I had the handyman here this week. I’ve been meaning to call him for some time. Ten, eleven years, I don’t know. It’s amazing how long you can live with broken stuff if it isn’t actually endangering your life. I usually take a crack at fixing things myself. Failing that, I change my expectations and add it to the fix-me list, the one that lives in my mind.
I had ten jobs on the handyman list, which didn’t exhaust the possibilities but were all I could come up with before he got here. I figured he’d get two or three things done, but he fixed everything and was gone before I got home from work. Incredible.
The north side of my house sans woodpecker holes. I think there were seven or eight holes, drilled there by birds too stupid to know a house from a dead tree. I hate critters.The handle on the front door. It opens from the outside now. For a long time it would only open from the inside, which was problematic if it blew shut when you were outdoors and hadn’t left another point of entry. I did get locked out one hot summer day when the power went out. I came home from work to find the garage door opener inoperable, and I couldn’t use the back door, as that lock hasn’t worked for about 25 years (don’t ask). I had to wait in my car with the windows down until the power came back on. Not long. About an hour.Living room window. Look! It stays open all by itself, i.e., without the aid of the dictionary or any other handy solid object. I pulled the window out to wash it one spring and, when I tried to put it back in, something snapped on the right side. After that it would only stay up if you propped it or held it open yourself. Which gets old.The closet door in my bedroom. It cracked and fell off some time ago for no reason I can discern. I had to clean the closet before the handyman came. I know he’s just the handyman and probably couldn’t care less. Still, I wouldn’t want him blabbing it around that I’m a bad housekeeper.The new closer on the kitchen door. The door closes after you now, which I have decided I don’t like very much, as I used to be able to carry in groceries without having to open the door with every trip to the car. It’s annoying. I may have to deactivate it, as soon as I figure out how.The jiggly tissue holder in the downstairs bath. I installed it myself the last time I painted; then it came loose and I had no idea how to either take it off again or fix it. Not that a loose toilet paper holder is a big deal but, let’s face it, it doesn’t leave the best impression when guests want to use the facilities, as guests will do.The door to the upstairs bath, which used to scrape the floor until the handyman shaved it down. I hate to think how long it’s been. I’m guessing it happened when the house settled, and the house is 39 years old. I never use that bathroom anyway.The screen door on the porch. Now that I think about it, I have a lot of door issues. The handyman replaced the screen – which never stood a chance against grandchildren, who will push on the screen instead of the door frame when they want out – and also fixed the lock, which was equally inefficient in either the locked or unlocked position, leaving me vulnerable to molestation every time I went out there to take a nap.The only power outlet on the porch. I added the porch in 2005 and the outlet stopped working about two years later. I don’t know why. I never will know why.Ah, the infamous fireplace bricks. No one has ever admitted how the two bricks on the end came loose, although I have my suspicions. This was back in the nineties, when my daughters were prone to carrying on in my absence. God knows what kind of hooligans they brought in or what inexpressible things took place. They’re all old enough to come clean now. But they won’t.
It’s funny. Nice as it is to have all these things taken care of, it hasn’t brought me as much satisfaction as I expected. And what’s that about?
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
It occurred to me recently that some very odd ideas pop into my head at times. It worries me a little. I start to speculate on what’s causing them – cells flickering out in my neocortex, say, or overloaded circuitry from having too many grandkids to worry about.
Usually it happens when I’m performing some mundane Chore of Daily Living, when I’d rather be somewhere else doing something else. Last Sunday I had to go to Target to pick up groceries and other sundries. As I walked in the door, I had a sudden urge to check out other shoppers’ carts. If someone had already picked up a lot of the things I needed, I reasoned, I could just casually grab their cart while they were thumping the melons and my job would be half done. Even if I was caught, they’d just mistake me for another distracted shopper. (Ha, ha, silly me! Why would I want your things?) And it isn’t really like stealing if they haven’t paid for the stuff yet, right? It’s just inconveniencing.
I didn’t do it, of course. I do have a conscience. “What would Jesus do?” I asked myself. Probably he wouldn’t walk away with someone else’s shopping cart at Target. Then again, Jesus could just pick up a loaf of Wonder Bread and a package of fish sticks and be good for a month.
When I got home from Target, I went out in the yard to kill weeds. I detest killing weeds, which is why they get away from me. Come August, the crabgrass arrives as if out of nowhere and spreads like the ebola virus. I was spraying away when I started to fantasize that I was an unfeeling killer, spraying poison gas as the weeds begged for mercy. “No, no! He’s just a baby!” the big weeds screamed, as I blasted a little guy just poking its head up. “She’s a bad ‘un,” the old-timers warned. “She’ll hunt ’em down, every last sprout.”
“That’s what you get!” I thought, spraying Ortho Weed B Gon with abandon. “Go live in the wild somewhere!” And don’t start writing me about the evils of lawn chemicals and the virtues of organic lawn care. I recycle. I drive a little economy car. My yard is a war zone and I need the hard stuff.
Where was I? Oh yes, odd notions. I don’t know, maybe everyone has crazy thoughts at times. I don’t think I’m abnormal or anything. I don’t dream about stabbing an old woman in her kitchen or anything. Well, just the one time.
•••••••••••
Photo: Google Images, houston.culturemap.com
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
The Summer Olympics start tomorrow in London. I must admit, I’m a nut about the games, summer or winter. My children know this about me. “Don’t bother asking Mom to do anything while the Olympics are on,” they’ll tell you. “In fact, don’t bother Mom at all when the Olympics are on.”
It’s true. I will be glued to the set watching things I have no interest in at any other time. Javelin throwing. Sculling. The 200-meter backstroke. Of course, some events are too boring to watch under any circumstances – speed walking comes to mind – but for the most part I’m enthralled.
There always seems to be some drama surrounding the Olympics too. This year it’s been one thing after another for the Brits. People were worried the venues wouldn’t be finished in time. They had to call in the military when the security firm they hired couldn’t cut the mustard. Several of the city’s main routes have been closed to everyone except athletes and visitors, to the disgust of Londoners just trying to get to and from work. And yesterday, someone who wasn’t paying attention put up pictures of North Korean soccer players next to a South Korean flag, prompting a one-hour delay in a preliminary match and ruffling Communist feathers everywhere.
I like the British. They tend to be self-aware and inclined to say what they think. Upon seeing the Olympic flame arrive in London this week, one man commented, “Oh Lord, let’s just get the bloody thing started.” On the other hand, at least one Englishwoman predicts a change in the mood once the games begin, with people “behaving in ways we wouldn’t normally behave – waving flags and shouting and cheering and indulging in other wildly disinhibited acts, such as maybe even talking to strangers.”
Well, I for one will be watching, even though I’m sure something will happen to tear me away at the most inopportune moment. It wouldn’t surprise me if that baby decided to be born right in the middle of rhythmic gymnastics.
I WISH I COULD DO THAT.
•••••••••••
Photo: Google Images, afg-gymnastic.af
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
“EVERY AILMENT, FROM PSORIASIS TO POISON IVY, COULD BE CURED WITH WINDEX.”
You know how it is. First you can’t buy a vowel in the game of life, then you notice it’s been two months since you looked at your blog. I wanted to write something here, I really did. I was waiting for a happy thought.
I had a Moment of Joy on Friday. It was casual day at work, so blue jeans all around. I had on a light blue pair I like that don’t make me look too fat. As usual, I brought my breakfast to work, including yogurt mixed with mashed strawberries. At 7:30 a.m. I sat down at my desk, opened the little plastic container, and promptly dripped yogurt in my lap. “Why does God hate me?” I wondered.
Berry stains are notoriously unforgiving. Drop yogurt with mashed strawberries in your lap and, make no mistake, you will get a pink spot that really pops on light blue denim. Time was of the essence. I dipped a napkin in my water glass and attacked the stain, which was about the size of a quarter and already had a stubborn, hopeless look about it. “Nobody likes me,” I thought.
Then I noticed the bottle of Windex I keep on the floor by my desk because any day now I’m going to clean my office. I grabbed it, aimed, pulled the trigger and… the spot vanished. Disappeared. Poof, stain gone! “All my troubles are over,” I told myself.
For the rest of the day, I preached the gospel of Windex. People were amazed. That night I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about Windex and how it might be my salvation in other ways. Mustard is tough. Would the magic work on mustard? There was nothing for it but to get up, go down to the kitchen, put some mustard on an old rag and shoot it with Windex.
Which did not work. BUT it wasn’t REAL Windex; it was a bottle of blue stuff that looks exactly like Windex but costs less because I am committed to saving pennies in any small way I can to offset the thousands of dollars that fly away every month. Obviously, I need to get the genuine article and try the mustard test again. Yes, I will buy Windex. And maybe a little spray bottle I can fill and keep in my purse. Better safe, as they say.
•••••••••••
Photo: Cinema surveillance images (thecia.com.au)
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
Grandma Judy had a birthday this week. She doesn’t care much for birthdays anymore and would prefer to forget them altogether, but people keep making her celebrate anyway.
Grandma Judy’s idea of a good birthday is finding an expensive present to buy herself. This year she bought TWO presents (because she deserves it): a silver bracelet from Turkey and a black corded clutch purse from the 1940s. These things help Grandma Judy feel a little less irritated about life. She bought some shoes, earrings and books too, which didn’t count as birthday gifts, but what the heck, she was out.
Grandma Judy’s family took her to Red Robin Gourmet Burgers for dinner, an excellent choice when your party includes five children under age eleven, including a toddler who gets mad if you put the wrong food in front of him. Grandma Judy finds her grandchildren highly amusing even when their parents do not.
Grandma Judy’s grandchildren gave her several wonderful homemade drawings to help her forget how much she doesn’t like birthdays. These children are the most precious things in her life. So if there is a lesson to be learned here, I guess it would be: if you are going to get older, better get yourself some grandkids. Also, there is no harm in surprising yourself with a nice birthday gift.
SOME PEOPLE ARE MORE THRILLED THAN OTHERS
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
CURIOUS MINNESOTANS WANT TO KNOW–WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?
Remember 2011 and the spring that’s wasn’t? Winter in its perversity went on and on. And on. People had about resigned themselves to never wearing flip-flops again, when out of nowhere came summer. Not a great summer – backyard gardens were fairly shot, refusing to provide adequate salad fixings – but summer nonetheless.
Now here we are, March again, a complete turnaround from last year weather-wise, but it looks like it might very well be another year without a spring. Last year on this date the temperature was 18˚F with a windchill of 10˚F. This past week temps were in the 70s, almost 80˚ last Sunday. At last, you say, payback for Not-Spring 2011. We should be thrilled… yet somehow it’s just unsettling. We fall into bed early and still can’t seem to get enough sleep. We don’t know what clothes to put on in the morning. (What did I do with those pink capris? Is it safe to put away the down vest?) Allergy and sinus sufferers curse the pollen and the air pressure.
It’s Minnesota, it’s March, and as usual, we are out of sorts.
•••••••••••
Photo: Google Images, margekatherine.com
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
Went down to the DMV yesterday to renew my driver’s license for another four years. I actually put on full makeup and earrings for the occasion, like maybe it would make a difference and I wouldn’t end up with another license photo in which I look like Nurse Ratched. A lesson in futility, of course, but if you think about it, what are the chances I won’t be wearing makeup and earrings when the cops stop me? Pretty slim, I’d say.
These people are not like us
Whitney Houston died yesterday, another sad story of superhuman talent followed by an all too human decline. According to one report, “Paramedics who were already at the hotel because of a Grammy party unsuccessfully tried to resuscitate the singer.” So if you’re hosting a party for the famous in Tinsel Town, I guess one of the items on your checklist is “Invite paramedics.” What world do these people live in?
Let’s try that again
Sometimes even I’m astounded at how quickly I can fall off the smoking wagon. One cigarette and it’s full speed ahead. Of course, there’s no avoiding the need to jump back on. My motivation this time came in a phone call from Daughter #3 this week reminding me how much the grandkids love and need me. Well, I know that. Who wouldn’t love someone who always says yes?
So I picked up some Step 2 nicotine patches at Target today (convinced that I’m not so far gone that I need Step 1), then stopped at the gas station for a pack of cigarettes, because in my case self-control is a delicate balance between ready and not ready.
I swear, in my next life I will not be sitting in a cafe with my girlfriends at age sixteen practicing how to inhale when I’m supposed to be in school.
•••••••••••
Photo: Google Images, coolfunpics.com
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
Doctor…No
I’m thinking I won’t have that bunionectomy after all. I discovered that the recovery can be treacherous, prolonged and painful and realized my foot isn’t that bad. I think a combination of various shoe inserts will do the trick, I really do. Also, I wasn’t crazy about the doctor doing the surgery (here are your options, Judy, pick one or don’t, your hoof is just one in the herd). Shoe orthotics, that’s the thing for me.
This is a holiday?
Went to the grocery store yesterday and Target today. Both were packed, it being Super Bowl weekend, which is second only to New Year’s Eve in sales of chicken wings and guacamole dip. I don’t really care about the Super Bowl unless my team is playing. And since the Vikings haven’t been super for some time, the only thing left would be the commercials, and you don’t have to sit through the game to see them anymore. You can watch them online.
I see there’s another talking baby ad. Am I the only person who thinks talking baby ads are creepy? The only thing more disturbing than talking babies are dancing baby ads, which would give real babies nightmares. Leave the babies out of it, that’s what I say.
The wages of love (or that’s what you get)
With Valentine’s Day around the corner, the other thing you see in stores now are a lot of sales on K-Y and similar products designed to enhance your special moment. You may notice that directly below these shelves are the ones holding an array of pregnancy tests. If you ask me, there should be a big arrow pointing from one to the other. See? This is what happens. Might as well pick up one of each right now.
Real babies are sort of aimless
Gina and the kids will be back today. They were here yesterday while Man Bret was sanding the kitchen cupboards, a six-Advil job that resumes today. Toddler Bret spent a good part of yesterday trying to climb the stairs. He can’t do it alone, of course. He’d kill himself. And he has no purpose in climbing the stairs anyway. When he gets to the top, he just wants to come down again. This is what he likes because he’s 18 months old and has all the time in the world.
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
Have I mentioned how annoying it is watching your body fall apart after age sixty? Oh, that’s right. I do it all the time.
My personal illusion of immortality was shaken this week when I had to schedule a bunionectomy on my right foot, the result of a lifelong addiction to improper footwear.
When I was young, I thought only hillbillies living in the Ozarks and walking around shoeless eleven months of the year got bunions. Am I related to Li’l Abner? No, I am not. But it turns out that shoeless people are probably the ones least likely to have bunions. Them and the women who wear wide, sensible shoes with thick rubber soles. Walk around in pointy-toed heels for forty-five years or so and see what happens.
A bunion is not an out-of-control callus. It is a cuneiform bone deformed by years of pressure, not unlike the ancient Chinese practice of foot-binding deplored by enlightened people everywhere. I don’t know if that particular form of torture is still going on in a remote geisha house somewhere, but I do know you’d have a hard time getting young women in America to part with their fashionable 6-inch heels. This is not an exaggeration; high-heeled shoes today are six inches and higher. It is a mystery how anyone wearing them stays upright and mobile.
I’d tell them… Keep it up. One day an unfeeling podiatrist will be sawing off part of your foot and sticking a pin in it to keep your toes from falling off… but they wouldn’t listen, and I couldn’t blame them. I have a closetful of cute shoes I intend to wear again, yes, I do.
SO WRONG
•••••••••••
Photos: Google Images, orientvisual.com, parentingclan.com
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
So I had the oil changed on my car this morning. I usually wait until that little dashboard light sets to nagging me – 15% oil life left…10%…5%. It was in negative numbers before I got to it this time. I have a little Honda that’s very forgiving.
Of course, when I got to Tires Plus, they sold me the $14.99 inspection package (check the filters, top off the liquids, yada, yada), because God knows how long it’s been since any of that was done. And of course, the filters were filthy and my tires have about 40 percent tread left. I had the filters changed.
While I was sitting there filing my nails and waiting for them to finish, it occurred to me that the Hello Kitty phone some grandchild thought they wanted and then abandoned in the back seat might be driving the mechanic crazy. It’s an annoying little toy, very loud and very touchy. Driving over a bump sets it off. Waiting at a stoplight doing nothing sets it off. If it gets jammed next to something like the ice scraper, it never shuts up. This is its full repertoire of phrases:
Hello!
I’m a Hello Kitty!
You’re fun!
How are you?
(garble, garble, garble)!
Bye bye!
For some reason, I have let this nonsense continue for several months, when obviously I could have retrieved it from the floor in back at any time. That’s okay. I was out of there in less than an hour.
••••••••••• Subscribe to this blog under Email Subscription in the right column.
Grandma Kissed A Sailor 