Notice to Vacate

September 6, 2013

     Notice to Vacate, Condemnation Notification, 72 Hour Warning to Shut-Off the Water, a Foreclosure Sign, plastered to windows, doors, and gates around the neighborhood. Everything being equal, I realize just how close I have come to be in the same position to any one of these people, in the last six months. One false move, a few late payments, high interest loans, errors in judgment at a bar let alone a fancy restaurant a night or two in the month. Wham. Warnings appear in the mailbox, stuck at eye-level on the front door to accompany those pangs of gargantuan fear. Curious about the landlords who continue to rent to tenants that cannot pay their bills. It is a vicious circle. My landlord lost tenants in three units because he didn’t prepare the lease in a responsible manner. He also ignored the warning signs and complaints from the surrounding homes, neighbors and police reports. Is he naive or simply unaware of the pitfalls of renting to friends, family and word of mouth referrals that are seemingly stable, responsible and long-term philosophy folks.

     A package was nabbed from a neighbor’s front porch the other day. It was a Federal Express box, obviously too tempting for the robber to leave alone. Happened to be an expensive electronics item and the I-can’t-wait-to-get-my-hands-on-the-thief owner is devastatingly disturbed. If someone comes to my door, peeks in the windows, there is no evidence of anyone remotely interested in high tech appliances or electronics. No television in sight, no stereo, keyboard, desktop or even surge protectors. Ho hum, they can skip over my home. Or so I thought. On Tuesday, I noticed the back door wasn’t deadbolted, the lock on the knob itself was turned, something I never do. Took a look at the other back door and the latch was slid to the left, leaving it unlocked. A basement window was ajar-strange since there are bars along each small window, impossible for anyone to come or go. I tattled on whomever entered the house, to the neighbors on both sides as well as the guys across the street, so they could keep an eye on my house and theirs. Beware, thieves, we all have our eyes peeled.

Canine Cavorting

September 5, 2013

My dashing Physical Therapist is more than a bit conventional. I finally convinced him to provide me with “light” therapy today, which is done with a machine that applies energy to my weakened tissues. He zapped my inner ankle for forty seconds in several areas then smirked loudly, humoring me, I’m sure. Let him know that I know, the more confident I am about its healing properties, the better chance the therapy will help. He wholeheartedly agreed yet I could tell, is convinced it is a exasperating “Woo Woo” method. Of course, I got my way, at least for the last three sessions out of twelve. My PT also assured me that my ankle is in great shape, much better than some recent patients, who have come back after a year from surgery, with complications. It has been three and a half months since my last surgery and I reluctantly admit the progress is enormous.

Spent the rest of the day with eleven German Shorthaired Pointers or various versions of the breed. Skeeter, Wally, Baxter, Heidi, DeeDee, Peter, Bella, and the like are very rambunctious (save the two elders in the bunch) who kept me on my toes. They ran like the Dickens around, behind, ahead and out of sight of the golf cart, through the fields surrounding the house and brought me such joy to watch them canter. Initially, they were naughty school boys and sassy girls, jumping and scratching my legs while I shouted “Down” when I should have said “Off,” and mean it when I suggested they should “Kennel Up,” though they simpered, and teased by ignoring me. I will get things under control, sooner than later, you’ll see. Hosed and picked clean the dusty gravel, sprayed cement runs, concrete floors and smooth stainless crates, sanitized cages, scooped a variety of dry food, scoured slobbery meal dishes and slimy water jugs, vacuumed a small dog’s worth of hair, petted, rough-housed, and scolded all of them, while they whined incessantly in their cages. They are all energetic and stole my heart. I’ll be back again to please them, soon enough.

Upside Down Life

September 4, 2013

Our lives become a room full of dusty plastic plants, perched on the grimy mantle above our heads, clinging to our past. We select them for decor, unaware they will accompany us to the bitter end. These dim green stems with pasty flowers, gummed together, a gentle reminder for our guests, of better days, when we could actually see their faces, now a blur that melts into the dingy curtains that block out all life. Christmas ornaments curled up under the couch, awaiting their dumpster demise when recovered. Ornaments, manufactured since the past five decades are so much more interesting than Styrofoam balls covered with felt, glued eyes, and saggy Santa hat. Photos pasted into thick nylon books are now smeared and the once matte finish, eaten away by decay. It’s of no concern to us since we do not recognize the people in the pictures, hugging us, laughing with us, experiencing the Seven Wonders of the World together. Favorite cassette tapes, CD’s, even books on tape, worthless to the foggy hearing. Decks of cards tossed to the back of the drawers, useless to their owner who adored playing every Thursday evening with friends. Jackets, sequin sweatshirts, sweater sets and jumpers hang at odd angles in the closet, pushed aside for comfy mumus and flimsy robes. No shoes grace the floor since we can’t wear any of our favorites, all are discarded in silent agreement.

Empty boxes of all sizes, Kleenex (used or not,) empty toilet paper and paper towel rolls, rubber bands, stacks of paper napkins from restaurants of all sorts, plastic containers, both pint and quart sizes, coupons from another lifetime, magazine articles and opened mail, all sorted and organized for storage. Everything lies in anticipation of a rainy day.

My world narrows since hers is so minute, and I care for her. Everything is a reminder of what she can no longer do. The television has become the enemy since she cannot follow the baseball, basketball, hockey puck, football, golf ball, tennis ball, and her most recent adoration-the soccer ball. The radio is welcoming as she sits in her daytime/nighttime perch-the recliner, and hugs the sound of the announcer’s hoarse voice, roaring the plays. I clean, wipe, toss, dust, vacuum, reorganize, shuffle food, cook, make lists and do laundry in between all of the games of the year. For the moment, she is content, happy even.

The Great Trash Capor

September 3, 2013

The neighbor lady phoned into the police station to report a woman tossing loose garbage into her private trash can. She wanted to “shout out” to the neighborhood encouraging them to place their cans inside the fences, to prevent the onslaught of people, unwilling or unable to have their personal company cans to fill. She claims to not be able to determine just what kind of perilous rubbish is being housed in her receptacle. Who does that? I predict a future when we will no longer have a place to throw “away” to and then what-hoarding our smelly compost in the back yards, building sheds on top of the piles, to prevent them from taking control? Maybe having to figure out a way to eat our refuse, in order to diminish the mountain.

I have bigger things to worry about in my household. Have to take a sponge bath since I do not have tepid, let alone hot water from the showerhead, bathroom sink nor the kitchen. Do not have the courage to wet my back or stomach with ice cold water. The falls in Hawaii are warmer than this. I get concerned thinking about those frigid winter mornings when my nostril hair will freeze in contempt. Sent a pleading note with my rent this month, to fix the heater, pipes or feed the starving elves in the basement who keep the coal stove lit.

The woman who used to torture me through the ceiling shows up looking for her son today. Apparently he takes the school bus to our corner stop and she will collect him. He is nowhere to be found. Changing the route is probably under swapping the postal address on her To Do List. It sounds as though she has a lot on her mind these days so I simply give her the go ahead to have her nine year old come here and wait, if need be. No sense having him in a panic on the street corner after the bus drops him off. He can hang out with me, the dog and cat, have a cookie and glass of rice milk while we wait.    

Fare Day

September 2, 2013

“We already spent $180 today so I have to go back to the cash machine line,” she belted as I passed, on the way to the Fairgrounds exit. Another woman admitted they were out a mere $80 and has to take the bus home immediately, before she has to file bankruptcy. I am shocked and dragging my left foot more than a bit, while juggling an apple caramel malt from the Dairy Barn, three cow face masks for Taelor and her roomies, and my sack full of snacks from before the parade. Rode in my good friend’s fairy car, didn’t manage the “wave,” very well, however.  I succumbed to the Queen Wave, in the end, whatever that is. Should have gotten “elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist” lessons prior to the event. Drat.

The dude in the yellow corvette claimed to be waiting for the darling tall blonde to ride in the back of his car. My girlfriend and I exchanged a “loser” look and continued to pretend we cared whether she appeared in his life to save the day, prior to the parade send-off. I declined his lame half-hearted offer to sit in the back of his fancy sports car after the beauty queen failed to grace our presence. Too bad for him. I had a grand time in the fairy car, declaring little children can turn into fairies, with the wave of my magic, glittery branch wand.

Don’t do mobs well. The last time I was in a crowd of over 60,000 bodies was in Seattle at the anti-war march. It was a moving and powerful attraction, though didn’t give me much fuel for confidence in the White House members, who fell short in listening to the general public’s wishes.

I shuffled along at the Fair for a few hours, got several flat tires on my bad ankle. I am reluctant to “give way” though I never quite certain I was headed in the right direction. The people watching is always good but seeing the newborn piglets made my day. I am good for another year or five.

"NO!"

September 1, 2013

One in every four women is a survivor of sexual assault. A woman is raped every two minutes. I am shocked by the alarming statistics as I watch “Until Someone Wakes Up,” in which eight performers (one of whom is my wonderfully successful actor daughter) at Hamline’s auditorium. The show consists of 20 vignettes that depict true stories of women and men who have been victimized by their attacker. It is a charged performance that made me squirm in my chair in the dark room, while I consider the people closest to me whom have experienced parallel stories.

Incoming Freshman at Hamline and students at campuses across the country will watch this play, learn about how to stand up to protect themselves, scream if they have to, or communicate with clarity what has happened, if it does. No does actually mean no. One in four will continue to be a survivor of a sexual assault, unless we decrease those figures, by taking a stand on education, talking to our children about sex, and being more aware.

Thank you, my precious Taelor, for helping the cause, spreading the word, and being a courageous, and fabulous actor. 

"Like" the Lynx

August 31, 2013

It’s like bringing sand to the beach. I am overjoyed to be at the Lynx game with my good friend, who surprised me with tickets. A ride on the LightRail and beers downtown, then joining the masses to watch the women play. What a blast! My High School and college basketball experiences came whooshing in and I got into the groove of clapping, bopping to the tunes on the loud speakers, stood to cheer every five minutes, made lewd comments about the many entertaining acts the marketers came up with in between quarters and waved off the cotton candy, beer, peanuts, kettlecorn, coffee, massive sodas and slushies that paraded by. Impressed with the crowd of four seated in front of us since they were cheering the Seattle Sonics with gusto. They had won the trip in Washington state, which included airline tickets, fancy room at the downtown Marriot and their well appointed seats at the game (Lynx stomped them.)

One day I am groping a woman from behind to steal the ball on the court, the next I am sitting in the stands, watching women half my age or more, play like their lives depend upon it. Looks like the Lynx may very well head to the Championship.