t turn them on until December 1st of course, and here in this neighborhood, it’s still fairly early to be thinking of such things. It’ll be interesting to see if anyone gives us flack for putting them up already. More than likely, we’ll be the only ones taking advantage of the dry weather; we usually are, but we’ll see. And we’ll see who waits until its raining and freezing out to put up theirs.

November 26, 2007

We got through Thanksgiving, the day after and the weekend after without any more electronics meltdowns. Christmas lights, front and back and on the house went up without a hitch. Cords are buried, wreaths and garland hung. The downstairs tree is finished (Only used six ornaments this year yet it looks full – how’d I do that? Ask me.), the mantel and buffet table is set and another bag of goodies is off to drop by the Salvation Army center.

We woke to icy weather, the third in as many nights. I slept poorly last nigh to say the least, my legs overly tired from climbing up and down ladders while decorating yesterday, my back tired from simply standing upright for too long. I was also dreading having to get up early to take WS to work should his legs not be cooperating enough yet to drive. But I lucked out. His walking has been steadily improving; the MS flare up abated enough to allow him to abandon his cane midway through last week, his legs ‘feel’ once more and so, he drove himself in. I’ve been given orders to get some rest.

If only it were that easy.

There’s the tree to put up in our bedroom, if we decide that’s to be done, and decorated – a four hour job in itself. The library is a disaster area with papers and notebooks everywhere in the aftermath of OryCon. Laundry I tried so gallantly to get through yesterday, beckons me still. And the treadmill, the thing I’ve ignored purposefully over the past three weeks of WS’ exacerbation, must be taken seriously again. After all, I have gained almost four pounds since Thanksgiving thanks in part; I’m sure, to that delicious, yet sugar-laden, Swedish Lingonberry sauce. I’m such a sucker for that stuff.

Downstairs, the drifts of glitter are almost under control. Another few vacuumings ought to take care of that; even less so if I change the central vac bag out in the garage, a terribly dusty twice a year job that just happens to coincide with the start of the holiday season.

And that’s when I realize something in our garage is emitting a gasoline smell. Hmm, the only things in there with gasoline in them are WS’ car and mine and WS’ car is gone. Damn, please don’t let my car, the one that’s been sitting clean and nicely covered and hooked to a battery charger since July, have started a gas leak.

November 28, 2007

Earlier this week I was whining to someone about the unlikelihood that we’d get snow here anytime soon. The weather people have been hinting at it for the higher elevations for more than a week and in fact, the snow level is 2000 feet or something like that for this evening. ‘Or something like that…’ is the key phase here because we here at the Blogeois compound sit between 160 and 210 feet above sea level. That’s two hundred ten feet, not two thousand feet, so you’ll understand my excitement when just about an hour ago, I went out to check on Limpy and found it snowing.

Okay, so it only lasted five minutes at the very most and calling it ‘snow’ would be using the loosest of terms. It was more raining than snowing yet the occasional flake did fall here and there. I stood in it like an idiot leering up at the sky and wished for more. Then it stopped. Snow in November, however brief, I’m still counting it. That doesn’t happen here often. I’m happy.

Another phrase that’s important to remember if you have chosen to continue reading is ‘it only lasted five minutes at the very most…’ Half an hour ago I received an email from MsNoManagementSkills. For all the exclamation points she used in it, I can practically hear her squealing from here:

“OMG!!! It’s SNOWING!! This isn’t good!!! [DorkMaster] has a job interview tomorrow morning! Pray we aren’t snowed in by then!!!! OMG!!!”

Let me remind you MsNoManagementSkills and her video-game-lovin’-yet-still-unemployed husband DorkMaster live six miles from us at a lower elevation. May I also stress that no one’s been ‘snowed in’ in this town since the 1930’s. Almost instantly, I got emails from other idiots on the mailing list using Reply to All offering to send her snow shovels. One moron even included a grainy black and white photo of someone digging out from a thirteen foot snow drift, adding the caption, “If it’s snowing now, this is what you’ll doing early tomorrow morning.” Good grief!

Once again, MsNoManagementSkills makes a mountain out of a molehill, or a glacier out of a couple of flakes.

December 2, 2007

I’ve had nothing but problems today. Problems with waking up, problems remembering I was supposed to go somewhere today, problems with communicating. We didn’t get to bed until almost 4 a.m. this morning because WS has too much work to attempt to complete before 7 a.m. tomorrow morning. He was still sending out work slide email updates at nearly daybreak, and when he’s up and working late, I tend to sleep poorly if at all. I finally woke up at noon and promptly forgot an important meeting I told Kami I’d go to. My head is still fuzzy even now and I can’t for the life of me remember exactly when that meeting was supposed to take place. Sorry Kami. Please feel free to take a magic marker to my forehead if you don’t see me write it down next time.

And so, the day after WS and I had a big, long, drawn out discussion on how he should learn to stop ragging on himself so much for forgetting to do this and that, I spent this evening doing that myself.

It was supposed to snow yesterday. Let’s move along because there’s nothing to see here.

We were supposed to get terribly high winds today. Again, let’s move along. Nothing to see here. In fact, it’s as still as all the proverbial clichés outside. The wind is supposed to be stronger tomorrow and if that’s true, it ought to be twice as still as the dead here.

We have had buckets of rain though, the weather people say. I’ll give it a few days for the creek a block down starts to rise and eat up the daylight basement house lawns. We’ve lived here almost eight and a half years now and there’s still been no sign that the creek could allegedly flood bad enough to be able to ‘canoe down the middle of the existing street.’ If that ever happened, all those people in those expensive homes would be skeee-rooed but good, and while I don’t want to see that happen, I wouldn’t mind seeing the creek flood that badly just once.

Friday night’s big corporate dinner was interesting. I decided on the simple black t-shirt dress and thought I looked nice. I might as well have been wearing my Levis’ ManPants for how underdressed I was. The palatial fourth floor of the downtown hotel was a sea of sequins, beadwork and rich, skinny shimmer dotted with the occasional tuxedo and the oddball bowling shirt. Obviously, the words ‘semi-formal’ on the invitation meant something different than what we had thought. A lesson learned for next time; that being we probably won’t attend.

All next week is high tension and mega-high stress time around here due to big goings on at WS’ work place. Employees are visiting from overseas for a week or so, needing to be wined and dined (WS needs to play a part but I don’t get to attend), most with dietary and religious restrictions with the food here in America (so why are they coming? I ask), meetings from seven in the morning until ten or eleven at night due to the work schedules here and overseas. It ought to be a hoot.

Oh, and did I mention the measly year end bonuses have all but dried up this year? Yeah, I guess all those corporate executives needed to keep more for themselves to pay for the higher fuel costs for their private jets and limo SUVs. Of course it does cost a bit more to fly their teenage children to Fiji at this time of year to pick out their own Christmas present islands.

Well, back to the laundry coal mine and then to drop into bed. I’m kissing this boring, unproductive weekend goodbye.

December 4, 2007

We didn’t get the typhoon winds we were promised; the Oregon and Washington coasts got most of that, but we did discover that we are extremely well protected from any southerly winds. It must be that depression our development is nestled in. Thankfully, the depression isn’t that low or else we’d be flooded for certain. From the peek-a-boo view from our bedroom window, the daylight basement homes down the hill have half their backyards under water. I would have loved to have been able to afford one of those lots back when we were looking here to build a house but I’ll admit I’d be completely freaking out by now. Lucky for them, the water is starting to recede (the weather people say) but still, it’s scary looking.

I’d love to get photos of the high water but the fact is I’ve caught the first cold of the season for our household. I figure I probably picked it up at the fancy corporate dinner last Friday night where the live band was so loud, people were spitting mad with trying to have conversations with one another. I do remember feeling the occasional spray on my face from a few women practically screaming at each other nearby. My dinner plate probably got most of it and even though I only ate half of it, if that was the source, I got enough.

It started with a sore throat most of yesterday and developed into a raging one by late last night. This morning I could barely swallow sips of water and I had a killer headache. A Thera-Flu for Sore Throats and a Zicam Cold-Ease later, I feel woozy and only mildly headachy. My throat still feels a little swollen but at least I can drink stuff now. I slept fitfully until eleven this morning and on and off through the noon news after which I had a strange craving for chocolate. Luckily, I had a carton of chocolate soy milk in the cupboard.

And what goes with chocolate soy milk? Something salty, I always say and so I downed half a bag of pistachio nuts. I’m certain this isn’t good food to eat when one has a cold but I have to stay away from most of what’s in the refrigerator for the duration of this thing, the refrigerator items being mostly dairy products – low fat cheeses and yogurt cups. I don’t want my sinuses clogging up on top of how awful I already feel which then in turn kicks the asthma into high gear. WS is practically living at work all this week and since I don’t really have any way of getting a hold of him until next weekend, I don’t need to bring extra ill health down on myself. I did have four stalks of leafy celery though so lunch wasn’t a complete mess. I promise to eat better this evening and for the rest of the week.

So, in the meantime, I won’t be getting any writing done today like I had originally planned for this week. I just can’t concentrate (this entry alone took almost two hours to write). I’ll probably try to play a game or two, feed the pets early and then call it a night. I’m exhausted.

December 5, 2007

Ugh. I feel awful. My throat is swollen when the cold medicine has burned out of my body and when I’ve taken some, my nose now wants to pour clear mucus like water out of a glass. It’s gross but at least clear mucus is way much better than having a stuffy nose. A stuffy nose along with a bad cold for me more often than not means asthma attacks, bronchitis and hospital stays. I’m being good and staying far, far away from any dairy or anything with dairy in it to keep my sinuses as clear as possible. That’s not easy when there seems to be so much dairy in the house. There really isn’t THAT much but most of what we eat for snacks is dairy-based.

I’m hoping today was the worst and I’ll be on the mend tomorrow. I’ve got a hair appointment Friday. Because of the holidays, it’s an appointment that if I miss, I won’t be able to re-schedule it until well after the first of the year. With all I still have to attend this month, I can’t afford to miss the appointment. Needless to say, I’ll stay in bed until Friday and insist that I feel better by then. Oh yes, I can do that from time to time but don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t.

December 7, 2007

I spent the day mostly upright though my head really didn’t like that position. I vowed I would feel okay enough to go through with my hair appointment but near the end I was worried I was going to lose it. The experience was very overwhelming with too many people talking at once and too many people in seemingly too small a space. My head couldn’t keep up with everything going on at once and all I wanted to do was lie down some place dark and quiet. The best decision I made all day was to forego going out afterward to pick up dinner and bird food. The poor squirrels and Chick-a-Dees are just going to have to wait another few days. It can’t be helped.

This cold hasn’t moved to my chest and let’s all hope it doesn’t. If I can keep my sinuses clear I’ll be fine with lots of rest between now and next week when I simply must be well because of an important writer’s group event coming up that I helped set up. I’m sure I’ll be fine by then; I’m sure of it but I worry about my personal writing goal for the month. I hate missing goals; HATE it!

The only cohesive thought I’ve had all day, and a thought that has stayed with me all day was the one that came to me first thing this morning – that being the ridiculousness of how I came about getting this cold considering the event and comparing it to another one I attended three weeks ago, where if there was anywhere I would expect to come down with a cold it would have been there.

OryCon is a great event. I really enjoy it but quite honestly, it is attended by vast numbers of people who have absolutely no social skills to speak of. These geeks and nerds, many of whom are only comfortable with their own in their own safe worlds, fart, belch, pick their noses and eat their boogers in public. Truly, if there were anywhere I would think either WS or I would be most vulnerable to catch something, it would be there where we spent three very, very long days and one night mingling with those characters.

Yet, we both came from the event unscathed, as I did last year too as I recall now. Amazing. The geeks are alright by me I guess.

However, last week, a week ago to the day, I attended a fancy, almost over-the-top banquet at a snooty hotel in downtown Portland with a high ritz factor, for less than three hours and I came away with a horrible, awful cold/flu; the kind with fever, chills, aching joints and muscles, swollen glands and fever-blistered lips. WTF? How does something like this happen?

It goes to show that fancy people in fancy clothes* aren’t all that and a bag of chips! Sometimes they carry nasty germs too!

*unless I picked this thing up from our table’s waiter who looked suspiciously like someone who had read “Fight Club” one too many times and probably peed in the mashed potato tureen.

December 10, 2007

Blah, I’m still feeling a little under the weather. Part of that is knowing that I’ve lost a week, meaning I’ve lost a week’s worth of time in which I had slated many, many things to accomplish. My only recourse now is to buck up and tackle some of them regardless of how anyone feels about it. Last week I needed to make a definite decision on whether to get our bedroom holiday tree up and secondly, to get Christmas cards out into the mail. There were a couple of books I needed to get through and a story to finish up revising not to mention resubmitting a couple of stories that wandered back homeless.

There was dusting to do throughout the house and a vacuum bag to change and the ever-growing laundry pile, all of the pet bedding to wash and grime-coated wood blinds throughout the house to wipe down.

All things that were left waiting, all things that didn’t need to be done any time soon anyway unless I wanted to make myself look like a superheroine; the usual manifestation I tend to adopt. Yes, I do too much most of the time. Yes, I bring most of it onto myself. And yes, I still believe that the day I stop will be the day I die.

But that day isn’t today.

Today, our bedroom tree went up. It wasn’t as big of a job as I had feared. No, that part will be decorating it if only because all the boxes of decorations are under our bed covered in what is easily an inch of dust. It’s that dust I fear, or more accurately, my amazingly still clear lungs fear for this is the turning point of when that dust can carry this cold I’m still suffering with deep into my chest if I let it happen.

But I can’t run around fearing this thing or that. I won’t. Time to don the superheroine cape and get that vacuum cleaner bag changed which ought to in turn change everything for the better.

Or at least that’s what all good superheroines believe.

December 12, 2007

Somehow it comes as no surprise to us that WS won’t be getting that nice fat raise he was promised back in February for taking on the enormous extra work load and different job position that left us both feeling he was using this place more as a motel than a home. His boss, who by the way is spending a month overseas, has been hinting at significantly reduced bonuses for weeks. Now it seems the yearly performance raises have been chopped into bits too.

Nor does it surprise me that WS has finally acknowledged that starting back in February, he left a mountain of things unattended to, unfixed, unfinished or un-begun in the first place, most of which I was either woefully unaware of or unable to handle alone.

So, during this small slice of time, I plan to take advantage of the fact that WS currently feels his job and more specifically, his boss needs to be a little more sympathetic to his well being for once by allowing him to cut back a little on the long hours in order to re-establish a life outside of the office. Already I’ve caught myself starting each sentence with, “Back in March or April…” and ending every conversation with, “It’s just another thing that’s been waiting for you.” Annoying and trust me, I’m annoyed with it too.

We all know this chapter that I’ve named “Son of The Return of WS” won’t last long (never has in the past) but let’s run with it while we’ve got the chance, shall we?

Last week, after listening to him tell me repeatedly for two weeks prior he’d have to cancel his hair appointment, he went ahead and stuck to the original appointment time (and only had to drop into the office, located just down the street, for a few minutes afterward). Last weekend, I gave him several printouts of short stories that I had kept around since last June specifically for him to read and I made sure he read them. Monday night we decorated the nine-foot tree in our bedroom in under four hours. I deferred to him as head decorator for once. Gorgeous results! Yesterday morning, he mailed off our home security permit bill, which was only a month late I believe. Last night, we had an honest-to-goodness dinner together during normal dinner hours, the least of which excited me to no end was that he didn’t bring his work laptop to the table with him. Unfortunately, the charts, graphs and emails created until well past midnight still accompany us in bed every night, but . . . baby steps.

Next week, he’s getting a growing mole looked at that I mentioned a couple of months ago should be investigated. Tonight, Christmas cards will be completed and mailed off and that ought to leave me with only a couple of dozen other things to bring to his otherwise job-occupied attention. A couple of those things are time-critical, as he and the corporate world would say; the rest can wait until he deems it’s time to take another breather from work.

For the first time since, oh, last summer, I finally feel accomplished.

December 15, 2007

Big goings on around here today; one exciting, one I’m not going to get depressed over I swear!

We’re having a writer’s meeting here this evening and a big local author will be attending. My biggest fear? Originally it was trying to not go all FanBoy over it. Now it’s wondering if my voice will hold out. My cold is all but gone but my throat gets all scratchy every time I speak more than five words it seems. I’m sure that’ll be a blessing to some.

The other goings on: The Wall Streets are moving out in a couple of weeks. No big deal. Someone else every bit as annoying will move in . . . except it’ll be worse because The Wall Streets aren’t selling their house: They are going to rent it out.

Excuse my language but great. Just fucking great.

First off, renters in our area have been notoriously bad behaved.

Second off, home values in our area have been dropping like a rock in the past month (ours is down 7K within the last 30 days) and having a rental house next door will certainly not improve things. The Wall Streets already helped to screw that up by refusing to care for their yard over the past year. Wild Blackberry bushes are beginning to take over their side front yard. This alone is supposed to be illegal according to our town laws. Too bad this area is just a quarter mile shy of city limits.

Thirdly and maybe more to our advantage, home rentals are down because rent costs around here have been traditionally high. On the other hand, The Wall Streets are moving back to California to live in his parent’s huge home on acreage completely rent-free. In renting out their house here, they are going to only need to charge the bare minimum mortgage payment for rent, anywhere from $1300 to $2000 a month; an amount that may sound high but is about the average for this area and certainly low for anyone moving up from California (where home rentals go for much more). Basically speaking, practically anyone could rent this place. I’m reminded how long it’s been since a new, illegal daycare center’s been set up nearby, not to mention a new drug lab.

I tried to keep an upbeat attitude when Mr. Wall Street was telling me all this late last night. I wanted to tell him it’s been real and it’s been fun but it hasn’t been real fun having them live next door, but I didn’t. However, I did ask that he leave his forwarding address with us and several of the other neighbors before they moved on. That way, when it’s decided the renters, who will likely be less than ideal, need to be killed, one of us can let The Wall Streets know that their rent check will be late in arriving.

Just call me a warm, caring, people-person that way.

December 17, 2007

More on The Wall Streets moving out soon:

Good grief! Now they’ve got a tacky, cardboard box sign blocking the sidewalk that advertises their green hot tub for sale. Green as in not the color of the fiberglass but in the condition they allowed it to deteriorate into.

Just because, let’s recap their residence next door, shall we?

As of this month, they have lived in the house two years. They originally purchased the house using ‘interesting’ mortgage financing which is biting them in the ass now, due in part because of Mrs. Wall Street’s refusal to go back to work, but hey, she’s just sticking to her part of the deal – the deal wherein Mr. Wall Street would get his law degree and she would stay home and burst forth many, many children. It’s not her fault that he couldn’t pass the bar exam, even if she did jump the gun just a little and he couldn’t concentrate with screaming babies. That was the deal, and one she proclaims over and over again that she stuck to.

They also bought this house because it had a firepit, a hot tub, an extra large multi-level wood deck, lush planted flower beds, and a severely sloped backyard, all of which they instantly decided they hated once they were in the house.

Within weeks, they had dug up and removed the firepit, not a bad decision I felt as it was mere feet from our shared wooden fence, and laid plans for cutting up the deck, removal of the flower beds and hot tub, filling in the sloped backyard, and pouring a cement ‘race track’ in the 30 foot by 60 foot space for the kids motorized vehicles.

In reality, they dug up most of the flower beds and left them as holes sprinkled with mounds of mud while letting others go wild with blackberry vines. They laid sod over the firepit…only to let that grass die and go to weed, and allowed part of their fence on the east side to fall apart. The plans for the hot tub removal were forgotten. It’s now half-filled with green algae sludge. The wood deck was painted bright red a year ago and has been peeling and fading ever since. Let’s not forget part of it is still etched with permanent children’s chalk courtesy of Mrs. Wall Street during one of her fits of rage. At least they didn’t start cutting up the deck like he promised.

At last look inside the house, they might have spent some time and effort repainting the grossly food-splattered walls (literally big chunks of food cling dried on the old painted drywall) and cleaning the dog and child-barf laden white carpet, the carpet they insisted the old owners install before buying the house. No, there are no plans to repaint, re-carpet, re-plant anything. The place goes ‘as is’ Mr. Wall Street says. One has to wonder if the only reason they bought the place, a place that was advertised with so many extra niceties, was to trash it.

So now it’s going up for rent. Who in their right mind would rent out this place, this trashed, filthy dive, for $1500 a month?

Don’t answer that. I think we all know who. I weep for the future.

December 21, 2007

Happy Solstice day. It’s hard to believe it’s only now turned to winter from fall just as it’s hard to believe Christmas is only a few days away. Time is rushing by so fast anymore for me.

After a week of appointments, unexpected luncheons, unanticipated trips back and forth across town, I think we’re pretty much settled in for the rest of the year. Maybe one more grocery trip to round out the veggies but only if we really need them. After nearly a year of living on the South Beach diet and both of us dropping a good amount of weight, the past couple of days filled with cake and cookies have left us feeling tired, rung out and overly cranky. It’s the sugar and enriched (which means over-processed and non-nutritional) white flour and our willingness to eat the stuff at those parties that is all to blame. I’m officially going to name this year’s holiday season “The Year of Remembering” which will refer to remembering all the crap we used to eat and how terrible we used to feel – except we didn’t realize how bad we felt because that’s how we felt all the time.

To kick off the naming ceremony, I tossed the remaining half of a chocolate fudge cake in the trash, and it felt WONDERFUL. Highly recommended.

We’ve heard some good news and some bad news regarding WS’ job. Yes, a year-end bonus is coming through for all employees, although small and not to be given until the very last day of the year this year for unknown reasons (I think it’s so the company can make an extra couple of weeks worth of interest on the money and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that all the top level people got theirs a month ago). Still, we’re not complaining.

The bad news is that the company is cutting back yet again in WS’ division and will be selling off the building and property in our area. They have announced they will lease the building back from the new owners for (an amount of time WS doesn’t want me to post about.) People and jobs will be cut back; some jobs will be transitioned into work-from-home positions reporting to managers located hundreds if not thousands of miles away. Many will be let go or feel it’s time to leave.

The current job market in our area for WS’ expertise ranges from slightly below average to poor. The market here is flooded with people looking for work but companies don’t have the money to pay well. If you believe what the financial world is saying, recession is on the way. Things will not improve for a while.

There’s no word on how WS’ job will be affected as this is all too early to speculate about but we see the writing on the wall. While we have paid for a few events coming up after the first of the year, we’ll be back to clamping off the outward flow of money and living lean for the first time since…oh, last spring. The difference this coming year is that our future is at stake and we absolutely must reduce our debt. We do not have wiggle-room. We cannot fail.

Last spring we made good work of getting rid of some of our debt. But it didn’t last and we decided we really wanted furniture to sit on, book shelves that weren’t falling apart and clothes that fit our new, smaller bodies. We bought more books, I discovered shoes and girly things and we had numerous electronics meltdowns. Money-wise, we went off on a tear and now, now it’s nearing time to stop.

It’s weird, but I’ve come to like the times of saving more and spending less. We both came from humble beginnings and saw so many of our friends and in some cases, members of our own families beg for handouts and bail outs only to then be saddled with the livelong obligation to repay, repay, REPAY regardless of how long the actual debt had been paid back. Both of our families were like that: Take, take, guilt-trip, guilt-trip, rinse, repeat over and over again with neither side actually learning anything through the experience.

Both of us decided, separately, before we even knew each other that that was not how we were going to live our lives. If we get ourselves into financial trouble, we’ll get ourselves out of it without asking or begging for help. It’s worked every time and it’ll work again.

What’s different this time around is we’ve actually learned something different and it relates to our year of losing weight. Neither one of us believed we could do that and be as successful as we have been on the South Beach diet. But here we are, WS some 70 pounds lighter with not much further to go, me down thirty five pounds with thirty more to go.

Losing weight proved to us we can do what we set our minds to if we really want to and especially so, if we see problems on the road ahead. Our weights were starting to affect our health. Similarly, our debt weight combined with the thought of a possible job loss is affecting our financial health. Life will be a whole lot less ‘interesting’ and scary if we don’t have as much of that spare tire debt hanging around our middles.

We have so much here, much more in the way of material things that I ever thought I’d own, but the thing is, we really don’t own that much of it. It’s time to make all the stuff ours, not the various banks who are the real owners. It’s time to enjoy that stuff and stop buying more for those banks. It’s time to pay down, pay off and save something for ourselves for once. Just like we saved ourselves from weight-related health problems this year (and to continue to do from this time forward), it’s time to save ourselves from financial ruin.

More on this after the first of the year.

December 22, 2007

Inconsistency. I am so tired of it. That is all.

December 22, 2007 Part Two

I busted my ass on a story this week, one that won’t sell for some reason and said as though the three or four markets it’s been sent to ought to have snapped it up as if it were a lost Hemmingway. Jay Lake said he had once received twenty-three rejections on a single story that he felt from the start ought to have sold. This one of mine has a long way to go but yet, I’m still irritated. It’s been, what I consider, critiqued to death by my own personal vacuum; that being WS and the INK group, none of whom I trust as far as I could throw them. WS for his inconsistency in one critique and then another, Ris for her love of editing and deleting entire paragraphs not for the greater good but simply just because she loves doing that so much, and Kami for her flakiness and habit of latching onto whatever the last person to critique last said.

I write in a vacuum. I know this but am confused as to what to do about it. Online critique groups are worse than inconsistent with their critiques and are fraught with power struggles between participants. They also insist on weeks of critiquing other’s works long before one of your own can be reviewed. I can’t wait that long. I also don’t feel I have the skills necessary to critique someone else’s work. If I don’t know what I’m doing, how can I write well?

I don’t know but forcing me to critique someone else’s work isn’t going to help me now nor later. I’m not interested in anyone else’s work. I only want feedback on my own. And yes, I know that sounds selfish. I feel I deserve to be selfish. I am tired of giving to everyone else, all of whom take, take, take. I want it to be my turn now.

Fuck them. Fuck them all. Let them write for once and see how god damned hard it is. And god help them when they ask for my feedback.

Heh, this kind of thinking does not do me any good. I’m just tired, tired of inconsistency, tired of everything being such a god damned struggle, tired of never getting any credit. Tired, just tired. Death wouldn’t be so bad right about now.

December 25, 2007

The kitchen is clean again and our bellies are full. We stuck to our South Beach diet lifestyle today and even worked out together this morning. After a few frustrating days, today has been a breath of fresh air. It didn’t hurt that it snowed either.

The snow didn’t stick and only lasted on and off for about an hour. We’ve hoping for a little more later tonight but who knows. I’m good with what fell early this afternoon.

Santa (and others) brought lots of books, a new Scrabble game (our original one is so old, the box and game board are falling apart but amazingly, no letters are missing), a cool notepad and pens set (thanks Ris!! I LOVE the pen!), and several plates of cookies from neighbor kids. We unabashedly re-gifted the cookies because we didn’t want the temptation. Personally, I wasn’t so worried about gaining pounds or awakening the sugar addict within me but in arousing the zit monster. Yes, I have to say the best thing I got for Christmas this year is relatively clear skin.

A couple of months ago I realized I was allergic to talc powder, a staple in nearly every kind of makeup on the market (not to mention deodorant, lotions, soaps and some perfumes), and I posted about that here. A change in that department helped reduce the shear numbers of breakouts I was having but it didn’t stop them by any means. Finally, I took steps and found a product similar(and much, much cheaper) to that ProActiv stuff that is over-hyped on TV. Two weeks later and I’m nearly zit-free, a blessing really, and for the first time since oh, sixth grade some forty years later.

We “Christmas Story-ed” ourselves out today, fed Limpy ham and invited him inside for a bit to dry out and warm up, and are already looking forward to slowly, ever so slowly, returning the look of the house to one of winter calm and quiet without all the glam and glitter of the holidays.

We hope you all have had a good Christmas day and are planning a safe and happy New Year.

December 26, 2007

Happy Boxing Day or what’s left of it. Today I woke with the desire to start de-Christmas-fying the house, as WS put it. Hard to believe he’s a writer too, huh? But he’s nailed it right on the head. This year, unlike every year previous, we’re embracing winter after the holidays and decorating the house in colors of blue and silver, brown and white. We’ve got birch bark candles on the mantle, blue and white hydrangeas on the buffet table and glass bowls filled with white star candles. Red pillows have been replaced with ones of blue silk and we just might have the last of the glitter vacuumed up by this time next week.

What, you say? Too early to start taking Christmas things down? Well, maybe, but here’s the good part – we’re going out of town for New Year’s Eve (a first!) and personally, I’d like to return home to a house that doesn’t speak of the year past but invitingly looks forward to 2008.

I’m convinced 2008 will be a much more positive year than 2007 was, what with my writing progress, WS’ writing, having learned to enjoy our 2007 dietary changes and continued weight loss, and tackling our financial situation similarly. We’ve also both committed to embracing a more positive outlook (not to be confused with a rose-tinted glasses outlook). We’ll be spending more time re-discovering and enjoying the things we have here in lieu of giving into the desire to shop for more crap we don’t have room for and don’t need anyway.

That doesn’t mean I won’t still report on neighborly things and post updates as I receive them from MsNoManagementSkills (I’m half-expecting an end of year wrap-up letter as per her usual ‘Look-at-me, Woe-is-me’ style). In the coming days I’m planning on posting a Blogeois Year-In-Review Month-by-Month (lucky you!).

But in the meantime, how did your year fare? Looking forward to 2008, or will you be sorry to see 2007 go?

December 30, 2007

Blogeois.com: The year 2007 in review:

January: WS begins the year with a big MS exacerbation. Naturally, I saw this as license to whine, big time. January also saw us get a little snow and I got a tooth infection, I start organization madness per one of my goals for the year and we both begin the South Beach diet. But mostly, I whine.

February: We get visited by a tail-less raccoon, Limpy gets an outdoor heated box thanks to Kami and we go on a big writing conference trip to rub elbows with real authors. Wow, so that’s how pretentious they can get!

March: The death March of everything electronics begins, WS gets hit with another MS exacerbation, I try to speed up the candle burning process and fail (but only kind of), hilarity with insomnia continues, Cap’t Dan puts up a for sale sign and I start thinning out the backyard garden.

April: I get rid of an orange bathroom, give away most all non-South Beach diet food, do battle with the local incompetents at DMV, lose a beloved pet, feel responsible for the loss of someone famous and I write my first scary short story.

May: A clean backside, more writing, the unexpected loss of a second pet and the kind, gentle memorializing of the first by our vet.

June: Cap’t Dan takes his house off the market, I insult various neighbors, WS starts working a ridiculous number of hours, MsNoManagementSkills balloons to the size of our new furniture and while finishing a second short story, I discover my writing genre – Dark Fantasy. Say it isn’t true!

July: WS fulfills an eighteen-year old promise, we tile the garage and I lose thirty pounds to WS’ sixty. I write two short stories and whining seems to be at a minimum. Wait for it; it’ll return.

August: I start repainting the entire house, have more fun with electronics failures, learn about The Dimmers phone troubles, keep thinning out the garden and whine like there’s no tomorrow.

September: We have a wonderful Mt. Hood afternoon, the neighbors oddness continues, I learn black is not a good hair color for me, we build a new library and I say goodbye to ManPants™.

October: We welcome fall, curse at more electronics failures, WS has his third MS exacerbation this year, and after an eight year absence, I do Halloween.

November: NaNo novels finished in record time, I whine about doing too much alone and well, everything else too, we go to OryCon (it rocked our socks!) and we fill the house with the yearly glitter.

December: A few snow flakes fell here and there, I wear a dress (poorly) and get sick, we get serious about writing, staying on the South Beach diet, and stopping the silly spending, but not before one last blast – New Year’s Eve at Seattle’s Space Needle.

Personal highlights:

Put less than 50 miles on my car (in vowing to keep the mileage low).
I began writing short stories and jumped into submitting them for publication (nothing sold yet).
I turned 51.
I lost 30 pounds.
I learned how to dress like a woman.

Once again, thanks for reading. Here’s to hoping you and your loved ones have a safe and Happy New Year. See you in ’08.