Missing Moose

June 30, 2013

In the night, Sonny, who was sleeping beside me in the massive bed inside the pop-up, parked smack dab in the center of the pole barn, woke up with a start. She peered out of the screen to stare at the household items stacked up on the back wall to ask “What are those, where is my bed, where is my bed?” I gently laid her back down, told her it is alright and to go back to sleep. One more bizarre incident and she was out cold, not remembering a thing about them in the stark morning sunshine. Her parents and oldest sister, Carrie had warned me about Sonny’s kicking and twisting in the night but, either I didn’t feel it in my stupor of non-rest, or it never happened. I fussed about missing Moose, the pickles left out on the table, my tender feet, the fact that I was not sleeping, odd bumping noises in the pole barn, gossipy judgments about the guests, tallying the cost of my uneaten salad, worries about the dog keeping everyone up with his whining since he couldn’t come out and sleep next to the bed in the camper and other earth shattering fixations I cannot seem to recall.

We surprisingly had some dessert left over for breakfast. I startled myself by avoiding the loaded table. Anticipated the yummy build-your-own breakfast burritos and strong milky coffee. Swept through the pole barn, making many trips back and forth to the house. Not much of the food could be rescued since it had played hide and seek with our responsible adult crowd and sat out all night on the tables, exposed to the germ-cultivating air. Guests had scored their dishes, utensils and coolers and made off like bandits after the fireworks, leaving the clean-up for the late night sleepover guests.

The five of us sat with our steamy coffee mugs wrapped around our worked-to-the-bone fingers and laughed about antics during the party. I am so happy to recognize couples who work at making a good relationship happen, one for 32 years, the other for a mere ten.

Black trash bags lined-up for a free ride to my place in St Paul, where I scavenged the recyclables, tossed the “real” garbage in the can out back. Most likely become a bag lady in the future, tossing cans, glass, plastic bottles and such, to haul in a stolen shopping cart, to the recycle center for my pennies-per-pound rations. Just can’t stand to accept the recycling being thrown “away” so I insist on lugging it all the way home. Been practicing that addictive behavior for dozens of years.

Got word today that my daughter, along with the rest of the Excursion group, has made it to Thailand and are eating well, getting accustomed to the heavy heat and settling-into their routines in Phapang. I will eventually hear Taelor’s voice on the other end of my cell phone and remember just how much I miss her. Catches me off-guard every year. I will be organized with a list of things to discuss with her since we have very limited minutes to speak privately. My first personal letter went into her carry-on bag and another is waiting for pick-up in the mailbox on the front stoop. Takes approximately two weeks to arrive on the other side of the planet so I will communicate with her just a few times while she is there.

A long and lazy ride home without much going through my fatigued mind, Tyrus paced in the back seat, hot and tired as well. Too much playing with the Boxers and up late with the house guests, Moose was at the porch window and purring before I got the door unlocked. I was able to unload the vehicle and pet her in between each trip into the house.

Fireworks pop and Tyrus is getting anxious. Why aren’t felines bothered by the booming noise? Calm Forte disguised in cheese curds may work for the pup. An end result could be a gassy yet nervous dog or a gassy drugged calm dog. Stay-tuned tomorrow to see which companion pet I end up with tonight.

Sure sore-footed

June 29, 2013

At least my cat likes the wild rice salad I made for the party. I had to refrain from feeling disappointed that no one was dipping out of the formidable container that held my coveted scrumptious rice, nectarines, raspberries, plums, scallions, balsamic and olive oil dressing with a bit of honey. I had gotten the wild rice from my dad, who glommed onto it from a farmer, who happened to be a former grade school classmate, from northern Minnesota. Actually a very tasty grain and hardly the typical root-flavored wild rice. Most of the salads, with few remains, contained some sort of meat product and mayonnaise. Everyone raved about the animal protein edibles yet I could only look-on as I dived into my wild rice dish, potato as well as ambrosia salads and spinach dip with Hawaiian sweet bread. Dessert was cheese cake, accompanied by keep-me-awake-please coffee, which were delicious and efficient respectively.

Beasty BBQ sauce, a white topping and tart vinegar-based sauce were whipped up, house cleaned, bedding laundered and last-minute preparations for the fiesta took up most of the morning. A spattering of people drove up then a huge lag that made all of us shudder in bad karma, wondering just how many people would come to partake in the scads of food and insurmountable drink. Handsome hand-made corn toss boxes and throwing bags were set up on the expansive newly cut lawn. Tables, chairs and electrical cords distributed around the first pole barn room, for comfort. A make-shift stage graced the front area for the young talented and exuberant singers, who entertained far into the night.

It was a clash of age groups yet most managed to change clothes multiple times after dinner/supper, depending upon where you grew up. The few that stuck out were three teenage clingy athletic and agile girls who were asked quite a number of times in many different tones, if they weren’t cold? The skimpy swim bottoms didn’t seem to bother the men in the crowd, in fact, they probably frowned at the women telling the young pretty round-bottomed girls that they “made them feel cold just looking at them!” One super-sized woman clung to her sippy cup that contained Kentucky whiskey straight up. She refused to place it on the ground to toss the corn bags and would hurl them with indifference, more often than not, to land obediently on the box (that is a good thing, by the way, and wins precious points.)

Aside from corn toss, we delighted in a game of wiffle ball or bobbed in the swimming pool out back. Horse walks were encouraged for all of the kids though only one pony was ridden since the other three are not schooled in that entertainment. I was the sidelines cheerleader for the wiffle ball game though it was mostly due to inaccurate and constant hand gyrations to ward off the vicious mosquitoes. A spectacular fireworks show scoured the sky once we had our fill of the girls’ concert. Stories that didn’t fall into any particular category, save “Strange,” were told ‘round the campfire (to calm the children before bedtime?) over the crackling of marshmallows, singed on the fire, for s’more fixings. I passed on those girl scout delights since I was full to the brim from numerous Pale Ales and more chips than I could count.

We were in bed no later than 2:00am after line-dancing and sing-a-longs. Fourteen of us, at last count, slept in and around the house. Every imaginable spot was taken so the dogs, typically couch sleepers, could not find sanctuary. The coyotes howled in pleasure but dogs snoozed silently indoors.

Vehicle imposition

June 28, 2013

Wrench and screw drivers in hand, I surged forward with several choices to attempt to dismantle the security system at 7:00am. With the hood open, driver’s side door ajar and finagling around under the dash to find the valet button, I sighed in exasperation. In the end, that damn little magic button doesn’t exist. I was jabbing at an altogether different black button, without success. Pulled the cables off of the battery, though the alarm chose to defy me and engage anew when I reattached them. I worked at finding the fuse for the system. No luck. Followed the electrical cord but couldn’t detach it. Tried unlocking the driver, passenger, and back hatch doors to disengage the alarm. Nope. Engaged the key in the ignition and pushed the supposed valet button. Failed.

A disproportionately chubby, balding guy in a blue soiled top came to collect the vehicle in a significant truck with an enormously long trailer attached. He tested the battery for me to be sure it was still sufficiently charged and suggested it would take awhile before he got my locked-down car on the lift. My sweaty foot/calf lurched into the cab with Steve and we were on our way across the bridge. Before he could finish his sorry tale of getting evicted from his rental house of two years, losing well over $4500, we arrived at the Viper dealership. He seemed very discouraged to be losing my company and large, absorbing ears but I had to get a cup of coffee and run through the options for my well-secured car.

AAA cost me $69.95 for the year (much more cost effective than quotes of $92 and $147 from the tow companies) and another $125 and change for the alarm dismantling, new remote, and labor. My foot is quite sore from the tottering around and pressing the clutch far too many times. As I pull up to stop lights and signs, I pray, beg, plead that the light changes, and cars get out of the way in a hurry so I can eek my vehicle forward, in one fell swoop. I will be on my feet quite a bit in the next few days with outdoor festivities and maybe a dip in the pool. Then I can linger on the wall and bobble around versus putting so much pressure on the poor appendage. It looks good, yet is tender, and unwilling to take me on a brisk walk or slam dancing.

The cat will have to stay home alone. It will be lonely and upsetting perhaps, yet a friend, Sara will be stopping by a few times to check in on the little critter. Don’t tell anyone Tyrus and I will be away. Moose may not know any better so remind her when you come to call and we are indisposed.

Secret handshakes

June 27, 2013

Have you seen my transmitter? Broke down and contacted a few towing companies to get quotes for hauling my vehicle to the Viper alarm disengagement service across the bridge from me. One quote is $185 and I laughed at the absurdity of the 1.6 mile tow charge. Guess again, I was not born yesterday.

          Did end up finding several helpful hints on-line, once I bypassed the trademark sights. Will attempt to disarm the alarm by disconnecting the car battery, unlocking the car from the passenger side, searching high and low for the black “off” button “could be anywhere inside the car or under the hood” or removing the fuse. I could be a Viper-system-disarming-troubleshooter-expert-mechanic, by the time this is all said and done.

I feel loaded with sleepiness. The angst of working through the process of wanting and needing to leave the house, drive the car, walk the dog, pick up much needed household supplies and simply escape these four walls is enabling the prisoner to wallow.

I enjoyed the time with my friends this evening; serving tea, cookies and sticky black Scottie licorice candies while sorting out “who we are” for a few hours. I so missed the opportunity of hosting a club of girls as a child. Meeting in a tree house was out of the question but we did have fabulous snacks and lots of tall tales to share. Have yet to come up with a secret handshake. No badges required.

          Jon Jon, from upstairs, opened and closed the kitchen door numerous times, traipsing into the livingroom to ask me if my friends and I were talking and could she have some chips? Her mother yelled obscenities that boomeranged down the steps, around the corner and into the refrigerator when she found out Jon Jon had been in my house, Though JJ knew it was forbidden, asked me for a glass of juice. I suggested she ask her mother but she said she would be in “BIG problems” if I did. Jon Jon gulped the juice like a snake eating an engorged rat, declared she “had to go” and ran to use my bathroom with her little friend in tow. I am not certain why she prefers my bathroom, tromping in with her little flip flops on backwards. Her mother sprained her knee and is wearing a black brace with a hole in the center. I lent her a hot water bottle so she could alternate hot and cold per doctor’s orders. It slowed her down a bit so she couldn’t get after JJ and chase the little fuzz top out the back door and into the yard where she belonged.

JJ’s tall and wide-eyed wig-bearing friend saw Moose and said she had a cat but it died yesterday. In response to my inquiry she told me the cat “got sick one day then sicker and sicker and got up and died.” “How sad,” I murmured and she looked droopy and miserable.

The Neighborhood Watch meeting was held tonight, in conflict with my women’s group. The kind, mundane woman next door sent me the notes via email. Appears a group has been monitoring our house and suspects illicit dealings going on after dark. Of course, it isn’t happening at my door and yet, I am aware of the endless comings and goings. Mrs Kravitz declared a plastic package is being delivered on a nightly. News to me. Although I did note a man jumping over the gate in the driveway, nearly maiming himself on the inbound.

          So, I close with a song and dance, weary from doing absolutely nothing spectacular today.

Cleaning frenzy

June 26, 2013

It is so very hot, sweat is dripping off my shiny forehead and saturating my tank top while whacking the African rug with the whisk broom off the back wrought iron rail. Isn’t summer a blast. Hotter in the house so the cat is splayed across the wool rug in front of the oscillating fan. Tyrus has worn himself out barking through the slight slats in the fence at the neighbor’s ancient once Apricot Standard Poodle and Black Lab/Shepherd mix. I will attempt to walk him after dark so as not to alarm the neighborhood. He tends to meander in front of me, sniffing into the bushes and freaking people out with his sizeable body. Yes, if you missed that hint, I am walking now, sans crutches, for the most part. Got the thumbs up from the surgeon today. I had to ask him about Physical Therapy and failed to suggest I aim to drive as soon as I find my remote.

Yes, the car clicker has gone missing yet again. I swear it was on the livingroom table where I placed it next to the unremarkable “safe spot” by the ring of keys. Just disappeared into thin air. I searched my five pair of shorts pockets, every purse I used in the last few days, under rugs, scoured radiators top to bottom, flung around the recyclables, trash and behind picture frames leaning up against the walls, peered around stacks of books and items on the shelves. Hate to even suggest that the neighbor, who came to borrow my cell phone, would have picked it up but I am not above asking her tomorrow. Looked in the washer and dryer, under the stove and even pulled out the frig. Exasperated beyond belief.

YouTubed and Googled how to disengage a car alarm but the suggestions did not work. I was afraid to attempt the idea of “cutting the wire just an inch shy of the alarm.” Who knows what damage I could do. The Nissan dealer I phoned was not helpful yet I did try the key in the lock trick and will call him back tomorrow if need be. He wants me to have it towed several thousand miles. I kept at the search engine until I found a Viper dealer, left a desperate and deranged message on their voice mail. Hope they don’t think I am a nut case and leave me hanging.

I have a drove of women coming over tomorrow night for a celebratory gathering. Count on the ceiling and floor fans to cool us hot chicks down. Have to request one of my good pals to bring the beverages and cookies since god knows when I will be able to get in the car and drive away from my own home.

Nothing but fun and games on this end. Stay tuned.

Rite of passage

June 25, 2013

I adore a juicy story yet I don’t always have one in me. Where do they go, is it something that leaks out slowly, like a soft balloon or a fart that zips out without warning, after a big bean burrito?

Recently I was thinking about a medical bill that went array when I was in college. The insurance company refused to cover the ER incident and demanding letters from the hospital began to pile up. One would come on Monday and three on Thursday, by Saturday I was a wreck and sweated while going to the mailbox. I didn’t have the life experience to handle the stress, to be savvy enough to address the issue with the billing department nor struggle through the lengthy insurance policy, if I could even find the damned thing. The insurance and subsequent hospital representatives were theoretically   more available than they are now, but certainly not willing to honor the implied agreement. I had severe symptoms and got treatment and felt better because of it but could not prove I fell into the “Allowance” category.

The collections company representatives began phoning. The apes called at all hours. They were relentless. None of them would reveal their identity if I didn’t happen to answer the phone. It is a suspiciously personal matter (like no one knew I was in trouble with that kind of a response?) and only Paula Hill could receive the message. It is uncanny how something as simple as a medical challenge can turn life upside down. Of course, I avoided the phone as well.

It was finals week, two rigorous jobs took up the majority of my free time, tournaments in intermural sports were consuming, studying took precedence over eating, hashing over term paper topics overrode sleeping. I was a wreck and to top it off, felt shame and indignation that I was not swallowed-up into the broken medical system.  They found me and were going to squeeze $1000 out of me no matter what.

Thank god my mother discovered the bills, stuffed away in a drawer, to hide from myself. She insisted I deal with it, write letters to the hospital and collections agency and fess up. Tell them that I was overwhelmed and want to appeal the charges. I certainly earned below poverty level wages and had been neglectful in letting the correspondence build-up. With my mom staring me down, I had no choice yet was, at the same time, so incredibly relieved to have this great burden lifted from my very existence.

I paid out a nominal amount and everything was wiped from my records. I was a free woman once again, let out into the world to screw up, fall down and make my mother crazy.

Tree topples

June 24, 2013

The hp printer lolls in the corner, incapable of making a decision whether to join the heap at the Recycling Center-collected mounds of abandoned, discarded equipment to be shipped overseas, torn apart in valuable pieces and sold, or be willing to sort out the challenges of a new productive life. Of course it is about money. Now like items can be bought for less than $100, thrown “away” at the first sign of a glitch. I am not ready to part-out this hp printer/copier/fax. Righteous indignation controls me and forces a conversation with the Office Max sales clerk. The middle-aged man has an open-communication transmitter wire framing his pocked face. I have to admit I have no idea what type of cartridges it requires. If I had anticipated this office store visit, I would have lugged the product into the store. My pre-planning mode had obviously not been caffeinated sufficiently at the time I left the house.

After requesting a sub-standard trademark box from their line of products, I delight in anticipation of a working printer. Consider all of the things in my “IN” file that require my attention, to print and label, sort and pass along willy nilly.

At this particular juncture, the potted plant dirt specs and spilled water are wiped away from the top of the unit, cartridges inserted and printer is plugged into the computer. It remains to be seen how technically savvy I am when a document is ready for print.

Another storm wails through the neighborhood and I am concerned about the trees. Water-logged, large solid canopies crash down into the yards, crushing grass, flowers, hopes, and dreams with one burst of defiance. It is tempting to lose sight of the opportunity to laugh in the scene of unfortunate events. No one was killed in the storms that I am aware of. People pitched-in to help a woman, a few doors down, to rip through an enormous tree with a staggering chain saw, remove all of the thigh-sized branches from the top of her house, saw it into manageable pieces and hopefully haul it off for another use (recycled paper for the printers?) Witnesses scoured the streets, meandering on sidewalks in a dazed-and-confused fashion. Cement, roots, sod and brush scattered in and around the city streets. Cars were diverted, zig-zagging from one thoroughfare to another. Stop lights were out of order and places of business half-heartedly begged for income with sparse conditions and creative alternatives.

Everyone is talking about the rain, destruction and devastation. There is a friend, relative, neighbor, family member in the community of people who has been struck by the storm. I am very fortunate.

Spoke with my friend, Natalia in Brasil yesterday. It was her birthday. She relays the living conditions and mental well being of Dono, still residing in Canada, is in question. I am concerned about the lack of compassion. Dono has gained a significant amount of weight, is sorrowful and despondent. What can my friend do? She is in dire straits herself, is in no financial condition to help her mother, can only listen in sympathy and encourage her brother to find some help. A companion, friend, caregiver or volunteer to make her days a bit more presentable would be amenable. I will Skype her myself tomorrow. Until then, send your well wishes and prayers.

Products made of cement

June 21, 2013

The clan upstairs must have gotten a deal on cement shoes. Friends, family and acquaintances bought identical clunkers out of the back of a truck, and revel in their nocturnal footwear. The heavy shoes arrive at all hours of the night, starting just when I consider heading off to bed. Vehicles race their engines in the driveway at the crown of my head, snide doors bang, gents converse at high decimals over the runoff music. The bitty dogs cuddle around me in the spare room, uncertain in the new environment. I choose to accompany them overnight, since they have a shorter fall on the frameless mattress. Should one or both of them decide to descend the mountain of pillows and disheveled blankets that cover my chilled body, they won’t break a limb. The little ones smash themselves against the crook of my bent leg or turn ‘round and ‘round on the pillow next to my head. Tyrus paces, unaccustomed to my not resting in my own bed, with him at the foot. The cat is contented, taking up the vast space since she is reluctant in the vicinity of the frisky, exuberant, herding Terrier. The screaming thunder, startling lightening that lit up the humid room, followed by torrents of rain, propelled me out of the puffy bed to check incoming and damaging, treacherous moisture that could lead to a horrific fall in the dark night. All-in-all, I may have welcomed a few hours of REM sleep and my bed head hair reflects it.

Working in isolation and spin out readily into conviction of wrongdoing. Indolent and yet not overly concerned it is contagious. Physical therapy exercises, writing, editing, chasing the dogs outdoors, addressing cards and drinking far too much caffeine which leads to three-legged races to the bathroom and take up my afternoon. “I am wasting my time” is regarded as an established fact that wouldn’t be altered without encouragement and earnest petition from the authorities. Vitamins must be kicking-in since I am generating my writing pieces at a respectable pace.

Bumping into HIM

June 22, 2013

Farmers Markets nearly always lift my spirits. Fresh bouquets, colorful fruits and vegetables, a local musician sings and plays guitar in the midst of the crowds of customers who are not particularly polite in getting out of the way of the lady on crutches. I must look forgiving since a woman crossed the busy street, dodging cars, to ask me for some cash, whatever I can spare, to get she and her daughter something to eat since they just took a bus from Chicago and are hungry. I pulled what little cash I had in my coin purse without hesitation. As I pushed the red clasp closed, a woman passed by and made a suggestion that the requester is on her way to buy drugs or alcohol. My view is if I am willing to give it; whether a protein bar, apple, jar of tea or a few bills, I am obligated to “let it go” and consider it a gift. I don’t honestly care what he/she chooses to spend it on. If I judge them then I am probably judged in-kind.

A lot of family gatherings happened this weekend. Some people, related by marriage, whom I have not seen in several years. The kids are stretching out and they were little and now talking about college options. With all of the power outages, the shower and washer/dryer are in constant use. It is incredulous to imagine over 530,000 people without power!

My sister was out on the streets, looking at all of the damage in the South Minneapolis neighborhood and happened to run into one of my old and significant beaus from years past. He didn’t register until she had already gone by and then shared the story with me much later. I am surprised to discover he is in town and noticed how I reacted. Amusement snuck into trepidation then back to humor at myself. I have no interest in being together with this man and certainly have no Cinderella complex saga going on any longer. I have grown up (and out) and moved on from the wonder of infatuation. Bumping into the memory of him is funny. Dated when I was 21 for two years, then again when I was 37 and on my way out of the country. A whirlwind second time made me painfully aware that he wasn’t that into me.

Best days ahead

June 20, 2013

Small breed dog paraphernalia overwhelms the little guest room. Two little creatures are here at Hill Hotel for the weekend. I am thrilled to be pet-sitting again. I miss the new energy and excitement. It also brings about a whole new level of strolling through the house with vigilant awareness. They have more cute stuff than Barbie, just as pink and frilly. The only things missing are a styling comb and sparkly jeep to skedaddle to the beach. I hope Tyrus doesn’t feel deprived in comparison.

In less than a week I will undergo an updated X-Ray to discover whether I can bear weight on my peg and switch to walking with a cane, like a more mature person, versus a hopping along with a deluxe walker or awkward crutches. It is very difficult to restrain myself and not attempt to use my foot. Impatient and daring yet refraining, for the most part. Before I know it, I will be back in my mannish huarache sandals and sending longing looks at my high heels. So far, those ankle-breakers are pushed to the far reaches of the closet, hiding away from my disadvantaged stares.

The license plates in the state of Washington are configured differently, so I discovered after Taelor found a yellow ticket on the window the other morning. It is categorized as an obscured license plate. A $111 fine. As I launch into her scattered paperwork, I find yet another suspiciously familiar yellow tag and gasp in recognition. Phoned the courthouse immediately and, after fuming for 16 minutes on “hold,” I speak with a gentle expeditious young man who sets up a court date for me, combining the two citations, and a stab at the judge/hearing officer for compassion and understanding. Geez, when will all of this iron out and life becomes free of inconveniences and extended hold periods on my cell phone? Where is the “free ride” I was promised?

Hot. No wind and a lot of truck noises coming from the street today. Difficult to delve into my Blog and write like my life depends upon it.

Having company over for dinner. Of course, I cannot contribute much and I do believe I have some tea bags in the cupboard to add water and set in the sun for a refreshing beverage. It is fun to entertain, especially since I am not obligated to do anything but plop on the couch with ice packs on my ankle. The pups will do the keep the guests amused and I can relax and enjoy the family. I have only seen some of these family members from afar, via Skype, so am anxious to share my space and stories.

When my nephew was reminded that he would be reunited with my dog, Tyrus, he declared “This is the best day of my life!”

The work of women

June 20, 2013

My sister came for a visit from outer space. May as well have been, since I can’t comfortably walk down to the corner, let alone see her in the greater Seattle area. She sat and visited with me yesterday, fetched a large bag of cat littler out of the car, picked up dog doo in the yard and carried my tofurkey sandwich to the couch. The conversation went on for so long, I barely had enough time to prepare for a meeting with a group of new friends. A woman, whom I didn’t know, was coming to collect me so after sis left, I changed clothes, hopped from room to room to organize things so the dog and cat would be contented, while alone all day, and my personal needs would be met as well. That is a lot of hopping.

I am simply justifying why my blog was not posted yesterday since I a. currently have internet service at the house and b. am committed to sharing my life with the world.

Arrived home long after I expected to return. Was gifted with a dozen fresh chicken eggs and a smile that wrapped around my face, glowing in the dark to lite the path to the bedroom. I had a wonderful time with a clump of women of all ages and strengths. Some cried, most laughed, a few snorted, while others shared their lives that ultimately made a difference for each and every one of us. That is what women do. I am complete.

Moving for Dummies

June 18, 2013

The movers came to shuffle Taelor’s furniture around from one room to another, out the door, and into the trailer, to disappear around the corner. They removed their shoes like good little boys and traipsed around, murmuring the mandatory admiration for the new cat, while the gigantic dog pestered them for attention as well. It is an art to move the big pieces, an extended 70’s couch can quickly get the best of you. Maneuvering and adjusting, sizing up the doorways and corners, removing feet, coming to the conclusion that, if it got inside the house in one piece, it has the ability to exit. I directed from the outer edge of the space, encouraging and lifting a bit on one end, explaining my mature approach and acquainting the young men with the advantage of preparation. Drawers come out or the dresser is twice as heavy. Rugs must be pulled out of harms way and doors propped for easy exit. Place heavy side down on the staircase, vertical furniture is easier to manipulate, and padding essential. I am certain, though only four items were emptied out, the guys and Taelor felt satisfied in their work. I offered up a large swivel office chair but had no takers. It sits alone now, in the vast room, yearning for the companionship of a functional desk. I believe the black chair may go on a journey tonight, creeping along the vast street, in solitude. Perhaps it can meet up with the futon abandoned on the curb with a “free” sign attached.

My space resembles a student environment, for the time being. It won’t take long to fill-in the spaces and find the items I desire. Starting anew is always an intense and humbling experience. Once you have to wrestle with a primitive camping opener, you understand just how essential the small things can be. After the basics are acquired, I begin to pick and choose based on adoration and desire. I also commit to “one thing in, one thing out” again to keep me on my toes about acquiring non-essential things. We lived in Port Townsend for five years, the longest of Taelor’s short life, and Sacramento, California happens to be the place where I spent the most time in my adult life, (six years.) Taelor was born there which probably forced me to develop some roots.

A bit bleary from the goings-on last night. The family upstairs was wreaking havoc until 3:00am when the neighbor to our left shouted that she has to work at 5:00am and the few hours sleep she may get are essential!...or in so many words…some of which I cannot repeat on a blog or I will be 86’d from the sight. The men tend to come home in a rampage and either the women’s voices are too hard to discern or they don’t bark back. I will be relieved when they move out on the 22^nd of this month, though I will not hold my breath. There have been no signs of empty boxes coming in nor are they communicating their plans to me. I am encouraged to hear there is a couple moving in and the man is responsible for mowing the uneven grass, they claim to have their own washer/dryer and sound reasonably accountable. Of course, I will keep you in the loop.

This is the final day I have my daughter’s attention since she leaves for far away lands at the crack of dawn. I could not keep my eyes open by 11:30 last night so I went to bed, assuring her we have more time today. You know how that “early to bed” scene turned out. She will sorely miss the cat so I will have to take photos for her, though she cannot accept them on the other end. The rules are strict about what she can bring along on the Expedition Club group. They are going to a small village in northern Thailand to assist with the English school teachers at the school the group build a decade ago, spend time with the students and immerse themselves in the culture. It is her third year attending this Program and she is traveling as a chaperone this time. As a linguistics/biology major she will see things with a different perspective, I am certain. What a wonderful opportunity this is for her. Wish I could tag along but, sigh, that is not “cool” or whatever the latest term amounts to.

Bad cultural habits

June 17, 2013

The car clicker is misplaced and the world stops as we frantically search the house for the center of the world little black gadget. Insane twenty minutes ensue and I realize just how much I am at its mercy; to start the car, open the door without an alarm blaring, and leaving the scene expediently. Did the miniscule item drop into the recycling bags, fall out onto the tall grass in the front yard, spiral into the clean clothes basket, slip down under the love seat or chair cushions, get kicked under the furniture, scuttle beneath the frig or stove like a cockroach, did the cat get ahold of it??? Where did it go?

Incredibly hot and bothered by the lack of customer service skills at Orbitz. It has been well over an hour and a half, most of the time spent on HOLD, seeking much needed solace with the orchestra muzac piped through my cell phone. I am very disturbed by the constant apologies, for the system errors, from women named heavy-accented Chelsey, Ann and Sherry who finally admitted they are located in the Philippines. How is this possible that I cannot find work at a decent wage, forced to connect with companies who are not willing to hire someone like me to be their customer service representative and would handle things much differently? Business practices are flagrantly swayed on the company side and I become a victim of rage. As a culture, we have slid so far backwards that I am flabbergasted. Oh gosh, what a waste of my time and energy.

In order to get my mind off of the ladies from the Philippines, I contemplate brushing the cat’s teeth though it is the dog that really needs his molars scrubbed. Wish I had started developing this skill when he was a pup. Now I will be forced to wrestle him to the ground in order to provide dental work. I choose to put it into the “exercise” category since I will surely be sweating and lose five pounds when all is said and done. At least his breath won’t kill off the guests anymore!

Troubled tenants

June 15, 2013

A somewhat meek policeman appears in a black SUV, at the end of the day, to give me the third degree about the upstairs neighbors. He squeezes past Tyrus into the sun porch to continue his inquiry. Apparently there have been several calls of complaint about the disturbance streaming down from the unit above me. Each time the officers choose to come investigate, the street is as quiet as the Stepford Wives’ territory. I can only relay my side of the story.

I dispatch the tale of an incident late last Sunday, when I was forced to listen to a screaming match seeping through the floors, horrible stomping and shouts, threatening to tear down the siding. I explained I was careful to determine whether the children were home, and if the situation was accelerating to violence. Since neither were positively identified, I assumed it would blow over. A few minutes later the silence took over. I declared I had been torn with anxiety, not certain what was a best response.

The next day or two, I informed him, the neighbor on my left showed up at my door to introduce herself. I asked her about her experiences in the area since she has lived here for over six years. She let me know it is “always so loud,” which I found an extraordinary comment since most often, there isn’t a soul in sight from one end of the street to another. Later I consider the terrific fight and assume she was referring to the booming male voice of Sunday evening.

The pocked cop listened carefully to the discourse of occurrences and scribbled down his phone number for me. Pete suggested he would stop by in a few weeks to check in on me. I implied this is all a mute point since the family upstairs is planning on moving out soon. The landlord is obviously informed of the troubles. They are being “encouraged” to leave the house as soon as possible.

The pieces slowly fall into place and I sympathize with the women and children temporarily residing above my head. I can only guess they are in cahoots with Trouble, Police Incident Reports and Life Challenges and pray they can turn things around with some support. JJ, the sweet and precious four year old, who fears her father’s reaction to having clear lip gloss applied is truly a victim of sorry circumstance. She could only smear gloss on my lips and pat my face with foundation powder as I prepare to meet my friend for dinner. She seemed to enjoy her time with me, listening to Blueberries for Sal, Angelina Ballerina and Angelina’s Birthday Surprise as I read them aloud. I am only sorry we haven’t gotten to the Shel Silverstein books. Perhaps we will have the opportunity before they move out on the 22^nd.  Next time I see JJ, I will hug her hard for no reason at all.   

Tickled pink

June 14, 2013

“Hysteria” is shelved at the little neighborhood library with a hard plastic cover encasing the DVD. Suppose it prevents the kids from checking out the X-rated materials. I enjoyed the film very much, tickled pink, in fact. My daughter was horrified when I asked her to view the movie with me, sharing a large bowl of popcorn, made with my new stove-top maker that sports a nifty spinner to prevent it from burning. Yes, I am aware of the film’s subject matter and was actually surprised she had heard of it and hadn’t seen it. In the end, I watched it with the pets and they didn’t seem disturbed by the subject matter in the least.  

We are “Arrested Development” fans in our house and have been viewing the First series again. Thrilled to death that it is going to be returning to television. A victory for their quirky sense of humor fans.

Got an obstructed license plate ticket-the fine amounts to $111 for the offense. I had no idea my license plate in the back of the vehicle was obstructed. Hadn’t even occurred to me to inspect the new plates after installation. Since the plate cover is from Washington State, the configuration is different than the state of Minnesota. Who woulda thought?  Shoot. Aim to crutch into the courthouse for an appearance, and explain my extenuating circumstances. Since we are forced to park the car on the street, due to problematic upstairs neighbors, it must have caught the eye of an officer late last night, on his rounds sans a full quota on his citation sheet. Crap!

The Exel Home Energy Squad arrived in a flurry yesterday. I had no less than three emails to remind me of the appointment and a phone call several days prior. Two young people came with nylon satchels, filled with necessary tools to update my duplex with the latest energy saving devices. We now have florescent bulbs in every socket, water saving faucets in the kitchen and bath, a water heater blanket, refrigerator thermometer, weather stripping on the outer doors, and a digital programmable thermostat (got a short lecture on the programming, was relieved to hear there would not be a test afterwards!) The two youth were busy scurrying around the house, suggesting coffee shops and markets in the area, asking about my situation which led to my spilling details about my recent excursion to Brasil. Come to find out one of the squad members was an exchange student in Minas Gerais, Brasil! What fun to chat with him in Portuguese. I am certain he threw in an extra light bulb or two because of our interaction. He could very easily be made to do anything but I resisted the urge to ask for a return trip to install plastic on the windows for the winter season. Desperate to please, he extended the referral offer resulting in a free LED light bulb, which he encouraged me to unplug and take along with me when I depart. Cute.

The wretch

June 13, 2013

Vaguely aware of a familiar sound of retching. Once a victim, the memories flood back uninvited; vomiting, spitting, moaning, stomach heaves and spewing results, body eventually spent. It was the only sound in the world. I could ascertain his helplessness, the dread in his heart, weighed heavy as a cold mind. Based on the deep-throated sound, I decide it must be the man, the only male, save an eight year old, that lives upstairs. I see the back of his dusty head occasionally, as he descends the front stairs, glimpse of a t-shirt and jeans as they pass over the window ledge and drop below the eaves. No confirmation of the ill party followed in the late morning. A fragment of discernment left me in suspense. How to relay concern about a guy whom I’ve never met, the retcher in the early morning hours?

Dry-mouthed with excitement. Today we leave the house together, Taelor and I. We are taking Moose, the new cat, to the vet. Though my head feels wobbly on its post from lack of sleep, I stare without ceremony at the morbid rain. I wrestle the deluxe walker out the door and down the front stairs, which I cannot do without assistance. The taste of freedom from the inner walls motivates me to press the physical limits.

            I paid him no heed, his moist voice and as he draws near, breath of candy. He moves beneath the florescent bulb, which illuminates little more than grime and moisture, doped by the slender sun and drone of flies. He glances at the receptionist behind the counter. She lifts her watch to her ear, dial huge, its tick murderous. At the other end of the leash sits a gigantic German Shepherd mix, which is sedately looming over all of the other canine heads. Many other large breed dogs mingle in the waiting room with their slouching owners. Most people look a bit dazed from the weight of canine surgical procedures and drop their shoulders to sooth the shaky beasts. Large shaved areas cut squares into the fur, casts grace a few paws, and one pup toted along in a carriage.

            Bea is charismatic as she flops, unceremoniously on the floor with the cat, cuddles and kiss her on the furry head while making cooing noises. We are charmed. An initial exam by the vet tech proves to be informative and follows a more thorough physical by the veterinarian who is so youthful, could be graduating from the eighth grade. All goes well and Moose passes grade. She flops on the stainless table in relief. As we march her out through the double doors, the big dogs keep coming. Some of the owners are obviously in need of weight lifting sessions since the dogs slowly pull them across the floor. One Rottweiler in particular has an inclination to dominate and the lobby becomes too perilous to remain. You can guess how that turns out.

            Moose now sleeps as if years of fatigue have overtaken her.

Library politics

June 12, 2013

A crowd of children, from barely walking to racing in the rain, are jumbled in the Riverside library. The male librarian announces the free lunch for kids and enthusiastically adds they would be accompanied by the St Paul mayor. A few of the children murmur in recognition, as he skirts through the front door and down the stairs. The kids race down to the basement like red ants to an open honey jar, to grab their brown bag of processed food. I am not sure what the mayor is sharing but a number of young men tromp back up the stairwell, minutes later, with cheese sticks in hand. They hover over a friend’s shoulder as he hunts and pecks next to me. I turn and ask the boys with wild brows to tell me what is going on in the cellar. The youth, sitting in his hard, upright chair gasps since I was talking with him while rapid-fire typing and he glances over to see if I am, in fact, writing “real words” and checking for errors. None.

Reminds me of the little guy on the bus who asked if the thick novel I was reading is a chapter book. “Yes,” I chortled, “it is.” Then he requested to look at the pictures. I told him there aren’t any and one day, sooner than he thinks, he will be reading books like the one in my hand. He just shook his head in disbelief.

John John from upstairs is down to “play” with the animals. She decides to brush my hair when I take it down from the clips. “Wow, your hair is nappy! Does you comb it out when you get a weave?” “I don’t think I have ever had a weave,” I reply. She gave me a pinched look as though she felt sorry for me.

Queen of complaints

June 11, 2013

I have become an expert complainer. A lemony smile graces my face more often than not. My philosophy of  value stemming from hard work, must have been a product of genetic engineering, like having hazel eyes and a strong jawline. Physical labor is rewarded with financial gain and “thank you” is a result of a job well done. Well, neither of those have proven to be true. Not exactly. One bad fall and two subsequent surgeries make me consider an alternative to that viewpoint. I realize I can hardly rely on my corporal work, which I swore meant toiling until my arms become numb, and I would be assured a consequential fortune. The Zen Gardener (infamous for his lack of communication skills in English,) knows for sure, that he is only paid after wrestling with the tall grass and gnarly branches. If it happens to be pouring down rain, his check is delayed until the water stops and work continues to completion. There are no sick days, no holiday paychecks.

At 53, I am discovering a life-time battle with my Self. On one side, a knight, who calmly represents confidence and intellect, the other a diminishing impatient brawn. Who wins out largely depends upon the reaction and response I perceive from my efforts. A marketing proposal, informational interview, telephone conversation regarding a job, email request for business or telepathic pleas, all generated from my end.

Depending upon the words that come back at me, I am elated, sullen, joyful, morose, accepting or disheartened. How did I catch onto that idea, like the plague, when a few of the others in the brood failed to take on those values, the certainty that I had to be physically laborious versus using my qualified brain? The parental units didn’t seem to have more time for those that plowed through a higher education nor take any interest in what I was studying. When I left college, as a Junior, a few credits short of graduation, neither my father nor mother appeared thunderstruck nor called me to have a conversation about it. They could not be bothered. Of course, that is what my combative 21 year old self declared. I suggested it didn’t matter what they, nor anyone else in my life decided about me, grabbed onto “I am on my own” as a life preserver. Indeed. What does it take to strip off the foam pack and make my way into the waves with trust, self-belief and perseverance? 

A circle of trustworthy people, occasional devoted support, shared conviction and plethora of resources would be the ticket, I believe.

Call her Paul

June 9, 2013

An unnamed cat lives in our house. I am in awe of her resilience. When I look at her sweet, crooked, mixed-up little face, she emits the tiniest of meows. She was abandoned by a departing family, with two other cats. The next door neighbor took them all in and soon discovered both of the females were pregnant. “Whatever her name is,” guestimated to be just about a year old, was dropped off with the other ditched cats at the Coon Rapids Humane Society. Since “The Cat Living In Our House” has similar coloring to several others in the shelter, they moved her to the St Paul asylum. The kittens were separated from their respective mothers and put up for adoption at four weeks of age after spending time with the foster family. “Cat” claims to be accustomed to dogs and other felines, is now spayed and up-to-date on her shots and has a complimentary vet visit to her name. Last Thursday she hid under my bed for a few hours, after coming face-to-face with Tyrus, then came out from hiding and pretty much ignored the huge hound. She is a bit curious about the great outdoors, sits in the window at length, yet doesn’t seem interested in escaping when the outside doors open. I could anthropomorphize and declare she feels “saved” in our household. We aim to fatten her up and keep her indoors. No sense tempting fate in the great wide world.

When I mentioned to a friend who was here visiting that the cat had not been christened with a name yet, he asked if cats really respond to a name. Many of the animals in Brasil do not have names, especially on farms.

Some of my friends have changed their names after having an epiphany or taking a metaphysical/spiritual course. Not certain what name I would choose. The doctor informed my parents they were having their first boy, after three girls so they were to call me Paul. Didn’t turn out as expected. Silly doctor. I’m sure my mother and father were very disappointed. They got their first son just shy of a year after I was born.

Maybe we should call the cat “Paul.” What name would she choose?

Gardeners delight

June 8, 2013

A gardener came to attack the grass taller than my boot. He rapped on the door and when I failed to open it in ten seconds, began ringing the doorbell in desperation. The orange extension cord snaked-in through the crack and I had to meander around the house to find one that was capable of accepting a three prong plug. Luckily the cord could have wrapped around the house three times so he could cut the grass and trim without having to move the magic cord. Hours later, another knock then the expected doorbell ringing ensued. A pleasant enough looking fellow who could not speak more than a handful of English words but could mime his thanks left with a generous wave of his hand. The truck was full to the brim with leaves, branches and grass, a mower and weed-eater strapped precariously on top, ready to teeter off at the corner. I attempted to obtain his contact information for future clean-ups but he simply nodded and smiled at me numerous times and made the universal phone call gesture. Ok, I will phone when I am ready, though I doubt his telepathic message would generate enough of an English translation for me to accept the call. Mute as a Zen Master.

It depends

June 7, 2013

My bladder is letting me down. Now I understand that I have to get up, struggle down the wide open space to the hallway, through several doors, around the corner, in time to unbutton, unsnap, unzip and swing around to ungracefully grasp the sink ledge to plop down on the commode even before I realize I have to urinate. There is absolutely nothing graceful about it and I find myself yowling in frustration, more often than not, because I have not “made it” in time. I strip off my pants or shorts, and underwear with disgust and fury at my enemy, the bladder. The loss of control infuriates me. There is utter helplessness when my body starts to let me down. The clothes in the hamper then pile up and I begrudge the need to shuffle down, accompanied by my peg, and my bladder, to the basement and start the laundry. It is one thing to drag the basket behind me down the staircase and yet another to haul it the opposite direction.

My bladder puts me at an even greater disadvantage when I am riding in the car, heading out of town, or simply across town. Am at its mercy. My foot has to be perched on the seat next to me like a hateful cousin or ungracefully on the dash, still wrapped in a large bandage to keep the wounds sterile and dry. Keeping hydrated and iced is imperative, fulfilling my foot physical therapy exercise quota is also a necessity while worrying about financial matters, checking emails and glancing at job on-line perhaps three times per week. The home internet company has yet to relay any further information about the connection request and the modem has gone AWOL. 

My bladder is my companion in these few days flying solo and I resent its movie choices. What can I do? The library is too daunting a journey and I may not make it there without having to use the bathroom.

In the meantime, I refuse to wear Depends.

Navel contemplating

June 6, 2013

A few more weeks of non-weight bearing then I will be training for a triathlon. Not really.

A sedentary life has atrophied my left calf considerably. Arm pits ache from the rigorous strain of crutching and upper arms feel like Popeye's though, more than likely resemble Peewee Herman. I have not seen him for quite some time so I cannot compare at the moment.

I am anxious to be able to drive my 5-speed vehicle, though I am not certain just how far I will be able to get in one go. Perhaps as far as the Wisconsin border.

It is yard/garage sale season and, since I am in a new neighborhood, would love to traipse around and check out the deals. Soon, I will be on my own in the duplex (save the dog) and there will be opportunity for frantic calls to my daughter to pick up half-n-half on the way home from work. Darn.

The wheels are turning and choosing to move forward with my own service business again appears most likely. It won't keep me from perusing the job sites and applying for the ones that peak my interest, just for the sport of it.

I will be alone with my own thoughts this weekend and aim to take inventory and see where that takes me.

Tripping

June 5, 2013

My father met my mother at a dance. She snuck out of the window of the nurses’ dorm to go to the party with her best friend. From across the room, as in the movies, my crazed mother casually pointed and noted, “That is the man I am going to marry.” Mom and dad met that night and rendezvoused roughly four times after that before they married. Together until she died thirty-eight years and eight days later, they made a good go of it.

I listened to dad’s stories from his Navy to college life, meeting mom and subsequent jobs until the time he retired. We had a lot of ground to cover, literally and figuratively since the drive is over four and a half hours. The dog panted with anxiety in the back, despite the Rescue Remedy I gave him, and we stopped several times to let him out to wander and have a drink.

When Tyrus refused to accept a hard bagel, toasted many days prior, dad recounted a story of a crew of men, out for a day of pheasant hunting. As they stopped for lunch, the dog’s owner took out his sack of sandwiches, offering one to the dog who turned his nose up at the meal. The man tossed the bag out into the brush stating “If the damned dog won’t eat it, why should I?” We got a good long chuckle out of that tale.

As I mentioned before, I get turned around in the blink of an eye, took a wrong turn and ended up south of where we live so the Holiday clerk was of great assistance in getting us back on track. The map doesn’t have updated streets so it makes it more difficult to manage the directions from the passenger seat. Tyrus wasn’t any help either.   

Back home after a week of lake life is cumbersome. At least the electricity is in working order now and the modem has yet to arrive so that is on my agenda for today.