No Sale

Today my house comes off the market.
Turns out my house is like the last woman a not-quite-out-of-the-closet guy goes out with before he decides he's really, for sure, no kidding...gay.

My house has helped many people decide what they REALLY want by being the "It's-cute-but..." house.
As in, "It's cute, but I want to be closer to Duke; it's so cute, but I need three bedrooms; it's cute but I'm worried about the road noise; it's cute but the yard's too small/too big"...and on and on ad nauseam. You are welcome people of Durham!

Come to think of it, my house is like me. "You're great, but..." and then off they go to prom (or relationship or marriage) with someone else.

Actually, I'm relieved and a bit excited. Getting prices on a screen porch and new [fiber cement] siding; thinking about a fireplace mantel and built-in's. Maybe new counter tops, since I only have about two inches of counter space it shouldn't be too expensive.
A landscaper's coming over this afternoon to give me a price on xeriscaping the yard; Julian's [realtor] coming with a bottle of wine and pulling up the sign.

Here's to "You're cute, but..." houses and women. We have to stick together apparently.
Sláinte!

Eleven Years Ago

My father died April 30, 1999.

He died from a cerebral hemorrhage caused by Multiple Myeloma, a cancer of plasma cells.

There is no cure.

He also lost a kidney to cancer (very probably caused by MM) and two thirds of one lung (most likely due to smoking non filtered cigarettes since he was twelve).

I miss him, but am glad he's not here to see what's happened to Mom. It would kill him.

Lunch Today

Mom was in rare form today. The phone rang 20-25 times before she picked it up.
I'm wondering if she isn't connecting the ringing to the phone. She would have killed herself to get to the phone before.

She was very happy today, very giggly. She called me "dum-dum" because I didn't understand something she said. She made the "eerrrrrcc" sound kids make when they play with cars as I came to a stop sign; said "Oh it didn't work". Sure it did, the car stopped.

We went to Piper's for a change since I had a coupon. When the waitress, I mean server, seated us Mom said, "Don't forget me, I'm here too."
It's interesting to see how people react to her, some stop talking and making eye contact immediately, others engage her (Danielle at Rick's, Ashleigh at Mayflower, both excellent). The latter get bigger tips. This one was the former.

There are big gaps of silence now because she really cannot hold a conversation. I told her Culton, her third great grandchild, weighed 10 pounds already. "Who?"
I explain who he belongs to. "Well, I guess he might be bigger."

She was being goofy with her napkin and the paper from the straw, making me laugh. "I'm just making you happy." she said. Yep.

On the way home we pass a sign - "Axle Weight, I don't think I want any of that." Took me a second, then I start laughing.

Too late, I think I already have axle weight.

I Can't Stop Reading

I first read Jon Katz's articles in Slate online. Here's the archive link:
http://www.slate.com/default.aspx?id=3944&da=&qt=&au=40207

I fell in love with his dogs and the way he lovingly described the farm, his neighbors, his steer Elvis, and the donkeys.

Hadn't been to his website in awhile, I guess quite a long while, because there's been some changes. He's divorced and getting re-married, his daughter's written a book and he starting on a children's book.

Anyway, while I was poking around on his website, I came across his hospice journal. It only spans about a year, there's no explanation why. It could be one year is all one can do. I imagine it is a very rewarding, yet emotionally draining experience. The hospice workers and volunteers are amazing, generous people. http://hospice.bedlamfarm.com/

May I recommend a big box of Kleenex and starting at the beginning. Click on archives to select the month.

Cooking - Southern Style

My father was not demonstrative as a whole; his Scots-Irish DNA prohibited it. He was a man of walk the talk, not talk the walk. If he was there, he loved us. The end.
When he wasn't at sea or didn't have duty, he was home every night for supper and he contributed, like the rest of us. He made the salad, I peeled the potatoes, my brother and sister set the table, and Mom did the rest.

Sometimes he was the cook, usually when we had "vegetable" dinner or breakfast for dinner.
Vegetable dinner consisted of pure carbs: black-eyed peas, rice for Hopping John, cornbread, sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise slathered all over them, turnip greens (for Mom) and my favorite - what my father jokingly referred to as Potatoes A La Patton.
Recipe: roughly mash potatoes with milk and butter, plop them on your plate and make a hole. In the hole, place raw chopped onions and mayonnaise, then mix.
The crunch of the onion, the tangy creaminess of the mayo all mixed in with the carrier potatoes - shut your pie hole! To this day they are one of my all time favorite comfort foods.

My dad fried eggs by ladling hot bacon grease over the top of them, no flipping involved.
I am convinced that a Southerner's blood is part bacon fat. We actually owned a canister set that included one for bacon grease. In my house, pouring a precious commodity like bacon grease down the drain was a first degree felony.
Fried corn, another one of my favorites, involved bacon grease.
Recipe: remove the kernels from a bunch of fresh corn. Saute in bacon grease (sub olive oil now) in a cast iron skillet (that is important). Ta da! Fried corn. Freezes well.

Not sure why it's called fried, batter was not involved.

Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree

(My hair courtesy of Mom's "tomorrow-is-picture-day-just-let-me-trim-your-bangs-a-little" handiwork.)

My father and I have/had very similar personalities.
We also looked the same - note the goofy smile, the dreamy far-away look, the long face, the ears. I cannot tell you how many times I heard the words every little girl longs to hear,
"Why, don't you look just like your father!"

In spite of looking alike and having the basically the same personality - or perhaps because of it, we bugged the crap out of each other, especially when I was a teenager. Except reading, that was common ground. Reading seemed magical to me and I learned at around three.
By second grade, while others were plodding through Dick and Jane, I was reading "Black Beauty".

My father was a sucker for an encyclopedia; in addition to the ever popular Britannica, we had medical, animal, art, gardening, and biblical. I'm pretty sure we were on the "that guy will buy anything!" list. We also owned every hard cover National Geographic book ever published, in addition to getting the magazine subscription for decades.

I received books for all major present giving holidays and illnesses. You never got trouble for reading in my house - unless it was a comic book (or at the table). My dad thought comic books were "noneducational", he had an irrational dislike for them and they were not allowed in the house.
This rule was so adamantly enforced I actually thought I was dying when he gave me four comics during my measles episode (105.5 temp). There could be no other reason he let me have them! Still remember what they were - two Richie Rich, a Baby Huey and Little Lulu.
Of course that rule was totally out the window by the time my siblings were reading and they both had comic books galore. Brats.

In 1968 we moved from Miami, FL to Kodiak, Alaska and were TV-less for two years. Something about the TV putting us over two thousand pounds (the limit the CG would move). Right. (Not that it mattered much, there was only one channel that was on less than 24 hours a day. Taped Christmas specials came around New Year's.)

My dad and I were regulars at the library during those years. We would come home with a stack of books and read two or three at a time. Back then I could easily read a book a day, even during the school year. The librarian (wish I remembered her name) would put aside books for my dad, sister, and I according to our interests. She told me about Frank L. Baum writing more than "The Wizard of Oz" and the Tolkien trilogy, which I thought was the best thing since sliced bread; I read it in three days and then started them all over again. We read books on Africa, Australia, nature, every Zane Gray novel ever written, science fiction, interspersed with fairy tales, Egyptology, and Norse gods.

In a way we also bonded over music, even though my dad made fun of my musical choices. He was into equipment, we always had a nice stereo system - JVC turntable, Akai reel-to-reel tape player. I had my own stereo and headphones (that way he didn't have to hear any Black Sabbath). He showed us all the correct way to handle an album, how to thread the tape on the reel to reel. (Later in life I was a waitress at a barbecue restaurant; the owner had an amazing collection of Motown, blues, and jazz on reel to reel tapes. I was the only one who knew how to work the thing.).

My father believed in taking care of things, there were certain things you DID NOT DO. Like laying a book down with the pages open (breaks the spine - use a BOOKMARK!); touching the record (LP) (handle it on the edges); not putting things away in the proper place - if Herb Albert was in the Mills Brothers album cover, there would be hell to pay!

Spring Has Sprung!

Spring in North Carolina is pretty magnificent.

Bradford pears, Japanese magnolias (aka tulip tree), cherry, and plum trees start the show, then redbuds and the ethereal dogwood jump in.
Can't leave out the color blocks of fuchsia azaleas, brilliant yellow forsythia, phlox, tulips, daffodils.

All the deciduous trees seem to leaf in overnight; I've gotten lost in Durham because some streets look so different from winter to spring (in the street's defense, I am easily lost).

The downside is pollen - which coats and gives a yellowish cast to everything - the asphalt, cars, decks, your lungs.

Nothing Compares 2 U

My father was the guy who made fun of my, as he called it, "yea, yea, yea" music. So imagine my shock at supper one night when he starts a discussion about Sinead O'Conner.

"Don't understand the shaved head, but I like that song she sings, Nothing Compares to You."

Wait...whaaaaaaaa...how do you know about Sinead O'Conner?!

Turns out the nights he couldn't sleep, of which there were many, he watched VH1. His two favorite music videos: "Nothing Compares 2 U"and Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love". Well, natch.

I bought the CD for him. After he died, spontaneous tears would erupt whenever that song came on the radio or I happened upon the video.

It's been seven hours and fifteen days
Since you took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since you took your love away
Since you been gone I can do whatever I want
I can see whomever I choose
I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant
But nothing
I said nothing can take away these blues
`Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

It's been so lonely without you here
Like a bird without a song
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling
Tell me baby where did I go wrong
I could put my arms around every boy I see
But they'd only remind me of you
I went to the doctor n'guess what he told me
Guess what he told me
He said girl u better try to have fun
No matter what you'll do
But he's a fool
`Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

all the flowers that you planted, mama
In the back yard
All died when you went away
I know that living with you baby was sometimes hard
But I'm willing to give it another try
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was Mom's 74th birthday. She had no idea.
When I called at 9:30 to wish her a happy birthday, she said "Oh, I can have one? Is it done?"

I took the day off so we could get her nails done at Wal-Mart in Hillsborough. Her hair was clean, so the beauty parlor must have worked out - yay! Who knows for how long. She was wearing a sweater and sweatpants (on a day when it was supposed to be in the upper 80's), and, I noticed when we got in the car, were dirty. I know she can't help it, but crap.

She remarked that every single redbud tree we saw on the way over was pretty. Yep.

After the nails we drove over to Mayflower, a seafood restaurant. We both had the boiled shrimp. (Someone told me I don't sound Southern until I say "bolled" - as in shrimp or peanuts).

While we were waiting for our food, Mom says,
"There's two men over there." (at another table)
"And? There's two women over here."
"Well, I'm just trying to help. We should be very friendly!"

Then she proceeds to eat her lemon wedge. I asked if she was sure she wanted to do that.
"It doesn't have to say that on that." ??
"Why are you eating it?"
"Because it's there."

Okay then now.

On the way home she said her fingernails looked funny about once a minute because they squared the tips.

This morning I talked to a friend of Mom's who called for her birthday; Mom said I hadn't been over. She won't remember talking to Judy either.

Happy Birthday Mom.

More Things I Really, Really, Really Like

1.) Archie McPhee's. (do not type this wrong - you will get a porn site.)
Flagship (actually - only) store is in Seattle. Total blast.
You have to go if you're in Seattle and are even close to having a sense of humor that's stuck in the second grade.
That's me, with the old lady hair, and my friend Judy. We've known each other since we were eleven.

What's not to love about a store that has inflatable fruitcake, bacon bandages, and a lizard head coming out of it!?

2.) Trader Joe's. I lived in California for 23 years - Trader Joe's was part of life.
When TJ's FINALLY came to Cary, I drove the 50 mile round trip twice a month.
Then...oh happy day...TJ's came to Chapel Hill! Now they get to see me 2-3 times a week. I just know they're excited about that.

3.) The Daily Mail. This is a trashy on-line British tabloid that I read almost every freakin' day. I adore it.

4.) Sourdough bread. Another California ex-pat love. Unfortunately my favorite bakery, Lombardi's in Petaluma, home of the extra sour loaf, went out of business in 2008 after fifty some years.

5.) The sound tires make on a drawbridge. Honestly. It's right up there with kids laughing.
There was a great drawbridge near Brunswick, GA between Jekyll and St. Simons.
Guess people got tired of having to wait every time a pesky shrimp boat went out/came back, which was often. Once it was stuck in the UP position for quite some time - I mean weeks (glad I wasn't on it when that happened).

It was replaced by the largest suspension bridge in the state.
Progress sucks sometimes.

Weekly Visit Report

I've been a bad, bad girl...didn't go see Mom on Friday. Or Saturday. And was contemplating not going Sunday. But guilt won and I went.
She comes to the door wearing her sunglasses; light was on in her room, blinds closed. Whatever...
I told her there was a pug (we used to have one) in the lobby for the weekly pet visit, so she tottered on down to check it out while I restock her mini frig with Diet Cherry Coke.

She doesn't throw away the cans anymore, stacks them around the room instead, so I gather those up as I find them. It's chaotic inside the frig; perhaps she tried to clean it and forgot where or how everything went back. There's also a pair of dirty underwear inside.
Glass candle holder is in the shower with a Christmas ornament tucked in it; shampoo is on the table, towels folded in piles on the floor. SNAFU.

She wants to go to my house and see the cats. Okay.
Last time she was at my house she didn't want to come in because "bad things happened." Guess having a stroke at my house could be construed as bad. She doesn't remember saying that or even being in the house. She thinks it's a new house. Doesn't remember the cat's names. When we get back in the car she wants to know if she can live there. Ah, no.

I'm still full from my post three mile walk Foster's Market breakfast burrito, she wants to go to the cafeteria though. It's very crowded with the after church throng.
She gets beef liver [insert gagging here], potato salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, buttered coconut pie (coconut custard) and sweet tea (hello carbohydrates!). Sweet potato pie and unsweetened tea for me (guess I wasn't that full!). It was an excellent people watching day with all the church outfits, hats, and shoes.

On the way home as we drove past Dillard's, Mom observed we had been in there once. Just a few weeks ago as a matter of fact.
(Good Lord, that was exhausting. Like herding ten ADD cats.)

Me: Yes, you bought the shirt you're wearing and another one with a heart on it.

Mom: Cow heart?

Me: No, a red shirt with a heart on it.

Okay people, cow heart is funny. I can't stop laughing.

Mom: I'm going to give you something for your mouth!

I think she means she's going to smack me (jokingly), and that's funny as hell too.

Mom: Oh, I'm going to come out!

No - no coming out in the car, I will have to charge a clean up fee for that. She is having a full on spell* now. Then, there was an odd noise, not sure if it was bodily or car.

Mom: Did you do that or did I?

Me: I didn't, did you?

She doesn't think so, but it starts her off on another laughing jag.

It is the best medicine.


*In Southern vernacular a spell can mean a laughing fit such as my mother was having; illness/drinking,"Uncle Bert had one of his spells last night."; or a length of time, "Sit a spell."
(In our house "having a spell", also meant my father wasn't talking to anyone for about two weeks. These spells usually coincided with a holiday or anniversary. Yep, that was fun.)

How to Use the Bathroom With Cats

Second in series (see archives Nov. 2009 on How To Sleep With Cats ).

I'm ensconced in the bathroom with a trashy tabloid magazine, looking forward to some quiet time with Brangelina. The bold decision to fully close the door has been made.

A few seconds pass...hmmm, really not a fan of Brad or his icky beard, what's up with tha...the meowing starts. Ah, that would be Lillie. Smallest cat, biggest mouth. A petite black paw slides under the door to accompany the "mah, mah, mah". "Shut up!" The paw disappears.

A few more seconds pass...then, a dainty, delicate, barely there meow. Oscar.

Scratching on the door (Oscar). "Get away from the freakin' door!" Scratching persists. "I said knock it off!"

A gray paw appears under the door. Then a chocolate brown one.

Suddenly, a scuffle breaks out.

Finn and Oscar are jockeying for key position of being first to run in the door the nanosecond it opens. The door bucks as twenty five + pounds of cat smacks against it. "Are you kidding me?! Cut! It! Out!"

Now only a gray paw forlornly searches under the door. "Get out of here!"

High pitched "meeeeeeeee" (Finn). Chocolate paw appears again. "I hate cats! Go away!"


Another scuffle. The latch is holding - so far. "Sigh..."

I hobble to the door and throw it open. Three flashes of fur (bonus points for tripping me on the way back) and my quality magazine time is over.

Finn jumps in the sink, attacks the faucet, then decides he needs to move the blinds so he look out the window. Oscar jumps up on my lap (WTH? I don't bother him when he's using the toilet!). Lillie walks along the edge of the tub meowing. Loudly.

All is well.

CCL (updated)

If you don't know what CCL stands for, then you ain't one. And maybe you should stop reading right now. Because if you're just gonna make fun, well, we can't be friends anymore. You can see the beginnings of a CCL here. I was well on my way at three (maybe three and a half years old. I was a tall child).

Yesterday I went to my first cat show with my friend Rosemary. I don't even know how I qualify as being a CCL if I've lived this long without going to a cat show!
She's waiting until she settles in here before she gets a cat, in the meantime, she comes to my house to get her feline fix.
We made a blood pact not to come home with anything breathing. Except ourselves.

Rosemary said she's up for a cat show about every six years - they're boring and she's right.
Because really, once you've seen one older woman with glasses and a bouffant hairdo hold up a cat, you've seen 'em all. (please God, don't let that happen to me!)

She did find her dream cat, a gorgeous 18 lb. Maine Coon who was one big moogy, fur-between-his-toes-snowshoe-size-pawed love muffin; this cattery also has a 26 pounder at home! Scroll down to bottom of page to see Whirlie. That picture doesn't do him justice.

I spent most of my time talking with Jean from Romanxx.
Got to love on sweet little Corazon, what a cutie. Jean has a boy kitten named Trouble, she'd "pet" (learned a new word!) out, she can't show him because he's a stumpy. She's in NC.
Danger, Will Robinson!

Bought a fleece cat bed from Siamese Cat Rescue and we were homeward bound - sans new cat(s). Yay!

Sign Here

When I went to pick Mom up for dinner Friday, she was sitting in the lounge area across from her room; it's a pleasant room with a couch, several chairs, and a large flat screen TV. She was happy to see me, patted the couch and said to come sit by her, so I did and we commenced to watching "Dogtown" on Animal Planet.

During a commercial she said, "Look" and showed me her left ear lobe. It was ripped in half. Immediately my elbows felt icky. (You know the wobbly feeling you get when you look over a cliff? That's what my elbows feel like around gross medical type things. Weird I know.)
Naturally, she had no idea when or how it happened, said it didn't hurt. We continued to watch the show and my elbows had a chance to settle down.

We stopped by the Med cart to show A. her ear. (Even typing this my elbows feel icky.) There was talk of the ER to get it stitched up. Mom got puffed up like a bantam hen at the mention of that.
A. gets the nurse, she looks at it - and it's completely healed up on the inside pieces!
Basically, Mom now has a forked earlobe.
I imagine her earring got caught in her shirt when she was taking it off and she pulled the earring right through her earlobe (uggghhhhh.). It had to hurt like an SOB. Yikes.

I had asked if we could wash her hair before we went out, she said sure. She is not good at following directions anymore and kept saying she didn't like it while I was washing her hair. We did it with her leaning her head in the shower, water got everywhere, her pants got wet, but dammit, her hair was clean. 

Anyhoo, we had a nice dinner at Rick's Diner. My friend Sandy and I ate there Wednesday night; had a wonderful dish of grilled chicken breast on top of roasted grape tomatoes, asparagus, and white beans in a warm lemon basil vinaigrette. It was so good I had it again Friday night (the beans could have cooked another 15 minutes Friday). Mom had fried shrimp with coleslaw, potato salad and chocolate cake for dessert.
The people at the next table said something about a "little girl" during conversation, Mom says "That's me!" and starts laughing, which makes me laugh. She is hilarious sometimes.
Someone asked me if it's embarrassing; the behavior isn't, if I think of her as a five year old, it's all good. The dirty hair is an issue, it would be to her too if she was aware of it because she was always so well groomed.

I thought I'd bring in the VA paperwork for her to sign, just see where she was in the name game. I asked to to write her name on another piece of paper first, she couldn't. Kept reading the other side of the paper, handing it back to me, saying she'd do it later. Then I wrote her name and asked if she could copy it. She made the A and that was all she wrote. Literally.
Guess we have to go with the X method.

Finally!

My mother's house is closing this afternoon, after being on the dismal Florida market since June 2008. It surprised me how emotional this was.
I didn't really think Mom would ever live there again, but maybe somewhere in the way far back of my mind I had a fantasy? I had to have her declared incompetent in order to become the successor trustee and sign the paper work. Perhaps it's the finality of it. Maybe seeing in black and white the words "Alzheimer's dementia".

I moved back to Florida to be with my parents after my dad got sick.
I turned 40 in that house (no, that wasn't depressing at all.). My relationship with my father was healed in that house (trust me, it was all my fault. Really.). I got my beloved truck, Angus Og, (thanks Dad), when I lived in that house. I re-discovered photography while living in that house; became a prize-winning poet in that house.

Now my dad's gone, the truck's gone, the dog's gone, my mother, for all practical purposes, is gone, and after today, the house is too.

A Shout Out to All the Artists

I strive to live by William Morris' wonderful quote:
"Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful and believe to be beautiful."

In Florida, I was a patron of the Isle of Eight Flags Shrimp Festival, an annual Art event. Trust me, this sounds way more special than it was; one merely agreed to spend $100 during the Festival and voila! you were a Patron of the Arts.
This "guaranteed" money allowed them to offer bigger prizes, which in turn begat more talented artists.
And I got me a green ribbon saying "PATRON" to wear on my bosom! It really just doesn't get much better than that.

$100 may seem like a lot, but it's only $8.33 per month or .27.397 per day set aside over the course of a year. Of course I never did it that way, because, hello, that's the smart way.

The Shrimp Fest was my first real foray into the pottery world. In 1997, I bought a gorgeous bowl by Mudflap Pottery out of Louisiana. It survived numerous moves, but alas not Finnbarr, who broke it soon after he arrived. Clumsy kitteh (but he's so cute!).

Later I started working at a small gallery called The Waterwheel,
where there was - Danger, Will Robinson! -
discounts AND a payment plan!
I kept trying to sell this painting (Abundance II), until a customer said, "Stop that, that's YOUR painting!" He was right.
I loved it and bought it, sloooowly, over a long period of time.

Then Slightly Off Centre opened. A whole new world for me and my fledgling pottery addiction - North Carolina, because she bought all the pottery up here.
When I walked into the NC Craft Gallery after moving up here, I recognized quite a few of the potters because I already owned their work. (My pottery boyfriends/girlfriends as I fondly refer to them)

Thanks to ole W. and his stimulus a couple of years ago, I was able to commission dinnerware from Cora Willow, who is at the Craft Gallery.
Did I mention they know me by name there?

Another place I love here in NC, is Vespertine in Pittsboro. I feel happy every time I walk in there.
Ginna always has some creative, cute new thing. She can work in any medium it seems - paper, clay, silver, beads, paint - you name it, she can do something fantabulous with it. I took in some old funky silver earrings I made back in the 1980's and asked her to make a new fab ring with them. I'm excited to see what she comes up with!

Of course, there's the ever awesome Shiny Adornments. Home of the "WTF" earrings.

If you love art, crafts, lovely handmade things, please find a way to bring them into your life and for Pete's sake, treasure them by using them - don't devalue them by secreting them away in a dark closet.

Sure, your goofy, ungraceful, bottom heavy, pear shaped, adorable Manx cat might break them. So what.

This is my mantra (I read this somewhere and it stuck with me): It's already broken.

Now go dig out Grandma's priceless heirloom china plates and use them - even if, or perhaps especially if, you're eating Top Ramen!

The VA Comes Through

Earlier this week, the day after getting the fourth "we're still working on it" letter, the approval paperwork came from the VA!
Mind you, I don't understand it, because it appears to contradict itself on every other page. Let's just say Mom's getting some additional fundage, but I don't know how much or when.

Bit of a scramble finding the phone number for the new caseworker from A Place For Mom, but she was ever so helpful after I did. Need to have Mom sign one page saying she's incompetent and send that back. Doesn't it seem weird to have the person who's incompetent say she is? Why would they take her word for it?

AND...hallelujah, it looks like her house is going to close this month. I hope the people who are buying it will be very happy there for years to come.

It's been awhile since I plugged A Place For Mom.
If you have family members who need help finding an assisted care facility and getting additional benefits for care, I highly recommend them.

Things I Am A 'Ho For

Some things you may, or may not, want to know about me. These are not necessarily in order of 'ho-ness.

1.) Rugs. I continually question why I paid good money for hardwood floors only to cover them up with rugs. But I've purchased three in the last three months. Get thee to therapy...

2.) Shoes. Having size 11 (that is correct) feet is not conducive to fun shoe shopping.
Rocket Dog, I'm talking to you: why, why do you continue to taunt me in DSW with your adorable shoes AND THEN STOP AT SIZE 10?!

3.) Nintendo DS. Many, many thanks to my sister for getting me hooked on that.

4.) British TV and/or comedy. As a nation, we need an intervention. We got our own country out of the deal, so enough already. With the exception of "The Office" and "What Not To Wear", everything we Yanks rip off from them to remake - is crap.

5.) Bacon. Bacon is the other white meat's semi-slutty cousin. Her name is Suede-dean and she drives a convertible too fast, smokes, wears black bras under white shirts and a little too much leopard print, gets great sparkly gifts from men she's not related to, and is who we all secretly want to be.

6.) Art and stuff. When I was a bit poorer than I am now, I wanted enough money to be able to buy beautiful handmade things. I am grateful to say that has happened, not on a Picasso level for sure, but on a level that I am comfortable with. See also number 7.

Painting by Hyacinth Manning, St. Augustine, FL.

7.) Pottery. Again, buying not making. I can't stand the feeling of clay (or bread dough) on my hands, feels like my fingers are suffocating.
Happily, that craziness doesn't afflict everyone. And I get to use and enjoy the fruits of their labors everyday.

Stunning bowl from Crow Valley Pottery on Orcas Island.


There are more things, but I'll wait until we get to know each other better.

Geckos, Lizards and Snakes - Oh My!

As far back as I can remember, my mother has abhorred anything reptilian. The only good reptile is a belt...or purse...or shoe. Turtles, alligators, iguanas, all on the major ick list. But there's a special place in hell reserved for snakes.

When she was young, she spent summers out in the J'ville boonies with her two maiden aunts and their brother.



Her dog was acting crazy one day, trying to stop her from going to the outhouse, finally resorted to knocking her down, and there, curled up ready to strike in the tree root she was about to step over, was a rattler. Fair enough on the fear factor.

There were National Geographic magazines she never read because there was a snake on the cover. If anything snakey came on TV, which was often, because my dad loved him some Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, Mom would pick her feet up off the floor, accompanied by a little scream. We're talking snakes period, not just rattlers, because even plain old garter snakes were evil and capable of climbing out of the television into our living room.


When we lived in Guam, my father was at sea for months at a time and I got to wear the coveted (not) mantle of designated gecko killer (first born short straw again!). For those of you uninitiated with geckos,
they don't just sell car insurance, they can crawl on the ceiling and are very, very fast. So I'm seven, standing on really tall ladders trying to kill something I secretly think is cool, while my mother hysterically points out each new hiding place of the soon to be [she hopes] doomed gecko. By the time I drag the ladder over there, it's moved. And my mother's voice has gone up an octave. Good times.

Because I was a kindly child, I tried to free my mom from the bondage of her phobia by helpfully bringing in objects of her fear - to show her they were really fun and neat!
From the banana tree next to the carport, came an anole lizard

that was tethered to me by a piece of thread (totally safe for viewing). Let me just say it was a good thing I was a fast mover back then (like a gecko), as my father, who happened to be in port, did not find any redemptive value in my actions, if you catch my drift. I'm sure Mom needed an Atavan or five (or whatever the 1960's equivalent was) after that therapy episode.

Then, while visiting the very relatives in FL where she almost was snake bit, I, loving, caring child that I am, bring a snake SKIN into the house. Not anything living mind you - I learned that lesson. It was winter and cold outside (for Florida), the kitchen was very warm from delicious cooking activities, and when I walk into the house, my glasses fogged up. Hilarity of the Keystone Kop variety then ensued - a horde of stampeding screaming women out to kill me as I tried to find the back door in a house I was unfamiliar with while basically blind.
Note to self - even though entirely devoid of snake, snake skins are b.a.d. unless they are articles of wearing apparel.

Fast forward to present day. Imagine my surprise when J., the activities director at Wynwood, said Mom had held a snake. But not some run of the mill tiny ole garter snake either. A boa. And not just held it either - had her picture taken with it draped around her neck. Wish I had the picture.

Finally discovered the up side of dementia - curing phobias!

I'm Tired

Remember the song Madeline Kahn sang in "Blazing Saddles"?

I'm tired
Sick and tired of love
I've had my fill of love
From below and above
Tired, tired of being admired
Tired of love uninspired
Let's face it
I'm tired

That always makes me laugh. But that's how I feel today. Tired.

In my smuggling last Friday was a stack of mail from Tri-care and the credit union.

I spent 20 minutes (seriously) standing at the shredder going through it. There were a couple of things that would have come in handy on her 2008 taxes in there ($700 donation letter!), as well as a bill from a lab.

Now I get to spend time on the phone taking to a government agency. YAY!

BTW Tri-care, WTF with the double or triple pages of the same damn thing?! Are you kidding? I get invoices from them at home for Mom as well, so it's double double covered. Honestly, I could save them some money. For one thing - how about printing double sided?! Hello?

There were two of her necklaces in one of the envelopes.
When I took her cell phone out of the case to remove the SIM card, the photo from my dad's Coast Guard ID fell out. That made me a little sad.

Yesterday, I had a meeting with Wynwood to discuss her new assessment for her "personal care plan", which will be over $900, because we just added hygiene "reminders" to the plan.

At this rate - if her house doesn't sell - she has 4 months of funds left.