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This Single Gal's New House

RSS FEED IDEMS: This Single Gal's New House

• To date or not to date, that is the question...
  Dig this: I think I'm ready to start dating again.
  
  Yes, this may be shocking to some of you, especially after I swore off dating last spring. Contrary to what many thought -- I actually lived up to the swearing off... for 6 months at least.
  
  A personal record.
  
  This version of the eternal sans dating swearing off (oh yes, there have been others, just ask my friend Bruce) began after a pretty bizarre end to a relationship I had with a dude I actually really liked. After dating for about a month, he confessed (via email, mind you) that he was a cocaine addict and had realized he was gay.
  
  I had been a big help, he said.
  
  Good for me.
  
  Um.
  
  Prior to spending time with this dude -- let's call him Mr. G. Cokehead -- I went out with guys who had lived in storage facilities, were ex-gang members, thought they were the reincarnation of Judas, liked to hang out in cemetaries, made fake weapons for SCA (God!), or had never dealt with being tortured during a civil war in his native country.
  
  All true. Mostly, I was too naive or too stupid or felt too desperate to kick these dudes to the curb.
  
  I've wised up.
  
  My dating disasters are enough to inspire me to design a chastity belt for the 21st century, market it, and become the posterchild for abstinence.
  
  Don't you think that would make Jesus happy?
  
  I'm really going to hell.
  
  Let's make a parade, and join hands, and march there two by two, shall we?
  
  Hurrah, hurrah.
  Sun, 07 Oct 2007 01:09:00 +0000
  
  
• That old house...
  I'm sad to report -- my mother is in the hospital today. The doctors know she has diverticulitus, but aren't sure how far it's progressed, or why she has a mass on / in her colon. She and my father are both exhausted, tired of waiting, tired of my mother being in pain. It's exhausting to be sick or to take care of the sick.
  
  I wish I could help take care of her, give her a hug and read cheesy magazines with her, but she lives in Iowa, and I, in Seattle. I wish I could do something, I wish I could help. I feel like my hands are tied by distance.
  
  Today is probably the first day since I moved out of their house in 1990 that I feel sad to be so far away.
  
  My mother's illness is making me reflect on the good times we've had together. We've definitely (and emphasize the definitely) had our struggles over the years, but we've also had some crazy adventures. I'm choosing to think about those today.
  
  One of my biggest memories was moving into what my brother and I called "the new house" in 1979. I was 7, and I lived there until I was 17. Most of my childhood memories are associated with that house -- the first night my youngest brother came home from the hospital, the countless family photographs taken in front of the antique grandfather clock in the living room, and the hours spent in teenage angst in my room.
  
  The house was constructed in 1905 and sits maybe 100 yards from my former high school and a few blocks from my former elementary school. My parents are only the third owners of the house. The first owners were three sisters who were teachers at the high school. The second were some weird people who liked raisins (that's my only memory of them) and painted everything green in the house.
  
  And then there were my parents, who loved the house initially. They redid the wood floors, put in new carpet, stained the wood trim in the living room, repainted the house, got a new roof, fixed leaks. And after we grew up and moved out, they did nothing to it. They sort of stopped. Their memories were frozen, as were the repairs and renovations. They haven't done any work to it for many many many years.
  
  The beautiful house has lost her luster. My parents have fallen out of love with it. They have other things on their minds these days...
  
  As my parents get older, they have started to live it up. For many years, they lived frugally, saving for our college tuitions, saving for retirement, saving to travel, saving to live. And now, as they reach their mid-60s, they are starting to kick it old school. They take an annual trip abroad. They spent more time on their hobbies and with their friends. They bought a condo.
  
  Yes, that's right. They bought a condo.
  
  After nearly 30 years of living in the same house, they are packing up their memories, trading their furniture, and giving away old clothes, books, and toys. They are movin' on up. To the east side. To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
  
  No shit.
  
  I am excited for them, but I am a little sad, though. I am surprised to find that I have an attachment to that house. It is the place of my childhood. It is the place I called home longer than anywhere else I've ever lived. There is a part of me in those walls, and when it is passed on to someone else, that part of me goes with them too.
  
  The house holds some of my history.
  
  I suppose that energy, that history a house holds, is why it takes so long to make a house a home.
  
  So, I've moved into a new house, but the house is still new to me. It doesn't hold many of my memories. It will take some time for this new house to be my home.
  
  You know what I mean?
  Fri, 05 Oct 2007 23:51:00 +0000
  
  
• On a furnace fiasco
  Tuesday night sucked swamp water. Or, natural gas, rather.
  
  I'm sitting in my living room, reading a magazine when the furnace stopped. Thinking the house had reached the thermostat's temperature, I thought nothing of it.
  
  That is...
  
  until it sounded like 14 airplanes were landing in my garage.
  
  Terrified (and also a little pissed), I went into the garage, hammer in hand, ready to hit something.
  
  That seems to be my all inclusive do-it-yourself technique -- hit it .
  
  Standing in front of the furnace, I watched the thing rattle and hum (and spark) during the next installation of the 14 plane salute.
  
  I dropped the hammer.
  
  I ran away.
  
  I turned off the furnace. Called my friend Teresa (who knows things -- she can paint) and she tried to calm me down. I refused.
  
  I called Beacon Heating and Pumbing. I called them because they offer a 24 hour service. I was done freaking out.
  
  From their television commercial, I have learned to stop freakin', I need to call Beacon.
  
  After I made the call, the furnace dude was at my house in a hour. Done an hour after that.
  
  Apparently, another problem with that sucker will be comin' down the mountain -- the igniter is calcified. I'd like to fix it myself, but the natural gas component of things makes me very nervous.
  
  The problem? I had a clogged inducer, which I blame on the rats, thank you very much. That, and the jackitude who owned the house before me.
  
  Clog this you motha*
  
  * A profane word was censored here. I have been told that I need to stop cursing so much or I am going to hell.
  
  SO CHECK THIS OUT...
  
  I'm bored of talking about furnaces, so let's redirect our energy to my fabulous single gal friend Jess and her color sense.
  
  That gal CAN paint.
  
  Here's her deal (in her own words, baby!)
  
  I wanted to share with all of you that I randomly entered my house in a "Color Contest" and unbelievably have made it into the top 40 entries (in the midwest) on the ApartmentTherapy.com website.
  
  Click on this link and you can see my house as #6 under the Midwest titled "Jess is Color Confident".
  
  While I know I'm a long shot in winning the whole thing, I'd appreciate your vote
  
  http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/fall-colors-2007/#entries
  
  This Single Gal says: Jess' house looks great! And her mural-painted stairs are alone worth a visit to the link -- they are VEEEERRRRRYYYYY cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fri, 05 Oct 2007 01:54:00 +0000
  
  
• The red teeth
  I suck at painting.
  
  There, I've admitted it.
  
  I suck at a lot of things.
  I don't usually admit that.
  
  For example... I generally suck at sports. Although, I'm really and truly convinced there is one sport I can do with superstar agility and grace. My elementary school gym teacher didn't call me Super K for nothin'.
  
  When I was in 8th grade, my quest for sport superstardom lead me to skiing. With absolute certainty, I convinced myself I had something in my blood that said, "skiier." No one in my family (that I knew of) had ever skiied. It was me, baby. I was SUPER K. I had inherited the ski gene.
  
  So, without thinking twice, I signed up for the 8th grade trip to Afton Alps, Minnesota. Believe me, that was the best the school could do. I was set, man. I had new gloves and my neighbor's mother had let me borrow a SWEET orange and yellow scarf.
  
  Fast forward a 9 hour bus ride (was it 9 hours? it felt like 9 hours)... getting ready to ski. I'm on the slope. I'm feelin' my natural talents as a skiier beginning to bust out. I could not be stopped.
  
  Several of my friends had never skiied. They suggested I join them at Ski School.
  
  I laughed.
  
  I don't need Ski School. Hell, I could TEACH Ski School. That's how awesome a skiier I am.
  
  My best friend dragged me to Ski School. She knew I had never been on skiis before and I had an unfortunate history of wiping out when there was no reason to wipe out.
  
  So, whatever. WHATever.
  
  I went.
  
  I sighed a lot.
  
  I put my hands on my hips.
  
  I was a bitchin' pre-teen in the early 1980s. Rock on to Electric Avenue.
  
  It was finally time for the class to head up to the top of the Bunny Hill, Afton Alps style. I was ready to show my stuff.
  
  I fell off the ski lift.
  
  It sucked.
  
  I brushed it off. I had bad luck because I was around so many beginners.
  Of course.
  Duh.
  
  I got to the top of the hill. I slid down. I was a bad ass.
  
  My friends passed me. I started going faster to catch up with them.
  
  I snowplowed.
  
  I twisted, I flipped, I tore.
  
  Ligaments did the el rippo, as they say. On crutches for 6 weeks.
  
  Sucked.
  
  I tell you this story to say: I am not terribly coordinated.
  
  So when it came to painting the interior of my house, my uncoordinated self, coupled with my arm, neck, and back injury, and my firm belief that I am a rockstar at some sport (sport painting?), deluded me into thinking I could do all things, and it would look spectacular.
  
  But.
  
  I suck at painting.
  
  I was reminded of this this morning as a colleague was regaling us with tales of her weekend bathroom painting experience. The hours of labor, the meticulous taping, and when the most glorious moment came (the tape removal), how disappointed she was when half of the paint on the wall came off with it.
  
  I can relate.
  
  This summer, before the rats were eradicated, before my stuff arrived, I painted (with the help of friends -- what's up Teresa, Riley, Laurel, and Karl?). The Living Room was the THING that needed to be done first.
  
  It was a horrible experience.
  
  The guy who had owned the house before me decided to paint an accent wall red. It didn't work for the space, and the color was ridiculous, and would totally, like, clash, with my "moss" colored sofas. It had to go.
  
  We primed and painted and painted and painted. Moving drop cloths all over the place, painting the floor, ourselves. It was the hottest week of the year. It was unbearable in the house. I thought I was going to pass out.
  
  Teresa brought popsicles. (I just ate one -- is that bad?)
  
  The next day, THRILLED by the new colors in the house, I started to remove the tape. With, what I thought, was the utmost of care. Regardless of how hard I tried, the tape on the red wall took some of the butter yellow paint with it. Leaving a line of red teeth on the perimeter of the room. It looks absolutely freakin' ridiculous.
  
  The dude apparently used EXTERIOR paint on the INTERIOR. Thanks, buddy.
  
  Of course, I am hoping no one notices the teeth. As guests arrive, I shuttle them past the red teeth or distract them with rat tales and the fireplace which very well could be the new rat kingdom.
  
  I know I should repaint it. But I just don't have the energy to do it at the moment. That'll be a project for the middle of winter, when my arm is feeling better, and I need cheering up with a paint fume high.
  
  Then the teeth won't matter.
  
  But as of now, I still suck at painting. I'm reminded of it when I look at the teeth and listen to paint removal stories by friends.
  
  Sport painting isn't my athletic gift. Neither is skiing, apparently.
  
  I'll find it. I will.
  
  Maybe it's gutter cleaning?
  Wed, 03 Oct 2007 01:34:00 +0000
  
  
• shhhh, this is MY secret
  Holy schniekies, I'm exhausted.
  
  Had a full, and I do mean full, day at work. 85 meetings. 85 issues. A success! Another meeting.
  
  I was done. And I do mean done.
  
  Crawling away to go home.
  
  A colleague stopped me. She needed a ride home.
  
  Of course.
  
  So now I'm really done.
  
  REALLY DONE.
  
  Ya dig?
  
  However, the dog, left inside for 11 hours (yes, I know, I'm a horrible pet owner -- fuck you) peed somewhere, the where I could not find. So there I am in a state of exhaustion, sniffing the floor looking for pee.
  
  My nose is congested.
  
  I need one of those cool blood / pee detectors them CSI people use.
  
  Find it (the pee, that is) by stepping in it.
  
  I clean it up.
  
  I put on new socks.
  
  I look out the window. See the mound of apples.
  
  I pick them up.
  
  Daisy goes nuts and runs around in circles.
  
  Daisy is still running around. I go inside.
  
  I close the sliding glass door.
  
  She runs after me. She slams into the door. Because it is closed which she does not realize. It nearly breaks.
  
  I laugh, let her in, and give her a treat.
  
  Poor dog.
  
  Now I will eat some sort of Trader Joe splendor and watch some crap on TV.
  
  My life is so glamourous.
  
  This, the life of the single gal.
  Tue, 02 Oct 2007 01:22:00 +0000
  
  
• Scooby Doo and Mr. Magoo
  Dude.
  
  I miss Saturday morning cartoons. I remember sitting in front of the television drinking Carnation instant hot cocoa and wearing footed pajamas, watching Scooby Doo and Mr. Magoo in the early - mid 1970s. I loved Mr. Magoo especially. I think it might have been because I can't see for shit -- I can relate.

  
  
  

  

  
  I've been wearing glasses since I was 4.

  
  Over the summer, my lovely dog ate one of my contacts. Of course, this was a major tragedy, especially because I was trying to look cute for the rat man who was coming to check the traps in my attic. Because I can't see without corrective something, I had to put on my glasses. Them 'er some coke bottle lenses. Mortified, I hid in the house.

  
  I have had no dates with the rat man.

  This is a tragedy.

  Because of this (and other incidents), I have determined: It's important to see if you own a house.

  This I know.

  
  REASON 1

  
  You have to be able to see the hedge to chop it down. Random chopping = bad. You could lose a toe.

  
  REASON 2

  
  You need to be able to see the dust bunnies scattered around your home so you can DESTROY THE COLONY before they take over the world. Ask Tom Cruise for more information.

  
  REASON 3

  
  You have to be on the lookout for members of the rodent family. Hearing them is not enough. With keen sight you can WACK them if you so choose, or be a good Buddhist and simply remove them from your sight.

  
  REASON 4

  
  If men come to your house to fix things, you need to be able to determine if they are attractive, wear a wedding ring, or are within your dating age range. There's nothing worse than not being able to see and making a mistake, especially on the ring thing.

  Bad.

  
  REASON 5

  
  And let's get serious for a moment...

  
  In my previous house (in the lovely state of Michigan), some jackass broke into the house while I was trying to sleep. It was hot on that September night, and I was sleeping in the guest room on the first floor.

  
  I heard someone open the door and creep around my house. He knocked over a plant.

  Daisy slept through the whole thing. Even the crash of the pot. What a great fucking guard dog.

  In this case, not only did my dog fail to protect me, but I could not see where the creepshow freakshow was and felt like I couldn't protect myself. For fear of being discovered awake, I was too terrified to reach out of my bed, feel around for my glasses, and put them on.

  In my blindness, the dude could have come at me and I wouldn't have known until he was about an inch away.

  
  Also, after he left (stealing NOTHING, by the way -- what the hell was he doing there?) I couldn't help the police identify the asshole. While I fake-sleeped and squinted my eyes desperately, I could make out the figure of a creepy dude, but besides that, I got nothin'.

  
  THUS THEREFORE AND SOFORTH

  This is why, friends, I think home insurance should cover Lasik surgery for blind single females.

  Don't you think that makes sense?

  Of course, my recent eye appointment revealed that even if I had Lasik, I would still have to wear glasses.

  
  Sucks for me -- I'm screwed any way you look at it.

  But I think there's a movement here somewhere: Sight for single gals! Sight for single gals!

  Viva la revolucion!
  
  Sun, 30 Sep 2007 17:52:00 +0000
  
  
• Riddle me this...
  Earlier this year, some folks at Clemson University published a scientific paper on the 5 second rule. They found that if you picked up food dropped on the floor within 5 seconds of the drop, you could still eat it without acquiring any additional bacteria from the floor. For more info on this important scientific finding, check out this NY Times article: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/09/dining/09curi.html
  
  

  I say: viva the 5 second rule.

  
  

  I wonder if it counts if you live with a dog that randomly licks the floor?

  
  
  

  The five second rule popped into my head today as I looked into my back yard and saw the piles of apples underneath my apple tree. I wondered: could I pat them and roll them into a pie? They've been on the ground, um, for awhile. Does the 5 second rule apply? Or, could it be the 5 day rule? Dare I say -- the 5 week rule?
  

  I asked myself: wwmd (what would martha do?)

  I started doing some research. I googled "rotten fruit" and got the usual boring articles on how horrible my diet is, blah blah... and then I found a really informative article on how long and where to store fruits and vegetables to keep them fresh longer. I've been doing it wrong for many years... http://www.wildoats.com/u/health101104/.
  
  

  And then I found an article by Mr. Bracey who writes an article for the education journal, Phi Delta Kappan. He created the Rotten Apple awards to acknowledge crappy education professionals, rewarding missteps and misguidance. This article made me chucklecry (you know what I mean). http://www.america-tomorrow.com/bracey/EDDRA/rottenapples2005.pdf

  
  

  And then, in my quest to find out if I can eat my fallen apples, I found Christianity. Super Christianity in all of its glory, shared here in an inspirational tale about rotten apples. If you click here, you too can become a child of God: http://www.paversnest.com/inspirational33.htm

  
  

  Maybe because I have a lot of rotten apples on my lawn I'm actually a prophet here to spread the word WORD Word WoRd.

  
  

  What would Martha do?
  
  Fri, 28 Sep 2007 21:57:00 +0000
  
  
• There are many uses for a tennis racket...
  This morning, after a grueling hour-long conversation with an insurance adjuster (oh the joy!), I heard some rustling coming from my guest room.
  
  Rustling? What the...
  
  Daisy began moving slowly towards the room, ready to pounce.. the sound was coming from the heating vent.
  
  Could it -- rats? another flavor of rodent?
  
  I was pissed.
  
  Furious, I tell you.
  
  I went to the hall closet grabbed my tennis racket and stomped (in the defiant don't fuck with me way) back to the guest room. Whatever it was, it was NOT getting into my house.
  
  Once I got back into the guest room, I was ready for anything. I put on some gloves and my sunglasses, just in case. Daisy was at my side. The vent was silent.
  
  In one swift move, I moved into my wack-a-mole stance (used primarily at Showbiz Pizza, thank you) and was ready to beat the shit out of whatever was going to come up.
  
  Daisy sniffed.
  
  About a minute later, rustling again. Without waiting for the appearance of the creature, I flew into a murderous rage! Smashing! The! Crap! Out! of! the! Vent!
  
  The rustling stopped.
  
  I felt victorious, even if I didn't actually hit anything. I might have scared it away for good.
  
  But, you can never be too cautious.
  
  Just to make sure nothing crept up while I was at work, I closed the vent, put some dictionaries on top of it, and went on my merry way.
  
  I have to admit, I was half convinced that I would find rat carcae (carcasses? carcae sounds cooler, doesn't it?) all over the house.
  
  All clear.
  
  Daisy doesn't mess around.
  Wed, 26 Sep 2007 23:35:00 +0000
  
  
• The topic tonight, my friends, is dinner
  I'm starving.
  
  Just got home from work.
  Fed the dog.
  Checked my mail.
  Opened the refrigerator.
  Looked in the cupboard.
  Got bored.
  And now I'm sitting here.
  
  And
  
  I'm starving.
  
  So what, pray tell, is this single gal to do? My usual solution is to whip up (read: microwave) some crap I bought at Trader Joe's.
  
  There's only so much of that you can take.
  
  There's always take out. Take out in my 'hood blows. And, I really don't want to get in my car again right now.
  
  Whine whine whine.
  
  I love the idea of cookin' up some tasteee vittles for my dinner ce soir. You know, using fancy shit from Williams Sonoma. Imagine the glamour, imagine the intrigue...
  
  But, alas, I:
  
  1. have no idea how to use the fancy shit from Williams Sonoma.
  (oh, look, it's a list again)
  2. am tired
  3. am lazy
  4. want someone else to use the fancy shit from Williams Sonoma as I mow my lawn
  5. wish my dog could work so I could buy the fancy shit from Williams Sonoma
  
  So, what's the single gal to do for dinner on a weekday night?
  
  One of my friends came up with a brilliant answer to this question a few years ago. Every Sunday she would host a party. Each person would make a dish and put it in separate containers for each person at the party to take home. Then, you have a meal for a week.
  
  I liked the idea. (Get ready, another list!)
  
  Pros of Sunday meal exchanges
  1. female bonding.
  2. it's taking a village to raise a single woman
  3. it prevents you from eating the same meal every night of the week
  4. the meal is made with love
  5. it's very kumbaya, very retro
  6. you feel like you've done something nice for someone
  7. if your casserole turns out gross you don't have to eat all of it
  8. you might like something someone else has made
  9. it makes life easier (except for Sundays)
  10. after Sundays, your daily meal preparation involves a cooking contraption I think I've mastered -- the microwave.
  
  I have to be honest, I think I went to the party once. Or, maybe I never went to the party at all. Maybe I dreamed it or read it in some stupid woman's magazine in the waiting room of the doctor's office.
  
  (That last one seems the most likely)
  
  Of course, this blog entry would not be complete without an:
  
  Ode to the Microwave
  Magic Chef you are
  mastery of lights and heat
  cooks my dinner fast
  
  And with that, I'm off to find something to eat... maybe some nuts and berries and the rats' leftover plums.
  
  Hope all is well in your part of the world.
  
  -- This Single Gal
  Wed, 26 Sep 2007 01:20:00 +0000
  
  
• Monday, Monday
  I remember fondly an afternoon driving in the car with my father. I can't remember how old I was. I can't remember where we were going. But, I do remember that during our journey "Monday, Monday" came on the radio and we both began to sing. We sang the entire song together and then went on with life like nothing ever happened. That's one of the things I'll always remember about my papa.
  
  
  And...
  scene.
  
  
  The top 5 highlights of my day:
  
  
  
  TANGENT
  
  
  
  Why do we rank things? Is it our natural brain capacity to put things in order, in sequence, so that they make sense? I betcha Jung would have issue...
  
  UNTANGENT
  
  
  
  Here they are...
  
  1. I had a massage. It was good.
  
  2. A friend gave me a copy of Martha Stewart's LIVING -- I liked it. I learned about pumpkin carving and tree pruning and what to do with polenta. I still think the best use of polenta is for sculpting. With a big ass vat of polenta, we could make sculptures of George Bush and Georgia O'Keefe and the former governor of Iowa, Terry Branstad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Handsome chap, no? We used to call him Terry Braindead... no lie.
  
  
  3. I got some bills in the mail. Maybe I should create a polenta sculpture of those?
  
  
  4. Daisy was excited to be let out after being indoors for nearly 11 hours. Now that I've admitted that, PETA will really be after me.
  
  
  
  
  
  5. I noticed a pile of plum seeds on my front stoop. Varmits havin a partay. And, um, I haven't been invited. See what happens? You get old, you become the crazy woman at the end of the street with a maniacal dog, and your rodents start kickin' it old school in your front yard and noooo one lets you in on the haps.
  
  
  So PRETTY IN PINK.
  
  
  6. I saw the chap who offered to look at my fireplace today. I still haven't called him to set up a fireplace appointment. I don't know why. I want the fireplace to be working. Am I THAT lazy?
  
  
  Perhaps.
  
  
  But, I'm sooooo PRETTY IN PINK.
  
  
  Or so they say.
  
  
  
  Tue, 25 Sep 2007 02:01:00 +0000
  
  
• Sick day
  When I was 9, I relished sick days. I always liked going to school (except for those middle school years -- yikes!), but there was something almost taboo about staying home on a day when you were supposed to be doing something else. When you were sick, you got to watch school day television -- soap operas, good crap on PBS, and Card Sharks. AND, the coolest part (at least before Tivo and VCRs) was you got some inside knowledge on the day's episode of "The Young and the Restless."
  
  

  Yeah, baby.

  
  

  Well, my friends, my plague has continued another day. I want to frolick in the autumn breeze, but I am coughing up a lung and the sun told me to lay down. I hate being sick, and I hate having to stay home and bathe in my sickness. But, work tomorrow I must, so I decided to stay home today and have a proper sick day.

  This is my mug. Shitty picture. Good mug.

  
  
  
  

  I've had more tea today than I've had in years.

  
  

  If you are sick on the weekends, it totally sucks. It's a given fact. Not only are you dying from the plague, but you are wasting one of the few luxuries you have as an adult -- a day off of work. Of course, I could use a sick day tomorrow, but that's a waste too -- spending them on days when you are actually sick -- I scoff!

  
  

  So there.
  

  I think this was the first day I spent the entire day at my house without leaving. And, I can honestly report that the house did me well. The house is a comfort for the sick. This is good.

  
  

  I think part of the comfort comes in the colors I chose for the walls -- orangeish/creamish for the living room (it was once BRIGHT red -- and, oh, thanks jackass for using exterior paint... idiot), blue grey for the guest room, yellow for the dining room, mauve for the office (where I now sit) and purple for my bedroom. I like them all. All comforting. All subtle enough so they don't punch you in the ass when you are delirious from fever, but are this there, like a warm friend.

  
  

  My living room, the hedge, and Daisy...

  
  

  
  

  Ha ha! I got all Hallmark. I think it's the drugs... nice combo, antibiotics and pain meds. My arm and neck still hurt from the car accident, yo.
  

  
  

  All is good.
  

  I'm happy to report the Plum Posse has not ridden out of town. They have been outside today, riding their bikes, and getting into philosophical arguments about who told what to whom in 5th period math class. Love it!

  
  

  And now it's Sunday and the weekend is coming to a close.

  
  

  When I was a kid, I hated Sundays. It meant CHURCH (egad!), a chore (mine was usually the bathroom), eating my mother's pot roast (horrible every week), and going to bed early so I could be rested for school.

  
  

  I don't loathe Sundays any more. I don't hate Mondays, and it does not pain me to get up and get ready for work on Monday mornings. I am very lucky. I love my job. I work with good people. And Seattle's the best place in the world. It's taken me a long time, but I'm finally in the city, house (whoo hoo!), and job that I like. All is good.

  
  

  All I need is another box of Kleenex.
  
  Mon, 24 Sep 2007 00:43:00 +0000
  
  
• Invasion of the Dust Bunnies
  
  
  Gross, huh? It's allllll stretched ouuuuut.
  I have the plague. Some sort of nasty ass sinus infection plague. That, coupled with the fact that my family is driving me crazy and my arm is busted makes for a freakin' excellent Saturday. At least the sun is shining. What else do you need?
  
  
  

  
  

  Life is grand. (Seriously! This is the BEST time of year. Dig it!)

  
  
  

  In my snot ridden stupor, I decided today would be a good day to clean my house. Since I can't smell anything, I figure I have a lower chance to asphyxiate myself by accidentally mixing chemical vapors from cleaning products, and I need to "rest," I want to do something productive, and so...
  

  
  

  I started my Saturday cleaning frenzy by dusting. I think dusting is my favorite household chore. Am I insane? It's all because of the Swiffer duster. If you don't know what they are, check it out: http://www.swiffer.com/swiffer/en_US/home.doww.swiffer.com/swiffer/en_US/home.do This site has coupons, too.

  
  
  

  Swiffer dusters totally rock! and pick up pet hair better than most other contraptions or potions. They are relatively cheap, and you can throw them away when they get really nasty.

  
  
  

  Of course, due to my in-bred (and oh, I don't want it any more!) Catholicism, the guilt comes pouring out when I use disposable products like these. How much room do Swiffer dusters take up in the county landfill? I like them because of their ease of use, but I don't like throwing the duster away. I'd like to find an alternative. Should I go back to using rags? Would you? Do you?

  
  
  

  Truthfully, I'd like to use all organic cleaning products, soaps, and pet food. But, unfortunately, there is the other green factor to consider -- money.
  

  
  

  Where's the balance?

  
  
  

  It seems a bit strange to me, this natural products costing more money business. Shouldn't all natural products should be cheaper than products with toxic chemical mixtures? The mixtures have to be, um, mixed...

  
  
  

  Last week on "Wife Swap" -- yes, I watch that drivel from time to time -- a woman from Iowa swapped places with a woman from southern California. The Iowan was pro-germ, pro-bacteria. She and her family eat only raw food (including raw CHICKEN) and rarely wash their hands and their home.

  
  
  

  I found her argument fascinating (in light of not wanting to scrub my bathtub?), but she came across as a complete lunatic, so her lunacy outweighed, unfortunately?, her pro-germ cause.
  

  
  

  I was concerned the woman was from Iowa -- my home state. Iowans totally get a bad rap -- they are oftenportrayed as naive, clueless morons who are unsophisticated and unintelligent. People say this, and a lot of people I know (who I was consider educated) aren't sure where Iowa is. In fact, I was amazed! shocked! horrified! that a friend of mine here in Seattle (who is a TEACHER) wasn't sure where Iowa was, exactly. Those middle states, you know, them are unimportant.

  
  
  

  It was in Iowa that I became friends with the dust bunnies. My mother was not the best housekeeper, and neither was my father and their children. It was not until I became adult that I saw the value (and joy!) of cleaning. Dust bunnies begone!

  
  
  
  

  Because Daisy lives at my pad, her hair is everywhere. Shocking to everyone who knows her, not only is she not allowed on the furniture, but she actually does not go on the furniture. So, the pet hair is regulated to the floor. A blessing.

  
  
  

  So in my cleaning frenzy, I became intrigued with the dust bunnies themselves. Why are there rolls of pet hair and dander and dirt and crap? instead of a fine layer, like dust? Think about it... it's a fascinating question.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  In my endless pursuit of knowledge (and to once again prove I am a nerdy mcnerd), I googled dustbunnies and found some facinating info on wikipedia --http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dust_bunny . Read it and weep.

  
  
  

  Get out yer vacuum.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  Sat, 22 Sep 2007 23:40:00 +0000
  
  
• Trash day
  Daisy is a bad ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  

  One of the most poignant (?) memories I have of owning a house in Michigan was walking my trashcan to the curb on Trash Day Eve. I remember being filled with complete and utter joy (I nearly wept) as I walked to the curb at the same time as three of my neighbors... I felt deeply connected to my house, my trash, and the universe that night. How very zen.
  
  
  Speaking of ridiculous zen references...
  
  
  
  During my brief sojourn working as an intern at a HORRID theatre company (I got fired because I couldn't use a fucking crowbar) my boss, who donned a long, curly, shaggy mullet and wore peek-a-boo gold chains on his hairy, oft-exposed chest, told me I needed to find the (and I quote) "zen in stage mopping."
  
  
  Zen this mo fo.
  Ok.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On to my Trash Day incident...
  
  
  Last night I heard my next door neighbor rolling his trash can to the curb around 9 o'clock. Sitting on my couch, I snickered -- it's the wrong day, they'll be sorry. A few minutes later, I heard more rolling -- they must have noticed it was the wrong day. I was convinced he was moving the trash can back to his house.
  
  And I continued to sit on the couch and bask in my supreme knowledge of all things trash and cans and days.
  
  
  I'm cool.
  
  This morning, as I was leaving for work in the foggiest mcfoggery of a day (it ROCKED), I realized I was, indeed, WRONG about the Trash Day. In my couch relaxation euphoria (or was it the painkillers?) I thought yesterday was Friday for some reason. Idiot. The second roll was not a trash can retreat, but the RECYCLING making its way to the curb.
  
  
  Damn.
  
  
  So, my trash will fester for another week in its repulsive vat, a beacon for rats, yetis and other creatures. Come to reinfest my house, rodents! Come, the trash calls! My back yard will be a menagerie of creepy crawly grossness before you know it.
  I need a nightcam, and the Dateline NBC people to hide in the bushes and spring out when a yeti comes to assault my house.
  
  
  ई थिंक ई'ल राइट इन हिंदी नोव.
  
  
  When I bought my house, I was really excited about the fruit trees (plum in front, apple in back). I had dreams of making all sorts of delectable fruit treats -- I'd make jam, freeze some, dehydrate others. I would become the inventor of a new fruit dish to die for, you know, all of that.
  
  
  Now I hate them.
  
  
  My plum tree is dropping rotten fruit. And, to prevent yetis from nesting, I'm out there, crawling on my hands and knees pulling the smashed fruit from the grass. Classy, that.
  
  
  The apples are easier to pick up. They remain intact for the most part, except for the ones Daisy or the yetis get. There are just a lot of them. I'm astonished at the number of fruit that comes off of one tree. Amazing.
  
  
  The weather here has cooled a bit and my house is a freakin' freezer. I will need to replace my single paned windows next summer (if I can afford it). I'll look forward to next winter when I won't be freezing my ass off. That is, if I make it to next winter without catching pneumonia.
  
  
  And with that, I say tra la la.
  -- This Single Gal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sat, 22 Sep 2007 05:34:00 +0000
  
  
• so I'm sensitive about the hedge...
  
  I've had a bad day.
  
  
  
  
  Look at this...
  
  
  

  yes, my friends, it's the hedge...

  I know some of you are really hoping that I will stop writing about the hedge, stop thinking about the hedge, stop having hedge on the brain. Well, I say, I will, when it is miraculously shorn.

  Until then, the fucking hedge remains an eyesore, and a blot on my eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

  This afternoon two things happened, both hedge related:

  1. I went to physical therapy. I've had a relapse in my arm healing -- the dude thinks we did too much last week. I'm frustrated, but optomistic. It'll all get sorted out, this nerve thing... it will. I just want to be done with it. Um. Right now, thank you.

  So, you may wonder -- why is she bitching about her arm when the hedge is the big problem here? Well, dear ones, I can't chop down the hedge because I can't move my arm.

  Take that.

  2. I saw my former boss who now lives in the same part of the city I do. She said, and I quote, "every day I drive by and your house is harder and harder to see." I nearly punched her. Like I don't know the hedge looks like crap and it's overtaking the world and is marring the beauty of my neighborhood. After I took a couple of deep breaths, I relaxed and explained the situation outlined in #1. Therein. Therefore. Thus.

  Take that.

  Wouldn't it be lovely if you could deal with hedge chopping merely by using your mental powers of intention as outlined in The Secret http://www.thesecret.tv/ (which I find to be a large piece of crap, by the way -- take THAT!). If that shit worked, I'd be a multimillionaire and be married by now.

  Boy, I sound cynical this evening. Perhaps that's a symptom of #1.

  Hope you are all well.

  
  Fri, 21 Sep 2007 02:32:00 +0000
  
  
• plums and rats and branches oh my
  On Saturday, as I was having dim sum with my lovely friends Sam and Sam, I asked them if they knew anyone who would do yard work for the cheaps and, if they knew any arborists. I gotta tree, you know, that is honkin' and leanin' and is gonna break, yo.
  
  Sam said that if anything horrible was going to happen with the tree (things like crashing branches, being impaled with a twig, etc.), it would have happened last winter when we had several ridiculous wind storms, ice storms, and general power outage mayhem. I felt comforted by his wise words and returned to bloating myself on tea and sesame seed balls (them 'er tasty).
  
  Well, I am here to report that Sam was WRONG. Got home from work and lo and behold a branch -- a honkin'ly huge BRANCH - had not only fallen off of my beautiful maple tree but it was on the fence and leaning into my neighbors' yard.
  
  These are the neighbors I have not yet met, and the only interaction I've had with them was smelling their lighter fluid as they were barbequing over the summer. I'm sure they did not want to be introduced to me as their yard was littered with my tree refuse.
  
  So, in a panic, I pulled, I tugged, I prayed (all done with my semi-dead left arm) and hoped I could at the very least get the damn branch back on my property.
  
  With much hysteria, the use of Physics I sort of learned in Mr. Kirkpatrick's class, I was successful. Branch. In. My. Yard.
  
  Now I need to get a saw and chop that sucker up. It'll be great use in my fireplace (once I figure out if I can actually use it).
  
  Sweet.
  
  This evening I met a lovely gentleman named Chris who came to my house hocking internet service. Although I had a horrible divorce from Clearwire only a few months ago, with the construction of their new tower, I have four freakin' bars, man. I'm a customer again. Whoo hoo! Nice to have internet service at home again.
  
  But then I started to think about this gentleman that I let into my home. What if he is not a Clearwire salesman at all but a lunatic with a machete? There was a bit of interior panic and I pulled my dog close. She would protect? me? if the machete was drawn. I'd throw her in front of it and book it out the door.
  
  Now PETA is after me. I'm going to hell.
  
  Hope all is well with you. Take good care.
  Wed, 19 Sep 2007 03:21:00 +0000
  
  

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