Are We Clear Now?

Practice

It's just me and Newton for the next couple of weeks. Reid is off to California to visit his girlfriend. It's awfully quiet here. And I expect the ice bin in the freezer will stay mostly full for the duration. I have projects to complete, most importantly the wall in Reid's bedroom that has been in a state of incompletion since the egress window was installed last April. Also a few finishing touches to the basement bathroom, a bit of baseboard here, some caulk and anchoring screws there. Somehow finishing his bedroom and bathroom have been next to impossible with him dwelling in their midst. Oh, and I guess that possibly all the outdoor projects took precedence. The preposterous pile of mulch and demolishing the hideous swingset and keeping new plants alive. How could I have already forgotten the project without end that is now completed? The deck has a lovely new paint job that has been holding up quite nicely to all of the rain this last week. Plus me taking some goof-off time. I expect this time will be normal in a sense, the minutes seemingly dragging by while the days fly. I'll get some practice in with empty-nesting. How many cats are required for me to attain crazy-old-cat-lady status?
  

Is The New Playboy In?

The passing of Mr Hefner has sparked a memory of my dear little brother. So I'm sharing. Cullen and I were roommates in a little duplex at the corner of State and Dakota Avenues. At the time I worked for the State Newspaper Association, and Cullen had just graduated from high school and was attending South Dakota State University. Since it was our hometown, a number of his high school buddies were also freshman at SDSU, most of them living in dorm rooms but a few still at home with their parents. The guys got together and pitched in to pay for a subscription to Playboy magazine. And given their various living situations, thought it best to have it delivered to Cullen. In the dormitories, the mailboxes were quite small, and packages and periodicals were left on a shelf. I think for the most part, dorm occupants were decent about leaving packages to those they were addressed to. But a naughty magazine was almost guaranteed to disappear in short order. And if you were an eighteen year old guy still living with his parents? Please! A nudie magazine, yeah, the interviews and articles notwithstanding, was not likely to show up without some grilling from the parental units. This was odd, I thought, since Mom was still living with us until around November that first year. But she was the cool mom, I guess, and I was just an older sister. Not really an adult even though I was conveniently old enough to procure booze for them, should I choose to contribute to their delinquency. All I remember was at some point each month the usually anonymous phone calls would commence asking if the new issue was in. I'd tell them to find my brother and ask him before summarily hanging up. Occasionally there would be the brave soul at the door with a similar query. If he had the balls to ask in person, and the new Playboy had indeed arrived, I would hand it over. I have a number of stories about incidents from those two years, but this is probably my favorite. This is also one of those times where I would love to call him up so we could both have a good laugh. Even though that's not possible, I find myself grateful that this memory gives over to laughter and not tears. It's a good place to be. 

I Love Sherman Alexie

I can't claim a single drop of Native American blood. Which makes me forever grateful to Sherman Alexie for giving me what little insight I have into that world. The world of growing up Native, of reservation life, of Native culture. To get your feet wet, watch the 1998 film Smoke Signals. Alexie wrote the script based on his earlier writings. Listen to the Minnesota Public Radio podcast, Talking Volumes, where Alexie talks about his most recent book, a memoir of his mother. If you aren't hooked by his insight, his unique vision, and his often brutal honesty, well, you probably don't have a heart. 

Ouchies!

My ear hurts! A legacy from childhood ear infections, my inner ears boast scar tissue that seems to make a perfect incubation lab for random infections. So any time I experience the beginnings of cold symptoms, any developing congestion has a tendency to settle there, particularly in my left ear. I have spent the last couple of days with a heat pack on the left side of my neck. The heat, coupled with some aggressive massage around my ear, does an effective job of breaking up that congestion and sending it on its way. Maybe half the time I take these measures I circumvent a full blown cold, and if I don't avoid a cold completely, the heat and massage make for lessened symptoms for a shorter period of time. Taking some down time after weeks of yard and painting work was probably in order, but my ear is forcing me to take it easy. After spending the last three days wearing the same clothes in a totally pitiful, unshowered state, I know I'm feeling better due to the fact I was disgusted with myself. After a steamy shower and dressed in fresh clothes, I am close to being able to rejoin the human race. 

Missing Miss Molly

The Future According to President Obama

Fallish Flowers

Furry Fiend

What squirrel? Where? 

He looks like a peach thief to me. I think he's munching on one of the tiny fallen rotting, possibly fermented, apples that are all over the yard. They're forced to resort to the easy stuff because the peaches are gone! Because he and his motley little gang of pretty-tailed fence-runners got to them while I was distracted with deck painting! He's sitting on the pallets that will eventually become the compost bins. He and his ilk will then think, oooh!, a restaurant for us! I hate squirrels.   

Sorry, Grandma

I  know, it's still September. I know, it was about ten degrees warmer in the house than outside. I know, there is a possibility, however slight, that there could be a warm day in the next few weeks when I may be tempted to turn on the AC. But my toes, even inside my fat gray socks with the white snowflakes, were chilly. So I ran the furnace to take the chill off. I only set the thermostat five degrees higher than the room temp, and turned it right down again once one heating cycle was complete. I'm such a weenie.

Until I Get it Right

Understanding follows acceptance. I know this is how it works. Yet sometimes I still stubbornly insist on understanding a thing before I will accept it. I am only an egg, I have so much to learn. And I'm most aware of how little I know when I experience a moment of clarity that follows accepting what cannot be changed. Edited. Altered. So. Of late I have been preoccupied with dissecting a past relationship, picking it apart in an attempt to discern what I learned from it in order to let it go. Over and over again, I would hit a wall tinged with a longing for another shot at making it work, even though I knew that was not what I wanted. I ended up at that wall once more just a couple of days ago. I stared at it in frustration until at last I gave over to acceptance. This is over. I don't want it back. I let go. And immediately felt a warm blanket of emotional comfort envelop me from head to toe. For the remainder of the day, I felt lighter in the wake of letting go of a burden I was choosing to carry. Acceptance was mine. I slept well and deeply that night. Upon waking I clearly retained the images from a dream, and pondered what had taken place in that dream. Inside that introspection was a lesson. He didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt that I so readily extended to him. At first, yes, but not after proving that he wasn't reliable. Understanding is now mine. And with that understanding there is room inside me to let better things come into my life. I think I may finally be a grownup when I can go to acceptance without a struggle.   

I Miss This Guy

Me and Steinie. Ringing in 2012.

Rocket Man vs The Dotard

Summon the inchworm in from the marigolds!

Joyous Mabon

As the wheel of the year turns, let's pause for a moment. And find balance and peace on this day when the light and the dark are equal. Contemplate what you wish to leave behind and what you wish to embrace in warmth as winter approaches. Until then, honor the crone in your tribe. Give thanks for the harvest and the crispness in the fall air. Go into your kitchen and brew up a cauldron of soup to enjoy. Light a candle in remembrance of what has passed and what is yet to come.

The Deck is Done!

Flying the Bitch Flag

How delightful it is to attempt to have a real conversation about the problems in this country. With a troll. Wait, two trolls in as many days. I attempt in a friendly and engaging manner to put forth facts and associated links to verified sources. And in response I get personal attacks and speculation about how I likely spend my days, the number of hours I devote to watching daytime television, how many cats I have, what my relationship status is, how many children I have given birth to, whether I am oppressed, and am instructed to go buy a Starbucks with my welfare money. I guess I could counter with scurrilous accusations but I'm genuinely interested in having the conversation. I'm curious over how they have managed to work up such a fever pitch of anger toward whomever they see as the enemy. It's as if they are so deeply devoted to their personal, misdirected hostility that all they are capable of seeing are the walls of their own echo chamber. After a full paragraph of insults, and nary a mention of the subject we were discussing, the Electoral College, I volleyed back with this:

Such a common tactic, Joe. When you have nothing of substance to say you revert to personal attack. One, when I feel worried, I take action. Two, I don't watch television, I read newspapers and objective online journalism. Three, my cat is a guy and he objects to clothing and manicures. Yes, I'm a liberal, and I'll go you one further, I'm a progressive. When you are mature enough to discuss real life issues like a grownup, then we can talk. But you'll have to take a general quiz on civics and history first. If you get a passing grade, then I won't feel like it's a waste of time. Otherwise, keep hiding behind your macho white man privilege. It's the place you're most comfortable.
   

Pirate Eye Exam Chart

Now, move that eye patch over to the other eye, please...

Allow Me To Explain

A few weeks ago I heard the phrase let me unpack this a bit on a radio news show. Since then I have heard numerous variations, let's unpack this or a lot to unpack here. Not sure who is responsible for starting this phrase, but it certainly has caught on. And I was just getting used to let me break this down for you. We could go way back and start unpeeling all the layers of some metaphorical onion. We've gone from layered bulb vegetables that make you cry to chemistry and now we're emptying out suitcases. When all we're really doing is explaining something in its simplest terms. But we must have a trending catchphrase, you say. I'm sitting here peeled, broken, and unpacked. Was there something you wanted to tell me?  

44.3%

Peach Crop 2017

One peach, children. That is all, just one. A week ago there were about a dozen in the tree, and I should have picked them then. The damn squirrels aren't so picky about ripeness. And after they knock them to the ground, the little bastards generally eat less than half of the fruit. They gnaw on each one just enough to make it pointless to try to salvage the rest. Then leave it lying in the sun to attract insects. The peach in the photo was the last one hanging. It's solid as a rock but I picked it anyway. It will ripen quite nicely on the kitchen counter where it will be safe from the various vermin out in the yard. Then I shall enjoy the entire 2017 peach crop in one sitting. On the bright side, there is still enough of last year's crop for a pie and a bit of jam in the freezer. There's always next year.

Abso-Freaking-Lutely!

You know how you do that, well, maybe you don't, thing where you say the first part of a word, then insert an interesting colorful word for emphasis, then finish saying the word? There's a word for that! And that word is tmesis. Tmesis. Say it! t(ə)ˈmēsəs. That was fun, wasn't it? Sounds kind of like a disease. Or something else unpleasant, maybe a rash. If you find yourself in Australia, this verbal construct is called a tumba rumba. That sounds like a dance craze. Say, baby, let's tumba rumba off to some-bloody-where more fun than this! Fan-freaking-tastic!

My Bloomin' Hoya!

So Close to Painting!!

Cutting boards is messy work. And the sawdust sticks to one so beautifully when one is sweaty. I like to think of it as industrial glitter. A little more scraping, screwing down the replacement board and a couple of trim boards, and a thorough sanding is all that stands between me and a paintbrush loaded with primer. Tomorrow I will be so industrially glittery you'll think I'm on my way to a rave.

Old News

Well, this is crappy, but slightly ambiguous, news. Just to be safe, I'm keeping an eye on my credit card accounts. If you are curious about whether your personal information may have been affected by the hack, go here and follow the instructions. This makes me feel almost as secure as those Publishers Clearing House contest entries. You may already be a winner. 

My Sis Knows Me

Yes, Martine, I love this tshirt. Pink camper, pink flamingo, yes, yes, yes! I wonder if I could pull that adorable pink camper with this. That would be perfect.

Piece of Cake! Not!

Click on the image for a larger, more readable version.

Study this chart. Because it's likely that you were lucky enough to be born here and do not have to go through the rigor and expense to become an American citizen. Don't tell anyone to get in line and stop being lazy. That's a clear indication that you are clueless. It's entirely likely that you wouldn't make the grade to immigrate here if these new rules become the standard. Guess I better get busy on winning a Nobel prize or start training for the Olympics.

I'm Still Here

The kitchen is a disaster. Even though I haven't cooked since last weekend. Oh, yes, I also have not cleaned it in nearly a week. I haven't made my bed. Nor vacuumed. Only dressed to be seen in public one day. All of my spoons have been invested in scraping paint off the damn deck. One more day of that, I'm estimating. Then minor repairs, sanding, a good vacuuming, and then, dare I say, painting shall commence! Firstly with primer, then the pretty color. You will be happy to know that I have showered semi-regularly and fed and watered Newt. Reid has pretty much been on his own as far as food is concerned. I have been eating tomatoes in everything. And I see that it's probably about time to harvest the dozen or so peaches on the tree in the backyard. Needless to say, I am pooped. I think I have enough strength left to watch a little Netflix and drink a beer. Typing is hard when your fingers are cranky. 

Sunday Morning

Here we see Newton, a prime example of a domesticated felis catus, doing his very best to pretend to ignore the houseplant in close proximity to him. He's such a handsome guy. But a terrible actor.

Scrape/Strip/Repair/Scrub/Rinse/Prime/Paint

Isn't paint removal fun? I'm behind schedule. This photo is from a couple of weeks ago and I've made considerable progress since then. But this is feeling like the neverending project. At this point, about half the paint is gone. The furniture and plants have all been moved out into the yard. Fortunately, only one board is in poor condition and must be replaced. It is waiting in the garage with the paint stripper for the stubborn spots and four gallons of paint. I really thought I'd be painting by Labor Day. Let's be honest, it's going to be labor day every day til this is done.  

Three Out of Four Isn't Bad

1. Customer service at Barnes & Noble is excellent.

2. Customer service at DSW is excellent.

3. Customer service at Capital One Visa is excellent.

4. Customer service at The New Yorker is shitty.

From the first three experiences with the helpful and courteous staff, variously on the phone and in person, you can safely assume I will happily continue to buy books, videos, and games, and buy shoes, perhaps even with my Visa card, secure in the knowledge that they behave in a way that makes me feel like an appreciated customer. A customer they would like return business from. As far as number four is concerned, I'm done, done, done. I might have stayed on as an internet reader at the right price, but their support staff is the worst. So if you're wondering whether you should give them a try at six bucks for twelve weeks, do so at your own risk. You'll never get the time back that you spend on the phone with their ineffectual customer service reps. In a weak moment I might be beguiled into purchasing a future edition of their cat calendar. But I'll be making that transaction at Barnes & Noble. So there.