Modest Mania

October 30, 2013

Nearly impossible to accept my shortcomings sandwiched between two social worker interns, like a slab of spam, waiting to be devoured. Collectively, we registered over 1100 families for a Thanksgiving turkey and the fixin’s, to be picked-up November 25^th between 9 and noon. Occasionally an incorrect directive spouts out of my mouth and one of the interns provides an accurate detail. I have no earthly idea where the faulty information comes from. Perhaps I am simply discerning whether the students are paying attention.

Shocking just how many of these individuals possess a phone number. Additionally they need to prove a legitimate address or housing and a photo ID, to obtain the substantial meal. It is quite an undertaking from the get-go, requesting donations from farmers, who are already struggling to make ends meet, local super markets, and cash gifts from those who can afford to give, to provide rations for most likely over 5,000 families in all. There are five more days of registration and a second location as well. The area, staged as a men’s dorm at night, for the gents who are in-between housing, is slammed with folks of all races, big and small, the majority voice their gratitude and “God Bless.” Cots are stacked on the far wall, cones deter the masses from running amok, tables and chairs greet the guests to sit and fill-in the simple registration form. I am humbled to silence in the aftermath of a mad three-and-a-half hour rush of food recipients. Once the intake is done, address verified and ID checked, they come to me (or my interns) and we double-check the data in our system, making corrections as necessary. I spew the details of pick-up day and wave the next person over.

People tend to choose the person who provides the most empathy. It is an interesting scene to witness. I am cheerful and engage the children, asking them about their Halloween costume and encourage them to return on the day of food collection. It will be a throng scene, I am sure. I invited my niece to join in the fray being on my squad of five volunteers. I will keep you in the loop.

Ms Fix-It

October 29, 2013

I am not very mechanically inclined. I can sew on a button, create a new straightish line with the fabric to make a hem, give me a picture to hang or answering machine to reprogram but don’t expect miracles with appliances and fixtures. Brain surgery would be easier.

Looks as though a bird flew down the topless chimney and got clogged in the furnace thingamajiggy. It’s feathers were jammed-up and cost the home owner a bundle. So, buy a new cap for the tube that sits atop the house and runs to the furnace for just over a hundred and save yourself some time, cash and chills. I suggested the HVAC guy go back to the office and send out postcards to all of their customers to sell the $122 caps and prevent future bird issues.  The skinny repairman told me this is his second call this week that amounted to bird bits in the flue. He also claims the cap gets rusted and falls apart before the landlord suspects a problem. I suppose the company would rather have a big dollar client but I think it is good will customer service to forewarn their people. Not to mention save some bird hides.

The neighborhood is a scavenger’s dream. I found a few carpet pads, electric drill with the charger and bits (not that I am certain how to man them,) little dish rack with the price tag still attached, a compost bin the size of a hard drive box, all abandoned next to the trash cans in the alleyways. I am thrilled and amazed as I zig-zag the big and little dogs around the streets, arms loaded with treasures. Thanks neighbors!  

Dreaded Cold

October 28, 2013

50 something in the house and I am wrapped up in a scarf, fleece jacket with my wool hat down around my ears. The squirt who came to fix the furnace was pleasant enough, despite the ruckus from the dogs, scrambling to bite his ankles and scare the daylights out of him. He entered the house with one arm outstretched, the other handling a big box with gadgets to repair the stubborn heater. He glanced up long enough to shake my hand and look me in the eyes. Impressive behavior from such a youngster. Maybe he is older than he appears. His mouth was set in a thin line when he came up from the basement quite awhile later. Claims the part is “big and expensive” and he’ll have to talk with the home owner before moving ahead. I agree and we simultaneously text, call, email, facebook message then wait.

I am tough, I can take the cold, I declare, not wanting to seem like a wimp, facing a 32 degree with possible snow flurries tonight for my house and dog sitting gig. As my toes numb, I decide I am a wuss and need to call in the recruits to borrow a space heater to sleep in comfort. Taste-tested a Paul Newman’s pizza (thumbs up for the four cheese flavor) and snuggle with the little white bad-breath bed companion. It doesn’t help that she has a tinge of skunk odor from being shot at awhile ago during an excursion up north, I’m told. Oh well, I have slept with worse. Just saying.

Barest of Bones

October 27, 2013

   Hung hundreds of t-shirts with BareBones skeletons, flying bats, pumpkin heads, buffalos, unique and artsy designs on tanks, short-sleeves, long-sleeves, hoodies, sweatshirts, jeans, aprons, knit hats, gloves, curtains and cloth bags. I was able to participate, in the audience, for the show. A spectacular play turns to circus, complete with actors on stilts, flame-throwing acrobatics and outdoor puppet extravaganza. It was incredibly cold with the wind, parked on straw bales in the middle of the park yet I warmed, as I served hot potato and lentil soups as well as chili, to the mob.

   One man in particular caught my eye, gaunt with eyes only for the bowls on my large silver tray, coming back too many times to count. He carried, in his other hand, a double-bagged weighed Lunds sack. He chose far too many servings of soup for one sitting, without getting seriously ill. I suspect he was storing a vessel in the woods to add more variety to his meager daily rations. Perhaps he has a family, hidden away in the forest, emaciated and wanting. A thin hand poured out of his long dingy green sleeve to grasp another Styrofoam (shudder) bowl to add to his collection, and he disappeared from the light, in the far reaches of the trees.

   The event was free, a donation requested but not always provided. An incredible number of volunteers were present, setting up at 5:00 and breaking down until past 10:30 at night. The Sisters Camelot catered the show out of their fifth wheel vehicle.  Wondrous soups, breads, hot beverages and organized chaos that partners with free food and drink. The crowd was close to capacity of 1060 and I suspect I touched at least a third of their lives by presenting t-shirt options, offering soup, spoons and a smile in the dark of night. Thanks to my good friend, who shared my woolen jacket, as we huddled on the bale to watch the show and spend time.

Lucky Jack O' Lantern

October 26, 2013

Got third place in the pumpkin carving contest. I didn’t have any fancy cut out from a book or the latest-and-greatest idea from the Martha Steward on-line site. Grab a sharpie and sketch a face, don a gigantic knife and carve away. Ask anyone who knows me well, I am quite competitive yet, over the years, have accepted my talents for face value-nada. I am not creative in the pumpkin carving manner and certainly would be a starving artist. My skills come in other forms and I can leave first and second place to those who care to collaborate with resources to discover the perfect carving. My pumpkin has a wobble and a lopsided face yet she will perch on the front stoop, awaiting the ghosts, goblins and Power Rangers, though I am told there are not many of those to be found. Won a skeleton ghost figure to hang in the doorway.

     Way too much candy, crackers loaded with Jalapeño dip and well-formed miniature carrots eaten tonight. The dog had his own party with a young injured Border Collie and ten year old glutton-for-attention Golden Retriever. The cat also had festivities at home with fresh cat nip and hand-me-down scratching structure.

     Looks as though I have new neighbors above me. All lights are on and the gate is left wide open. Aim to have a conversation with the culprits tomorrow. Maybe I’ll make a batch of welcoming waffles and they can sample my famous Wisconsin Maple Syrup. None sold today at the party, though I did make an attempt. Gotta work on my dog and pony maple syrup show.

I Wanted to be Jan

October 25, 2013

Here’s the story of a lovely lady, who is bringing up three very lovely girls, all of them have hair of gold, like their mother, the youngest one in curls. You get the picture, I sing the Brady Bunch theme song, once, with the children, as the crew is looking at one another from their independent boxes. One viewing is plenty. I return the Complete Season Two DVD to the library, knowing I cannot stomach one more episode. Expected to feel more nostalgic yet it only made me realize just how ridiculous the series is. I had a relatively sheltered childhood and the Brady’s seemed so cool.

Jan Brady most likely wouldn’t have walked off with her client’s house keys in her front pocket. I arrived home, fed the critters, ate a bowl of vegetable soup, emptied the grocery bags and on my walk with the dog, found her keys, nestled in the far reaches of my pants pocket. I will be in Mrs. B’s neighborhood tomorrow night anyway, vying for first place at the Pumpkin Carving Contest Party around the corner from her place. I have one more opportunity to get a stencil of sorts from my daughter’s talented hand, to create an image that more than vaguely resembles something familiar. She and I are grocery shopping in the afternoon so I will beg for her assistance. It is tough for me to draw recognizable stick figures, let alone the frightening features of a pumpkin head. My client feels sorry for me tonight when I moan about my predicament and suggested I ask her visiting son, Ron (who is older than me, for crying out loud, not some 7 year old kid,) if he would be kind enough to pencil something out for me. Of course, I declined in shame. Who can’t carve a pumpkin? OK, me. Perhaps if I had Marsha or Cindy for a sister, I would be asking them.

Hats Off!

October 24, 2013

I glance in my purse to pull out my snazzy multi-shaded pink wallet and have a flashback to the top of the coffee table where it sits, still, in the silence of the duplex, after I purchased an ad on-line, and failed to place it back in its spot. Drat! The ladies at the register grimace in disappointment with me, stating they cannot hold the merchandise and are sorry. I am tempted to stuff the darling black hat, perfect for walking the dog late at night, warm and cozy around my flush new hairdo, into the recesses of a pair of scuffy men’s boots to hide them from the world until I can return, two days from now. I refrain, sighing with despair. The ladies wish me a goodnight and I babble not to mention this to the cops, who may be stalking women drivers who have left their licenses behind in a hurry to get to the consignment store to look for heavy winter drapery and a snuggly hat before heading to work.

I decide, after my four hours of cooking, cleaning, walk-thru shower procedures and laundry for my little old lady,  I cannot subject my Portuguese Meet-Up group, who will be at D’Micos for dinner and stilted, grammatically incorrect conversation, to counting out seven dollars in change for a glass of wine and selecting food bits from their plates since I am starved. I head on home to first feed the animals, then myself and feel weary about the circumstances. I choose to speak in Portuguese to myself throughout the rest of the night, save time with a friend in Port Townsend, WA who might lose the story in translation on the phone.

Fit to be Tied

October 23, 2013

“I Love U

From your secret idmie-

Rre”

Blimey!

Oh my god, it’s snowing! Just returned from a walk (finding above note at the corner of Winslow and Stevens.) I carried the card to Annapolis at Dodd and left it for someone else to find. Tee hee.

Collecting a red hat, four crushed aluminum cans, six water bottles, numerous unidentifiable items, several cigarette boxes, wrappers from a fast food restaurant, a pile of steamy dog poop and a number of scattered sign-up sheets for the After School Program, along the way to return a book to the lending library box down the street and around the corner. The little boys (I assume) dressed in black pants, cleats and football uniforms huddle together, jumping in the air and shouting about killing the other team. Parents hover on the sidelines, wrapped in plaid blankets, saggy woolen hats, sausage-fingered gloves, clunky boots, puffy coats and thrice-wrapped scarves, encouraged by their enthusiasm emitting from the top of their heads. Windmill spirals swing in my peripheral vision as the big and little sisters, brothers, cousins and friends surge in a passionate fervor around the neighborhood field. All of the miniature football players flow in the vicinity of the ball in one big flock, heading north, south, east and mainly toward the right direction of the goal. Much later, I receive an email from the Block Club, the final score is tied zero.

The Naysayer

October 22, 2013

They came ‘round the corner, two stark white button-downs, black slacks, pinched with their thin dark belts, to-the-quick black hair and suspicious looking books in their right hands. The raking has gotten the better of my good judgment as I halt my swiping to speak with them. The taller of the two, paper white with eyes close together, a long narrow friendly nose and you’ll-get-over-your-criticism-if-you-talk-with-me wide smile. His words said “Could you use some help with the rake?” while his eyes reveal his sincerity. Of course, I decline. I enjoy pushing wet leaves around the long grass, scraping the thin skin off of my thumbs and pinching a hard-to-reach nerve in my upper shoulders.

The clear-skinned guy inquires about any Hmong neighbors, asks me if I know some of them and to point out their homes. I wave a vague hand over to the other side of the street and mention the family who lived in my place was Hmong, hoping he has a short attention span. He went on to explain that it is their mission, to share the word with the Hmong. Supposedly he has been learning the language but is partnered with his friend, a wide boy, dark spiky crew cut hair, pitted complexion and tired flat face. The other kid, a Hmong by birth, nods his head in agreement and cannot immediately respond to my question about their local church. The first one pipes-in that he believes there are several of their churches in the area but he is not sure exactly where they are. “Then why are you here? In this particular neighborhood?” “We are called to accept this mission,” the eager youth remarks with confidence, as though I am not going to continue to barrage him with questions he cannot answer. Perhaps as a test, I add a few considerations to their program and the tall one blinks a lot in response, the second shrugs in reply. Evidently they are dropped by a van, area to area, to spread their gospel and befriend each family, encouraging them to study at home versus be a part of a greater community of like-minded people.

I know they would have trouble with the stash of Oregon’s best Henry Weinhard beer in the basement. I found it, later in the day, in my search for a bucket to hold the excess cat food, so Grill won’t overfeed, while left to his own devices. The next time I see the boys, I will invite them for a beverage and ask if they are willing to help me clean up the basement. The centipedes are coming up to my place at night, escaping the dank recesses of the lower level. Yikes.

This Ain't No Aunt Jemima Syrup

October 21, 2013

Jerabek’s, a quaint local neighborhood coffee shop closed last week. I have been meaning to case the joint, stop in for a cup of coffee and scarf one of their famous pastries one day and I never got around to it. The personal text to the West Side Neighborhood Block Club, eluding to the travesties the family had been experiencing that led to the demise of the establishment was a champion touch. They said their piece about being grateful for all of the support and committed customers-not me! Icy Cup has closed for the season, the owner, another member of the Club and popular enterprise in our charming area.

I am completely conditioned to shop at the same Co-Op, head to the usual coffee place to slam a tall latte (well, Taelor does work there, after all!) run into the post office where the clerk knows me. I do understand that behavior is just plain wrong. I need to explore more of what my stomping grounds has to offer. Café A’More hosts our Seed Library meetings and the West Side Farmers Market gathering will take place there on Saturday. I can slurp hot cider and say my piece about the planning calendar for next year. I already mourn the Farmers Market, my early Saturday mornings, shivering beneath several layers, scrunched down at the table, luring in the unexpected customer to my jars of Pure Organic Wisconsin Maple Syrup, like a Vanna White wannabe.

Expect to see a neon sign out in my yard, claiming I have syrup for sale so I needn’t store the case and a half over the winter months. Stop on by for a pint or quart when you have time. I’ll leave the light on.

Awakeover

October 20, 2013

The speaker stood hidden behind the podium as though it were a life preserver in the perfect storm. I didn’t trust her then, to lead me to an insightful and inspiring conversion into a star-filled and more rewarding life. She quoted a book too frequently and took us off on several tangents that didn’t make any sense since I had missed the last few weeks of the series. I felt sorry, on a few occasions during the 40 minute speech, that I had wasted that time of my precious Sunday morning, missing the sun and wind and chilly day with my best friends by the lake, at the “Wicked” performance, the best brunch on the planet and/or picking up much needed trick or treat candy. Maybe my expectations are too high, maybe I could wander around a pool of acceptance and give the woman a break. After all, she is more experienced, mature, steady and popular than I. I’m not certain where I am going with all of this yet it could be BIG, the best story ever told.

Tripp is Korean, who looks like he could be anywhere from 3 to 12, is sitting at my round table, stuffing chips and little chunky delectable chocolate cookies in his mouth, in between gulps of pulpy orange juice. His father tells me the Koreans have been thriving since the 2002 World Cup and Brasil should be raking in the same success after 2014. I beg to differ and left it at that. No need to start an argument in front of Tripp and the entire congregation in the basement of the church.   

I blame my attitude on the awakeover, you know, a sleepover where the sleep never came…or rather, showed-up in wild spurts, snuggled in between strange sounds emitting from someone’s cell phone that appears to be charging but rather running out of battery time when an important meeting is to take place after work and the time and locale have not been decided upon so it is imperative the cell phone is on, charged and operating properly. The dog woke me at 3:44 to go outside and bark and snuff at some form in the yard then to take his time to urinate and who knows what else before he sauntered back while I dance in my bare feet, awaiting his return, on the lookout for the sneaky cat who is trying to get out the door. The daughter on the other side of the bed who insisted on sleeping with me instead of “alone” in the spare room complains, sighs, tosses and turns in agony of insomnia. I work at lulling her to sleep with a guided meditation, memories from our time near the ocean in Hawaii. I got exceedingly floppy but she just moaned in second-wind anguish. Nights like that make me want to stay in bed all day but I have to crawl out in the cold and take the little one to work by 6:50am. Excuse me, it’s 9:16pm and I have to go to bed.

IT Taelor

October 19, 2013

I have no control of my space bar on the laptop. It has to fall into some sort of illegal hostel takeover category. There was a bit of something minute lodged underneath the key so I swiped the slit with an envelope and then, jammed the space bar. I headed directly to YouTube to find a surprisingly long list of under eight minute laptop keyboard clean-ups, all which included directions that require a miniature tool kit that I do not possess and never have. An eyeglass repair kit will suffice as well and I do not seem to have one of those either. Suck luck! Days went by and I was still unable to hunt down anything that would work on the repair job nor did I find a computer expert who was willing to help walk me through the procedure on the phone, like a MacGyver, utilizing a pair of tweezers  and snow shoes conveniently hanging on the wall, to repair just about anything. Drat! Where is Angus when I need him?

Low and behold, Taelor arrives today and snaps off the key, brushes the unit and inserts it back into place. Wala! She’s such a smarty pants, and gutsy. I had done my bit, tossing the laptop upsidedown, sideways and banged it a good one or two times with no avail.

So, lucky for all of us, Taelor saved the day and I no longer have to create emails that begin with: sorrymylaptopspacebarkeyisstuckandIhopeyoucanreadthismessage.

For those of you who are wondering about Daejon and whether he a.ever got to jump in the leaves (no) and b.want to suggest I call the school, police, CPS or send out an APB on his mother (no,no,no, and no)

I will keep you abreast of the situation as I hear of his circumstances. In the meantime, I may have to stock mac and cheese.

Bonding Over Bread

October 18, 2013

Three loaves of rock hard bread lie in wait next to the FREE BREAD sign, desperate for a new home. One father/mother/daughter team cavort in the Laundromat, folding, sorting, aligning their clothes in practical mild carton boxes that line up near the van, to take back home. They chortle and joke with one another like this dingy spot is The latest Hot Spot. The back vinyl seats have big chunks dipped out of the center, making the 32 minutes wash and 35 minutes dry wait less than ideal. I squirm and read several chapters in my book, groaning in discomfort. One hunky guy, wearing an Old Navy sweatshirt gives me some distraction. He is listening to a Hispanic station on his shiny hand radio and smiling at me in response to my stare. A weedy bleach blonde enters, sliding several tall plastic laundry baskets into the joint. “I got it” she haltingly replies to my request to assist, since there seem to be a several trips ahead of her, by the looks of the back of her truck. There were nine containers in all, some weighing far more than the owner. Everyone has left, by the time my dryer stopped spinning, save the cheerful one, and she barely glanced my way in response to my “Have fun!” comment. Oh well, not everyone has to like me.

The bubbly blonde reminds me of the clerk at the $1.49 per pound Goodwill Outlet Store. I was scrounging through the clothes, looking for the match to a fabulous boot I found when I heard a loud, “Ma’am, Ma’am, Ma’am!” I turned to find a woman barreling down on me from the other end of the aisle, “you can’t touch the merchandise on the belt until the bell rings!” I startled and dropped the boot, in spite of the fact that my first inclination was to hide it behind my back. “Is this your first time here?” Everyone turned to stare at me. I took the opportunity to gather in the people on either side. One woman, bearing vinyl gloves like at the Dr’s office, rolled up sleeves, a glint in her eye and proud sneer that made me cringe in naivety. The other side of the belt produced another large lady with similar style gloves and a wary smile. All around me, the people collected next to the belt with a stance that suggested they are ready to bolt, in a foot race, at the sound of the gun. I agreed to wait, of course, and everyone relaxed.

I took my time sorting through many piles of clothes and realized the trauma of the reprimand stayed with me for a long time. My two pair of new fuzzy socks and hand-tooled leather belt I unearthed that day amounted to $2.49. I never did discover the other boot. It is walking alone, dejected, alongside the freeway on the way to the Laundromat.

Cheese Whiz

October 17, 2013

I’m compelled to feel fortunate that I do not have a litter of puppies to bathe, feed, trip over, collect miniature poops nor a crop of medical marijuana plants to cultivate, fend off spider mites, heat, remember to turn off the heat lamp, water and fertilize, not to mention fret over all of the above. I am free to leave for the better part of a day and not be forced to consider the consequences of leaving a teen daughter home alone with the off-chance her boyfriend will be “dropping by” and end up under the sheets together without a condom. Oh boy. Isn’t life grand?

I have another novella to attend to. Turns out Daejon doesn’t like cheese curds and wheat crackers either. If you recall, awhile back, my old upstairs neighbor, who happens to be nine, came by after being dropped by the school bus on the corner and his mom failed to collect him on time so he ended up in my sun porch. Today, incessant knocking produced much barking from Tyrus and Deajon appeared, ran past me in the livingroom, jettied to the bathroom, failing to say hello. I gave him the rundown of available snacks, leaving out the p&j option since that was not his favorite the last go-‘round. He chose cheese and crackers. Never seen a cheese curd in his life, probably never choked on whole wheat crackers either. Tyrus got his share of cheese and Grill and I are paying for that upload of excess dairy as I type this. Whew!

In the sun room, lie a grocery bag of a loaf of white bread, cans of fruit cocktail, hot dog buns, various canned soups and who knows what else. The double bag was torn and food falling from the sides. I gifted Daejon with a blue cloth bag to insert everything and take home intact. He paced around, glancing out the door a million times, got up several more times to run out the door and even down around the corner and back to check and make sure mom wasn’t waiting in the car. We ended up outside in the gorgeous sunshine so I could rake leaves while Daejon threw a ball for Ty. He ran in and out of my house, without asking, collecting stuffed toys to toss to Ty and butcher bones. I suggested he should ask me if he can go inside my home and told him I don’t want the toys outdoors since they get lost, wet and dirty. He shrugged as though it was no big deal. I asked for help to haul the blue tarp over the fence and toss the leaves in the back yard to decompose. I pointed out the leaves under the trees that have already started breaking down. Daejon grabbed the rake and made a lame attempt to pile leaves. I showed him a better angle and he raked with his jacket on his back under an empty backpack. At one point, I asked him to throw a few branches over the fence as well. “What are those little circles on there?” I could not believe this nine year old had never seen a berry before.  He was very upset his hands were purple.

I decided to bring five piles together and allow Daejon to jump in the leaves. Going over in my mind how he would react, I realized he was gone, disappeared. Several minutes later, a woman, carrying Daejon’s new blue cloth bag, asking him if I am his mother. Deajon, a bit weapy, told me he tried walking home but couldn’t remember the way on Roberts. I boxed his groceries and put him in the car with the dog. We drove this way than that and he finally figured out where he lives. I parked and hauled the box inside. The door at 102 was shut, locked and no one responded to his knock. “I will not leave you here, you have to come home with me or go back to your school,” I declared. He said he would go to Auntie Rae Rae’s. He ran ahead to the third floor and knocked on 307. “Who is it?” “It’s me, Daejon.” I stepped back, no knowing just what I would encounter on the other side. There was his mom, auntie and snoozing little sister. The mom looked up, said “Hi” and “Why didn’t you call me?” I explained I had lost my phone and Deajon didn’t know her number.
I drove home, exasperated. There is something clearly wrong with this scenario. It was nearly dark when I brought Deajon home. I shudder to think what could have happened to him, had I not been home. He is easily confused and undoubtedly “off.” When I asked what time he is usually picked up, he couldn’t tell me. Then he pointed to his jacket and said, it was as dark as that color. He attends an after school program but the “table wasn’t set up so I had to take the bus home.” Daejon had a label on his jacket with his name on it. Too bad they cannot include his mother’s phone number on it as well. Unfortunately, Daejon never did get to jump in the leaves. I may have to do that myself, in his honor.

My Buddy Vincent

October 16, 2013

The St Vincent/Salvation Army Thrift Store in my stomping grounds rocks! Crammed with treasures that keep me entertained for an hour and a half. The teenager, obviously graced with a disability, is assisting the stocker, bantering across the aisles, working through each “new arrival” article of clothing (what size, gender base, category and where it is stored on the rack) aloud and more often than not, hollering any of the above incorrectly several times, before placing it, more or less, where it belongs. “Helping Betty!” the girl cried after one small success. “Yes, you are a big help to Betty today.” I wish I worked here.

A smartly dressed elderly white-haired woman with a cheery pink floral raincoat and matching hat, handbag and shoes, pushes her brilliant red cart slowly up each aisle, ingesting goods from either side before moving onto the next shelf. I make the grave mistake of getting behind her, unable to back up with my long arms loaded down with essentials for the cat (Cool green ceramic water dish with a paw print on the bottom-the EXACT one I purchased for Kitimus, my sister’s neighbor’s cat that won’t leave,) daughter (various glass containers with lids for food storage, knit fingerless gloves that stretch up the arm, dishtowels and hot pads,) spare room (looking for a warm blanket but only found cat hair-attracting synthetics,) house guests (slippers, basket for the slippers, and cloth napkins,) the Seed Library will receive two forest green binders, and me (long-sleeved shirts.) Who doesn’t need another faux fur-lined vest?

Hormone-driven teen boys race through the sporting goods, shoes and hardware sections while their bedraggled father shifts through the work clothes area. He looks plain worn-out and as effective as luke warm tea in a raging storm. I am ravaging the mostly hideous curtains and various sized rods so I can winterize the living and dining room windows. I glance down at the woman’s basket next to me and realize she has gotten to the good stuff before me. Doubt I can distract her long enough to shuffle thru her items. Drat! Her nervous twitching encourages me to move on, feeling as though I avoided a confrontation with a mentally ill shopper. She probably thought the same of me.

The checker is thrilled to welcome me to the Salvation Army Store for the first time. She assures me the money I spent today goes directly to the end user. Aha. I spot a “Dogs Welcome” sign posted on the door and will remember to bring Ty to use as a diversion to obtain the best merchandise the store (or other shopper’s carts) have to offer.

Grill's Guest

October 15, 2013

Grill is much more like a canine than a feline. This morning I caught him scrambling around the carpet behind the large butcher bone, meant for the dog. He keeps me in the present moment, kneading my stomach (though a tough feat on a washboard) and licking or biting my fingers in protest when I fail to pat his thick head. He wants to be wherever I am, running ahead and attempting to slide tackle me when I don't pick up my feet in time. He believes it is his mealtime whenever I clank around in the cabinets for a dish or scrape a spoon against the sides of a bowl. As a two year old boy, wearing a little yellow baseball cap, appeared at the door with his mother, who was conducting a survey regarding the school-aged children in the household, he ran after Grill with a vengeance, attempting to catch his tail. Grill is too fast for most kiddos so I knabbed him for the toddler to maul. No one was hurt in the making of this story so you can be confident both child and cat are content in their own homes, sans wounds.

:Pissing Post

October 14, 2013

Revised Post since I awoke and realized it was a bad idea to post without thought. My client, whom shall remain anonymous, has called, left a message this morning to tell me my services will not be needed today or Wednesday. Hm. Perhaps someone who knows someone who knows the client (all anonymous)contacted her and suggested I should be canned. That will not allow me to address the issues in the same vein so I edited my last post and aim to move forward in a different direction. There is perhaps a better way to manage my disgruntlement.

Yesterday, someone shared about a work fax that was sent out to a client "Looking forward to spanking you on such and such a date!" Not clear what should have replaced the spanking bit. Although we screamed in delight, the error must have been devastating for the sender. Better to correct the mistake first than ask for forgiveness later.

I quit!

October 13, 2013

Happy Birthday to my niece, who returned recently from a Peace Corps stint in Cambodia. Wonderful to have you back, How Do You Solve A Problem Like…Maria!

Eighteen years ago, I met this clutch of women, while working in the travel industry. We celebrated a friend’s birthday together, disturbing the peace of those around us with heartfelt laughter and elation over an early lunch.  Shared episodes of family life, work relations gone awry and surprisingly, not much regarding love interests. It feels fantastic to belly laugh a Sunday afternoon away, creating renewed bonds and concrete friendships.  

Queen's Speech

October 12, 2013

The Aztec Dancers appear at the Farmers Market Harvest Festival in their ceremonial glory. They dance and swirl with messages from the Sun, Wind and Mother Earth to assist with the harvest of food for the planet (and our West Side neighborhood.) I prepare to give an announcement about our Seed Library Project, hoping it doesn’t end up sounding like the King’s Speech, jittery and stammering. Have a friend from the Committee who agrees to hold up an example of the seed envelope people can obtain from the box at the library, starting as early as January, for their greenhouse plantings.

The cider press is biting apples, making sweet juice to accompany the vegetable soup, ingredients provided by the community from their still producing gardens. I sell off my supply of maple syrup and am kicking myself that I didn’t throw more in the back of my vehicle. A man whom I have never set eyes on before, approached the area to include his untamed spider plants to the mix at the community table. Had I known he would blab on about his canning projects, indoor plant collection and a lot of nothing in particular while customers stood at the table, glancing at the products to buy, I would have told him I was the only one who can sell at the table. Hard not to appear rude when I need to cut him off to speak with the paying clients. Good customer service is innate, I believe, and not everyone is aware of the skill.

The Festival ends and I do not have to give my presentation after all. The Queen has been given a pardon.

It is alarmingly cool today, windy and chilly out of the sun. Closed all of the screens on the windows to prevent the draft from coming into the house. It appears to be lacking in insulation and I may place plastic sheeting inside the windows, as unsightly as it can be, I am far too practical not to address it. I can tell the pets will be no help with the project so I am on my own with that and painting the kitchen cabinets, cupboards and trim, a cheery blue. Beats grease stains and spattered food.

Dog Dirt

October 11, 2013

A rich floral bikini, eight wind instrument mouthpieces accompanied by a wooden stand, Kryptonite Lock and key, a set of panniers, wooden pieces to assemble into a picture frame and over 3 oz lotions that could not be hand-carried on the flight were unearthed today from a box nestled between the van seats on my sun porch. The USPS delivery drivers are now fully aware of the thefts in this neighborhood and beginning to be selective about the drop spot. I can certainly appreciate the extra effort since I arrived home after dark.

Since Tyrus was bawling at my daughter’s house while left with the roomies as we went grocery shopping and out for a bite to eat last night, I chose to take him to work today. No, there isn’t a Take Your Separation Anxiety Driven Dog To Work Day as a formal holiday but I am certain several people have signed the petition to pass a law. We went to the first cleaning job and met up with Bella (who is also a victim of the same above disorder and has been caught urinating in the house so something has to be done.) Ty spent the majority of the gorgeous sunny day outdoors on the deck while I slaved away inside. He whined several times, within sight of me, and I suppose he is just practicing for when he cannot spot my face. Onto the next client’s where one medium-sized crazed Border Collie lives and his companion, a Dane/Sheppard were delighted to play with Ty. He remained with them while I ventured off to visit with my little old lady.

“B” let me know she was anxious for me to return. It was the kindest thing she could have said. I am never quite sure how things are going and just assume, as long as she isn’t poisoned by my cooking, I still have a job. Handling meat is not one of my favorite pastimes but she eats whatever I put in front of her. With a low sodium, no fat diet, I can hardly be blamed for the blandness of the meals. I place everything on kindergarden trays, sectioned off into three compartments and seal them in plastic, cover it all with foil and write “C” (chicken,) “P” (pork,) or “B” for beef in bold black letters. The first attempt had to be corrected three times before I got the proper size. Damn, it sucks to have macular degeneration. I work hard at not taking any of my faculties for granted. Is this font too small?

Determine Your Day

October 9, 2013

Today something delicious will happen!

I tend to notice my attitude when I make this declaration while lying in bed each morning. Even when the warmed coffee cup tips and splays mocha across the countertop and drips down onto the clean kitchen floor, my reaction is less fury and more acceptance. The ceramic bird I got in the PNW chipped as I removed my winter coat from the luggage and it fell six inches to the floor. Had it safe and sound, in my room, miles away from where I bought it, only to be damaged while unpacking it. Again, I resign to the assurance that it is just “stuff” and I move on, considering how I can glue the dust particles to the tail feathers and make it indiscernible to the aged eye.  

Do I view people, places, circumstances as “delicious” since I warble my mantra each day? Or would those things have occurred regardless. The yellow leaves falling from the trees, scooped by the wind to swirl in front of me as I walk the safe streets in my neighborhood. I drive leisurely to my appointments, leaving the house on-time, preparing meals in advance so I am not gobbling in hast and low blood sugar, sending out a letter or postcard daily, to reach out to friends and family, lying on the floor with the dog, to stroke him and massage his muscles while checking for ticks, playing fetch with the cat and reading a chapter or two from my latest book.  

I encourage you to say aloud, with conviction, what kind of day you want to have…luscious, dreamy, playful, tender, healthy, prosperous or delicious!

Alerted Tenant

October 10, 2013

He appeared angry and sullen, my new short haircut is a personal affront to him. I did not get my usual exuberant hug when I walked in the door this time. An incredible reaction to witness and absorb from a longtime friend who believes women are unattractive unless they have long locks. His unwavering disapproval and smirk are a dead giveaway. I bear no grudge. Still startles me to glimpse my reflection and extremely dark wavy bristles.

Glided through security yesterday afternoon at the SeaTac Airport. The free pass no visible sweaty socks, no jewels to remove, no need to extract excess coins from my pocket, no baggie of liquids to scrounge for, no laptop to mine. I did not have to swirl around with my arms above my head nor be pat down like a fugitive. A test for the lucky passengers who made reservations for the Wednesday afternoon flights from Seattle. The crafty agent sounded like a used car salesman, working us to purchase the extra expedient service in the future. I was relieved to find non-Starbucks coffee in the gate area and settled down with my paperback, stack of magazines and sufficiently small carry-on.

The flight is far from full and yet, little room to stretch out for a nap so I pile up my materials to read and drown out the neighboring fellows who insist on blabbing the entire two and a half hours. I found out about their family histories, personal career efforts and financial advice whether I needed it or not. Anxious to be home and in bed, I made a list of things to do upon my arrival, preparing for the day of work and errands ahead of me.

Too many things on my plate to relax and fall asleep, once home.

The cat refused to let me out of his site. I could tell by the chart I manufactured, the neighbor had already been by to feed him so I ignored his whiny,graspy meow.

At 12:38am, I heard footsteps moving above me. Scratching sounds from above that startled my skin. No one lives in the upper unit. I made my way in the dark to the front of the house. An extended cab was idling on the street, just across from my front yard. I heard someone coming down the stairs so I stepped away from the window to see a man run down the sidewalk and into the car, lit flashlight in hand. I believe it is my landlord. He could not have been upstairs for more than ten minutes and gone, dashing down the street into the dark of night. I lay awake for a long time after that, insufferably conjuring up a best selling short story of Dan, the insane landholder.

Murder Weapon

October 8, 2013
     A student I know well is working on cultivating an ulcer so a new diet, creating a compassionate support system, elaborate reconfiguration of attitude and such is in order. No coffee, no acidic foods or drink, no staying up late and getting up at the crack of dawn. Collaboration with her clan is important so off we go!
     A day of bookkeeping keeps my head in the clouds. A rainy and chilly day turns sunny and cool. The course of action traveling back and forth between the West Coast and Mid West is a conundrum.
     Once I begin to imagine the cat, alone for hours, days, weeks on end I feel guilty and unclear about my commitments. One more solid day of bashing my brain against the Quickbooks for Dummies handbook, chock full of irresponsible messages that send me on a wild goose chase with little to show for an hour of work. Rolling and unraveling items from my crammed suitcase to choose things to haul home or sail a small box via the still functioning USPS. I purchased a swanky and utilitarian kitchen knife for the offspring and cannot possibly get by with it on the flight so that gets tucked in a corner of the cardboard box to send along its merry way home. Since we have had some issues with villains stealing items from the front porches in St Paul, I need to give my neighbor the heads-up so it will be set inside the secured front door. Otherwise my fingerprints may end up at a murder scene and I have to take the rap.

Stellar Stella

October 5, 2013

My nephew gave me excerpts from his Chinese 101 over ice cream. He is studying Anthropology in his Social Studies class as well and provided me with details about "Lucy" that I was clearly unaware of. Don't ask me about her now because I have slept since that conversation. I retain about as much as a housefly these days. I have to make up most of what I discuss during a dinner party and hope that the other guests are just as senile or gullible.

Several Hospice stories came to light as a friend asked me about volunteering. He is spending his remaining years, considering his trepidation over the idea he may die someday. A short-term patient, let's call her Stella, whom I sat with while volunteering with Hospice, suffering from bladder cancer came immediately to mind. I had to phone her up, prior to my approaching her mobile home, settled in the woods out in the boonies of Jefferson County, and shout my impending arrival. She sported a shotgun and was gainfully unpredictable. So thin, her sweatpants flew to the floor with a breeze emitting from the microwave. She was a "League of One's Own" professional baseball player while the men were rallied off to war. A massive television blared in the living room the size of a business card, while she smoked, the tar seeping into the kitchen cabinets, saturated towels hanging from the rail, even the spider webs collected the nasty, sticky substance. Stella was one of my favorites and obviously popular, with a packed funeral service not too many months after I began to visit with her. They brought her gun, along with a series of photos she saved, of herself in uniform, playing ball and traveling with her teammates.

Growing Pains

October 7, 2013

Quickbooks is a misnomer. Especially when I have not been working with that particular program for over twenty four months. It is a good thing I have patient clients and a lot of time to sort out the Quarterly tax forms, shift through two years of files from the landscaping business to pack away for another three years, generate invoicing, creating payroll checks, receiving payments, shuffling receipts to include in the petty cash box and pick my nose a lot in between functions. I am actually astounded at what I recall easily and what I have to pull out of the dredges of the webbed cellar in order to do my job expediently. It is another language and yet another silly hat I wear in life. Cleaning up other people’s business is not always easy yet certainly more appealing than messing with my own, for the time being.

The conversation drifted to my going back to college to complete my degree last night. An ebb and flow of discussing where to live (with my pop?) how to continue paying expenses and finishing a process I began over 35 years ago. Daunting yet perhaps unavoidable at this stage of the game. I escaped the University of Minnesota in my  Junior year, with few credits remaining, due to lack of funds and a lot of fear about borrowing money from the bank. There are numerous facilities to create my own curriculum and the ability to utilize my life experiences to adjust the number of credits I will need to complete a degree. The last time I met with the Dean of Students at a small college in Minneapolis, I was expected to take a full load for two years, be accountable for over $35,000 and I departed wondering when I would have the time to work as well, paying my bills. Believe it is time to consider the option again with a bit more emphasis on alternative academic programs. First things first, I will need a sensible backpack and groovy lunchbox.

Couch and Chair Blues

October 4, 2013

I'll buy the couch and chair, claims the obviously pregnant woman, sighing with relief as she parks her butt comfortably on the steel blue fabric in front of the house. She waddles into the house to take a peek at the 7' couch and insists she will talk with her boyfriend and they will retrieve it the following day. There is a lot of interest in the set so I am confident if the couple decides they don't want the furniture, I can pass it along to the next buyer.

Just when I was about to give up, the woman, her beau and another toothless dude arrived 40 minutes late. I drug the oversized chair to the truck and propped open the gate for the couch maneuvering. We need a sheet, do you have a towel, how about some detergent and a rag to clean off the sofa where we scraped the trash barrel against the face of the new lounger. By the time they left, the owner of the pieces gave the buyers a $75 discount. I became exasperated and nearly immediately let the process wash over me. Onto the next furniture whiner buyer.

Nailcare Provider

October 5, 2013

 

The long-haired flowery skirted buyer requests a discount claiming she is a starving artist. The items she chose from the limited stock at the sale were nothing significantly valuable, save the 1930’s magazine rack. Since it was the end of the last day of our Downsizing Sale, I relented and wrapped the pile of items for her to take home. The purchaser also happens to be the last person to provide a massage for the client’s mother, as she lay dying in the hospital bed in the living room, just ten feet away from my chair. It was no small effort on her part to clip and file down said mom’s nails on her sensitive feet and hands. I admire and respect the women (have yet to observe a man in this manicure/pedicure capacity) who are willing and capable at managing this particularly nasty job without the slightest sneer of disgust on their face. With that in mind, I probably would have given her “the farm” and be done with my unbalanced ledger. I cannot assume to be offering-up that kind of generosity anytime soon. Off went the magazine rack and plastic bagfuls of unreasonably dusty items.

The remaining household goods are selected for donation at the FREE STORE and remaining two bins of valuables are to be stored once again inside the house. It was a valuable project for me, 50 hours of sorting, cleaning, posting, creatively displaying and bargaining for sanity in the crazy world of yard/garage/estate sales.

Hair Farmers

October 3, 2013

The GPX 5000 Minelab metal detector has a buyer and a back-up guy in case something goes awry. The Grand Piano sits mocking me in the basement, no one interested in the dime-a-dozen used piano market. The small Stihl chain saw nearly started a price war but it is out the door and we are onto the next hot item-the steel blue barely used couch and chair. The oak dining room table can be set for a family of eight so I am hoping to convince the masses to buy it. The billiard table wreaks havoc with the décor yet it is too humungous to deal with now. Where is the motorcycle gang when you need 'em? 

Minca has clots of hair falling from her ancient body. She purrs in ecstasy while I mangle her thick neck and gather the hair into both hands. She was my lap companion for many years while I was a Hospice volunteer in this house and yet, would swipe me with indignation if I pet her for too long. Now she is old and mellow. I can maul her to my delight and she doesn't flinch. The dog has now taken over my bed and flings fur around like crazy. She is also coated with extra fluff and tends to leave a drift of white hair in her wake. Just like home.

Neon Signs

October 2, 2013-10-03

Huge Downsizing Sale creates chaos in the household. Gradually diminishing items socked-away in hall closets, under the stairs like breeding mice, excess dishware and gold mining goodies come out of the woodwork. Breathing in fumes from the squeaky thick sharpie market while making eight brilliant signs to post along the road sides to entice the hoarders.

Have time to breath-in the great outdoor salty air near the beach on a walk late in the day. Visit with a friend whom I have not seen since I left town two years ago. A lot to catch-up on over glasses of wine, cheese crackers, nuts and grapes. New beau becomes highlight of the conversation as we gossip about their meeting, his foibles and character flaws. He doesn’t appear to have many of the latter so I approve of this ad.

In a Haze

October 1, 2013

Recently discovered one of the neighborhood High Schools had a group of teens involved in hazing. A friend's son went to the party, not realizing what was going on in the crowd. Horrible behavior, bullying the Freshman, humiliating acts that encouraged bystanders to be included. How to teach the youth that, if they are in the group, they are a part of the problem. Not stepping in, at least talking about it in their own club, they are guilty by association. If no one has the courage to disrupt the pattern, it will perpetuate the poor judgment and lead others astray. The Principal sent out an all-encompassing email to the parents to let them know of the party and hazing activities. It is a community issue and needs a community effort to address underlying fault.

I discussed this situation with several friends. We talked about peer pressure, how most people do not have the courage to step up and speak to the consequence. Not many have the chance to experience being leaders, especially successful ones. Most slide along behind or group like sheep in the middle, fearing the front of the line. So exposed, a vulnerable place for the majority. The ones lagging behind cannot fault the leaders since they do not share the same air nor the risk.

How to redirect a challenging circumstance that effects so many. What will it take to change the way people deal with conflict and uncertainty, be brave and speak up. The youth are like a herd of wild animals, skiddish and suspecting. We need to find the voice, the grace, example, share our stories to help them to see how being the 100th monkey can alter their world. Change the consciousness to include people versus scare them into submission.