Closet Organization

The past couple of months have been a crazy race against time, pivoting between multiple tasks to take best advantage of the circumstances of each day: frantically painting while temps were above 50º, demolishing and replacing doors while the weather was dry, purging the basement while the rented dumpster still had room… it’s been a wild dance, with practically NOTHING getting done outside of the Focus Du Jour.

One of the side effects of cramming 96 million different home projects into 2 months is that you end up making a lot of large reprioritizations and small short-term shifts. (Like, “X can live here until I finish Y, at which point, I’ll move Q out of Y and into S, which will leave room in Y to hold X, until I finally work my way through B and can create my new H, which will hold…” etc., etc.)

Or maybe that’s just me…?

But the hectic flurry is finally settling down (at least for the duration of the holiday season) and I have begun the process of acclimatizing to the new configurations inside my house. Overall, I’m fairly satisfied. There are some spaces that need reorganization, some want a few minor tweaks, and most are OK. Ocasionally, I even stumble across a happy accident - some space I created that serves a purpose I didn’t even know I needed.

Even if that space is just a closet…

Since last April’s “winter to spring” seasonal clothing shift took place during a major bedroom renovation, cold weather items got stuffed wherever I could find an empty spot, with a mental note to “sort that out next fall.” (“Look, Ma! I made myself more work!”)

Well, now it’s fall, and I need my warm clothes, TYVM. The weather gods took pity on me and didn’t force the issue until late November, but force it they finally did. I spent the week before Thanksgiving unearthing all my forgotten hiding spots and going through the dreaded annual ritual of Trying On Last Years Clothes.

Fortunately, not everything was a disaster - plenty of things still fit (mirabile dictu) but there remained a few items that disappointed me. Gradually, it began to dawn on me that all the pieces that need to be put away again for a while (in hopes that they’ll stretch with age?) came from the same place (the wardrobe in the guest bedroom) and I found myself musing, as I rejected yet another item, “This will have to go back into The Closet of Optimism…”

Then I realized what I’d thoughtlessly muttered, and began to laugh.

Not a Closet of Failure, not of Disappointment - but Optimism.

Hope and laughter.

Apparently, my subconscious has many ways of providing what I need!

Things I Have Learned Since We Last Spoke

Well, *that* month sure got away from me! I figured I'd better stick my head in and say, "hi!" ... and maybe let you know what's been going on - which is basically, a lot of challenges and lessons learned. So here you go...

This room re-do project that I’ve landed myself in (and which has taken over my life) has necessitated a lot of googling. Of course, you need to take everything you read with a grain of salt, but I figured I was safe using advice from This Old House guy, right? 

Well, he may be the grand old man of home restoration - and indeed, I have learned many useful things from his website -  but not every recommendation is equally useful. In fact, “…switch to a roller for the rest of the paint job—you’ll still be able to coat the grooves of paneled walls just fine.”, while exciting to read, is a downright fib.  

Yep, Bob Vila lies.

On the subject of instructions, I came across this doozy when I unboxed the new sewing machine I finally broke down and bought:

I’m getting too old for the nonsense of the day.

Because, life… this project has been full of minor catastrophes and set-backs. To wit:

Tiles have been broken.

Sixty-year old adhesive does not inevitably disintegrate with age.

Thriftily, I used clear waterproof caulk left over from the worlds longest bathroom renovation to re-glaze a window I’d stripped down to bare wood. BG took one look at the tube and said, “Umm, you realize that’s not paintable caulk, right?” One trip to the hardware store, two tubes of the correct caulk, 6 small and 2 large window panes later, I was back at the point I had thought already achieved.

Frugality does not always save either time OR money.

Do not hold freshly painted metal objects in one hand over a concrete floor.

I don’t think I’m going to explain that one - I’ll just set it down and walk away…

The delays have caused me to really buckle down on the project, spending a good chunk of time every day stretching and contorting and otherwise giving my not-so-young and very out-of-shape body reasons for protest. It has retaliated with (in chronological order) a severe bout of vertigo, some pretty intense lower back pain, and (most recently) the triumphant return of my undiagnosed “-itis”. (I suspect “burs” rather than “arthr”, but cannot be certain.) I know from experience that the only thing that helps this is rest, but I can’t be stopping for every little ache and pain, so I tape it up and forge ahead.

It is possible to paint without the use of opposable thumbs.

(I will not speak to the quality of the work, however…)

Not all my gains in knowledge have come from the room redo, however.

Work has thrown me a good challenge.

(See my upcoming book, “Big Sur, M1 chips, and The Art of Privacy Permissions”)

So has my dominant.

Never say you don’t think you can possibly come one more time.

(“Challenge Accepted! ”)

Finally, I’ve been reminded that it’s never a good idea to go longer than 30 hours without a shower - because you never know when you might meet your new (cute, male) neighbor.

*le sigh*

Anyhow, that’s life by me.

How are YOU guys doing??

Oops! I almost forgot Spock & Friends! This one feels appropriate after so long...

Curiouser and Curiouser...

I’ve been watching this one house out by Where-I-Work, following the gradual evolution of its Halloween display. The decorating is of the sort I most enjoy - a visual display that demonstrates creativity and effort, with an output that someone has clearly put thought into ... and had a lot of fun doing.

First came two tall figures, skeletally thin with ravaged faces (courtesy of some deftly painted mannequin heads.) No sheets here, either - these spirts are properly attired, draped in wispy, tattered white clothing and straggly white wigs. A ghoul that looks like a risen “Johnny Depp as Willie Wonka” strides across the back of the yard. In front of him, Miss Haversham curls over in distress, keening into the wind that whips spirals of her decaying wedding dress around her.

Day at a time, the scene grows:

        Faceless villagers begin to populate the ground…

        Spiderwebs appear in the corners…

        Green eyes glow from the branches of the tree…

        Tombstones pop up like mushrooms…

It is the most wonderfully evocative “creepy but not outright frightening” bit of Halloween decorating that I think I’ve ever seen - not to mention superb theater, the way the scene unfolds piece at a time. I've been thoroughly enjoying the show whenever I go past.

In today's driveby, I noticed that the latest evolution of the scene was up and consisted of…

        two battered old plastic rocking horses…?!?

Not the actual horses-
these come from Ponyhenge,
but you get the idea...

They’re definitely part of the mise en scène (no sane parent would let their child bounce on a hill that steep so close to the road) but I'm a bit uncertain as to what part they are meant to play.

I guess I’ll swing by in a couple of days and see if they’ve doubled in number... in which case, I’ll know I've witnessed the Four HobbyHorsemen of the Apocalypse!

The Spice Trade

Thelma is a marvelous hostess. Her house is always tidy, cushions inevitably plumped, her patio is an oasis of calm (as long as the neighbors aren’t mowing) and there is always plenty of tea to savor. (You may make your own if you prefer, but please be sure to do so in the Approved Manner, or you may never hear the end of it.) She can even produce a small coffee maker for the barbarians among us who prefer our brews to be seed, rather than leaf, based. (Truer love hath no friend.)

Thelma does not, however, enjoy cooking as much as I do, so while there is always food on hand, it's not unusual to find me called upon to transform said food items into “a dish”. 

So there I was, relaxing on the patio with my coffee, when my friend looked over at me and mused, “I seem to recall you make a scrumptious peach cobbler... I think you should use the peaches off my tree and make us one. Like…, right now!” 

I was marginally loathe to bestir myself, but on the other hand… I do make a danged good peach cobbler. And these were fresh peaches - which did need to be used fairly soon, Plus, you know, there’s always that vacation/treat relationship to maintain…

So I looked up a recipe (not quite mine but very close) and we checked to see that we had everything on hand, with me calling out ingredients to Thelma as she rummaged through her cupboards, extracting each one in turn. (Sugar - check! Flour - check! Egg - check! Nutmeg - check! Butter - check! Peaches - check!)

Soon, we had a nice, orderly row of sugar and spice and everything nice lined up on her counter, just waiting for me to begin. She unearthed her mixer, set the oven to preheat, and retired with her tea to the patio, while my coffee and I took over the kitchen. I measured and tossed, peeled and sliced, spread and baked. Then it was my turn to retire to the patio, while Thelma came in for cleanup duty.

I had just settled back into my book when I heard peals of infectious laughter ringing out from the kitchen. A head popped out the back door and Thelma’s grinning face looked at me. 

          “Did you actually look at the nutmeg?”

          “Uh, noooo… I operated on blind trust. - Was that a mistake?” 

Still chuckling, she held out the small bottle for me to read.

          “Ah. Ummmm … Whoopsie!!?!”

It turned out okay, tho’.

We’ve decided that Mustard-Crusted Peach Cobbler is actually magnificently trend-setting.

You wait… it will be all the rage any day now!

In Which I Disappoint Myself

I had just received another extremely irksome email from The Expat, in which he related his further adventures in cutting a swathe through the under-20 population of his new homeland. (n.b. - He does keep them legal, however.)

Some days his stories just amuse me but this time, they launched a number of simultaneous rants in my head - which went basically like this: “You’re 65, For God’s Sake!”; “Grow Up!”; “There is Nothing Wrong With Women Your Own Age!”;  “Stop Being an Entitled Jerk”; and, most loudly of all, “Please Don’t Make Me Have to Call You a Pedophile!”

After calming down a little, I thought somewhat smugly of my own ability to appreciate and enjoy age-appropriate males and basked for a moment in virtuous satisfaction.

Then, I got web crawling and followed a link that smacked me face-first into my own hypocrisy. I was shown a nude photo of an older woman - and my first thought was…, well, let’s just say I did not react charitably. I immediately scolded myself and looked again, hoping that kind intent would improve my perception... but I couldn't do it. I could not rise above my first reaction.

I can sit here and try to make myself feel better by thinking about all the times I have NOT had that reaction to the bodies of people of similar age; by pointing out that she was of a type that I don't find attractive even when young and nubile... but it doesn’t help. I feel like I failed that woman every bit as badly as The Expat - and with far less excuse.

I need these for my brain, too.

In Which I Interrupt My Decorating to Vent

So, I got this wild hair of an idea for a Christmas decoration, which I have been frantically working on for days now… to the point that I’m in danger of becoming one of those people who can’t stop showing off the 86 million pictures of their latest pet project. (Don’t worry… you all are safe. It’s quirky enough that it would be identifiable if I were to post pictures here so I won’t be doing that.) 

I only mention the fact to explain that pictures are being shown around… 

        and just about every person I’ve shown them to has reacted with genuine surprise. 

                  “I had no idea you were creative!”

…

… …

… … …

How does one respond to that??

And more importantly, What the heck kind of impression am I projecting???

(I asked this of SP, who responded with, “What kind of obtuse weirdos do you hang with when I’m not around?” … An answer which cheered me immensely. :-D)

Frailty, Thy Name is Jz

One of my great peeves has to do with people who consistently overbook their lives with somewhere between 1.25 - 3.0 times the amount of things that they actually have time for. (HINT: This never works… And have you noticed you alienate people because they can’t depend on you?) 

Unsurprisingly then, I tend toward the other end of the spectrum - the one made popular by Montgomery Scott:  *Hmmmm, if I’m lucky, it’s a five minute job, but it could also take as much as a couple of hours*…  “Captain, that will take me at least half a day to fix!” 

With that in mind, on to our story...

I had to schedule A Big Project at home.

       One that required respirators, safety goggles, kneepads, and Tyvek coveralls.

I did my homework - I read up on instructions for The Big Project, I studied all the estimated times available… and doubled them. I factored in the difficulty of the physical labor required, and allowed for the fact that I am no spring chicken. I erred on the side of caution in all possible estimates, quadrupling the average times given, and finally, settled on 2 days as the optimum amount of time that would allow me to Finish The Project. 

Day One arrived. 

I suited up, donned all the safety equipment, and sallied forth confidently. Only to discover that, not only was the task FAR more physically taxing than I’d anticipated but also, wearing safety goggles and breathing like Darth Vadar brings out my inner claustrophobic. At the end of two hours, my neck was completely knotted, my back was screaming at me, and my arms were quivering… AND, I’d had two panic attacks. I managed to control one, but the other got away from me, causing me to break land speed records as I sprinted for the fresh air of outdoors. 

Yet I wasn’t even close to halfway done.

But that didn’t matter. I’d completely had it, mentally and physically. I hurt, had a roaring headache, and was thoroughly nauseated. I threw in the towel without a second thought and spent the rest of the day trying to lose the headache and eating plain rice to settle my stomach.

Day Two was… well, an improvement, I guess. I still didn’t completely finish, but I did at least get to a satisfactory breaking point before I needed to stop. (As opposed to just dropping the tools where they lay and lurching out of the room.) I also dodged any further panic attacks, altho’ I still had to battle my safety goggles. (They kept fogging up so badly that I actually had to stop twice to pour water out of them. Seriously, there was so much sloshing about that it really wouldn’t have surprised me to see goldfish!) 

Even with the psychological improvements however, I still had to quit after two hours, while my neck and back were still speaking to me. There was at least another 2-4 hours of work to be done but I could not see myself safely continuing. So I cleaned things up and shut the door behind me, with a promise to come back soon.

The worst part is done and I’m glad of that. And yes, it was my choice not to push for a couple more hours and then pay for it for the next five days. But despite all that, I’m still very disappointed in myself - for not staying on schedule, for not finishing, for being a wimp.

Because altho' I joke about being Weenie Girl, that's not really the way I like to think of myself.

My preferred imagining runs more along the line of this:

100 Seconds

Previously on ARB… 

BG had just uttered the Great Toy Use Pronouncement: 

“…the first time play time is with me. Period.”

But there was more to come….

“However, you have homework. You get 10 seconds on each setting - no more, no less. I want hand-written notes of which you like best. These you will leave, conveniently placed (preferably next to a beer) for me to review.” 

“Ten settings, 100 seconds, zero orgasms. Get busy.” 

Wheeee!

I love this type of assignment!

I grabbed notebook, pencil, and new toy; hit the timer feature on my phone; and let the good times roll. I’ll confess that times like these are when I really wish I could remember the shorthand that mom taught me as a kid. But I did my best with my own form of note-taking, which incorporates abbreviation, l33t speak, scientific notation, and (this time at least,) a lot of exclamation points. There had to be enough information, after all, to allow me to both rank the settings and explain my choices. Not that he’d asked for explanations… but he knows me quite well. I’m pretty sure he knew he was in for excessive verbiage.

One hundred enjoyable seconds later, I relaxed both hands and set out to decrypt my writing. (Almost like I was distracted when I took notes…) I did have to turn the toy back on once, but only to listen to the sound of the patterns - I did NOT break the rules and touch it to anything corporeal after time was up - No, No!

In reasonably short order, I had drawn up my Settings in Order of Preference, as well as a brief yet adjective-rich summary of just how and why I had arrived at my decisions. 

“Find anything you like yet?”

“Just finishing up the notes, sir!”

“This should be an interesting read…”

An interesting read and an interesting experience - for both of us. He did indeed review the notes as a whole (over the beer) … and then re-read them, one setting description at a time. (As I played demo model, providing a corresponding visual for each setting.) Details and documentation absorbed and filed for future use, First Play Time officially began.

Now, we’re always good together, so I can’t lay claim to Best Scene Evah just because we had such an extensive conversation about the toy. But the increased openness really does seem to be adding a new depth to our relationship, which in turn lends a certain je ne sais quoi to everything we do… 

Well worth 100 seconds and a cramped hand. (Or two.)

Still Shopping After All These Years

So once again, I am restocking the toy box. 

Every serious breakup, things get tossed; then we reconcile; BG says, “I can’t believe you threw that out!”; and we start anew. You’d think I would learn… 

(In my own defense, I really thought this last one was IT.)

Despite the monetary outlay, however, I can’t regret Operation Clean Sweep, because it has opened up a number of conversations we might never have had otherwise.

Generally, I don’t offer an opinion on our toys unless asked. If I really hate something, if it seems to run the risk of causing me actual harm, sure, I’ll pipe up then. But if something simply isn’t my cup of tea? I just hide it at the bottom of the toybox and hope he forgets we own it. Because, let’s face it, “I don’t really like that” is a loaded statement in the world of the submissive. (Can you say, “fraught with risk”?)

For one thing, why lead with your chin? Odds are extremely good that your dominant’s first reaction to learning that you’re not fond of a toy is likely to be something along the lines of, “And this matters to me WHY, again?” (A response I accept... but would still prefer not to have bandied about any more than necessary.)

Additionally, unless you’ve made something a hard limit, there is also the very real likelihood that saying, “I don’t care for that” is going to shoot “that” directly to the top of his Must Use Immediately and Often list. (Raise your hand if this sounds familiar…) Sometimes, discretion really is the better part of valor.

Plus, there's also that thorny issue of perceived credibility. 

It can be difficult to sound convincing about your indifference to a thing when he knows darned well you were thrashing, gasping, and generally having a grand ol’ time last time he used it. The problem is that, well, anything wielded by the domly hand stands a darned good chance of success... the hand itself is just too compelling. However, the fact that he can mind-fuck me past my disinterest in a particular toy does not negate the fact that I still don’t care for it. (*Insert emphatic nod here*) 

When there’s been a year-long hiatus from a given device, however, “I threw it out because I never used it unless you told me to (and you were gone, btw)” elicits a more thoughtful response. Yes, I still got the anticipated, “What do you mean, you didn’t like that? You always came gangbusters when I used it on you” protest, but the proof was in the pudding (or, more accurately, the trash) and pragmatism stepped in and took over: 

“OK, we need to replace that, [for these reasons] but it’s silly to get something that you’ll never use yourself. Let’s look for something that satisfies my criteria AND that you’ll like for solo sessions.” 

So we sat there and discussed the details of what he was looking for; what had gone wrong for me with Version 1; and what factors were of supreme indifference to both of us.

Alrighty, then! 

Armed with a clearer understanding of the desired end and a wider range of options than on previous expeditions, I fired up the laptop and commenced with the shopping. A few sites and a couple of clarifications later, Ladies and Gentleman, We Have A Winner! 

“Proceed To Checkout…”

Naturally, with all this excitement, build-up, and anticipation, the fool thing then took an ungodly long time to arrive. I was fielding daily texts: “Anything?” “Package?” “So…?”
But finally, the big day arrived.

“It’s here, it’s here!!” 

Unsurprisingly, I was promptly informed that I was forbidden to actually use it. 

“You may clean it and put batteries in it, but first time play time belongs to me. Period.”

The part that was surprising was that the directions didn’t stop there.

But I think I’m going to save that story for next time…

Requests That Give Me Pause, #14

(email received at work:)

“Jz- The cow in the lab is beeping. Please make it stop.”

(IT - It's not just a job, it's an adventure!)

cow = Cart On Wheels. (s/b COW)

Most often called "the laptop cart"

I was initially every bit confused as you all.

In Which Art Mimics Life

It's like eavesdropping on my inner voices...

Except you need to repeat loop them...

With no "end" command...

Not Officially TMI Tuesday

Still, it's a meme - which is sort of a TMI...
And it's a thing I told Olivia I'd do - and I'm finally getting around to it - on a Tuesday.
So, TMITuesday-Kinda
******************************************************

1. What was the last thing you put in your mouth? 

Far too many cookies (gotta taste-test, don’cha know?) 

2. Worst physical pain you’ve experienced?

Despite all my breaks, sprains, and crashes, I think I have to go with my first bout of TMJ disorder. It hit fast and hard and I spent two months living on ice cream and mashed potatoes because chewing anything was absolute agony - not to mention the shooting pains of just holding still…, or the unrelenting eight-week ice-pick headache.

Note to self: try not to do that again. EVER

3. Favorite place you have been?

Northern Arizona

No, wait - San Juan Islands

Hold on… Cambridge

Maybe Leningrad?

But Montreal’s cool

And Glasgow

Then there’s…

Nope. Can’t answer this.

4. How late did you stay up last night?

1:00 am

A vast change from my usual 8:45, but true.

5. If you could move somewhere else, where would it be?

Into a smaller house that required less upkeep in a town/state /country with less onerous taxes.

Oh wait, did you mean an actual location???

6. Which of your Facebook friends lives the closest to you?

I Face Not

7. When was the last time you cried? 

Actual tears - months.

A sniffly mope - last week.

8. Who took your profile picture?

Who uses a real picture?

9. What’s your favorite season?

I like them all but, if pressed, probably winter. (As long as it snows.)

10. If you could have any career, what would it be?

Well, if I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn’t be in the retirement pickle that I currently am... but, pulling a possiblity out of a hat - probably a technical writer.

11. What was the last book you read?

The Chilbury Ladies Choir  (Read This!!!)

12. If you could talk to ANYONE right now who would it be?

Mom

13. Are you a good influence?

Surprisingly, I’m both good and bad.

I calm the wild and get the staid into mischief.

(This may be my super power…)

14. Does pineapple belong on pizza?

Sure, if I’m getting a Hawaiian pizza.

If I’m ordering a moussaka pizza, then I’d have to say no.

(You didn’t expect me to be one of those people who always get the same thing, did you?)

15. You have the remote, what channel would you watch?

If I watched TV, you mean?

Probably the BBC channel.

16. Last concert you attended? 

Robert Plant (*swoon*)

17. Favorite sports team?

Sumo is not a team sport.

(just sayin’…)

Ambushed (Again)

I ran into one of life’s inevitable sequence of events the other day.

You know the kind I mean:

Get the credit card bill paid off? 

        Something large and expensive and utterly necessary will break.

Late getting out of the house in the morning?

        Every school bus in the world will be on the roads - right smack in front of me.

New pants?

        I will snag the selfsame spot on the front right thigh the first time I wear them.

Break up with someone?

(Well, okay. I suppose there’s more than one thing you can absolutely count on in that situation…  But one that gets me every time… that I don’t hear a lot of other people mentioning…)

        Get reduced to tears by condoms.

Yep. Completely ridiculous tho' that is, that's what happens to me.

Every single stinking time, at some point, I'll have a crying jag triggered by unused condoms.

To make matters worse, I’d thought I was safe, that I had gotten out of jail free this go-round. 

But I swear, those damned things are like ninjas - they lurk in the background, biding their time until you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security, then, *BAM!*, when you least expect it, they leap forth from the depths to assault your self esteem. Darting and feinting and singing, “Never, never, never again!”, they bludgeon you emotionally: calling you disparaging names, taunting you with their approaching expiration date, and mocking you for daring to contemplate the possibility that you might actually ever get the chance to use one of them again.

It's a relentless attack that continues until you’re sobbing with The Futility Of It All, then they have the nerve to retreat for cover behind the one small shard of hope that still clings tenuously to life in the back corner of the the drawer - so that even as your hand reaches out to throw them away, you hesitate. Sneaky, rat-bastard sons of latex…

GAD, I hate this particular aftereffect!

An Evening With Thelma and Louise

We’d taken a ferry out to the island for a lively day of sun and fun. (With a lot of wind and rain thrown in on the trip home.) Discussing our plans for the evening (as we huddled in our jackets against the damp,) Thelma said, “50 Shades of Grey is playing on TV - I think it would be really interesting to watch that with you.” (Translation: “I intend to pepper you with questions.”)

Now, there are plenty of people in my life from whom that would be an uncomfortable suggestion. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m from New England - we don’t really talk about things sexual. But this is Thelma, who once coaxed me into posing come-hitherishly in slinky lingerie while she snapped pictures, and then marched me and the negatives into one of those places that personalizes things like, oh, say, pillows (picking a random domestic item out of the hat *ahem*) by printing them with your pictures. She and the man behind the counter then had a fine old time discussing the likely success of this gift for my boyfriend - while I stood there, trying to un-swallow my tongue…

So, I wasn’t really that worried about the upcoming interrogation. I did, however, have to think twice about watching 50 Shades. Thelma the vanilla has read the book, Jz the erstwhile submissive has not. I never felt up to facing the abyssmal writing and I already had my own hot, kinky lovelife… so why bring bad prose into the picture?

I was kind of curious about the movie however, so I gave in gracefully.

Dinner was had and then, by mutual agreement, we postponed our dessert until movie time. The rain continued to patter down outside as the wind slapped branches against the windows, so we decided that jammies and snuggly robes were in order for the big viewing experience. This, in turn, led to Thelma suggesting that we do a little “spa night” thing - an idea I jumped on. I may not be a big makeup fan but lotions and scrubs and bubbles sing a siren song to my inner girly-girl every time. 

So we washed, we exfoliated, we masqued, we moisturized, we took selfies (*eyeroll*)…

        and then we grabbed our treats and pulled up our chairs for movie time.

Two women “of a certain age” in fluffy robes, with hair pulled back and heavy goop on their faces, eating hot fudge sundaes while watching a naughty movie. It was completely ridiculous - and more fun than I’ve had in ages.

Particularly since Thelma kept yelling, “Wait!” and hitting the pause button to ask for clarification of the events onscreen. I’d answer, she’d process the information (her face during the explanation of “fisting” was absolutely priceless) then she’d either say “OK” and hit resume, or she'd pull the afghan up over her head and squeal for a moment. (And then emerge going, “All right - I don’t get that one but whatever…”)

             Dear Thelma,

                    I’ve missed you.

                         I’m glad we’re back.

                                           Love, Louise

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em

I’ve told you about the neighbor who trims his hedge with nail scissors…

I thought I’d told you about the guy next to him, who hoes the sidewalk (*clink! clink!*) but I can’t find that, so maybe that was just an email to someone… but he does that, I swear.

The person to the far end of them all has been known to weed-whack dirt. (Huge, choking clouds of it, in fact.)

Their lawn care techniques have provided me with many a chuckle over the years, I tell you.

Then yesterday, as I chased down paint chips during a post-scraping cleaning frenzy, I found myself extending the shop vac over the edge of the porch, right onto the grass. 

Yes, I vacuumed my lawn. 

        Publicly. 

In full awareness of the total absurdity of it all..., 

        But it was working, by god, so I stiffened my resolve and kept going.

I can only hope my neighbors found me half as amusing as I have found them...

Crap.

Missed a few...

In Which A Friend Is Named

The plan is to tell you a story about being with my friend, so I’ve been struggling to come up with a nickname for her. (To use here, I mean. She’s already got one in real life. ;-p) 

I suppose it shouldn’t be such a big deal - I mean, the whole point of the nickname is so that a person will be anonymous here, right? Why does it matter what I call them? But names do matter, even the made up ones. Perhaps especially the made up ones… so I always strive to get it right. -- But this one’s tough.

She’s not obviously associated with her profession the way Scholarly Professor (SP) and BookMan are. Unlike Tiny Woman, her physical being fits well within normal parameters, so I can’t call her “BigFoot” or something along those lines. (Which would actually have to be Tiny Woman’s alternate name, anyhow.) 

No, what is most striking about this friend is her personality. It’s HUGE. She’s warm, funny, bossy, acerbic, sharp, open-minded, and a smart aleck - with a laugh like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. (And… she gives me crowns.)

How on earth do you find a single nickname to encompass all of that?

After days of mulling this over, I was going to settle for Sassy. It’s pretty close, tho’ there was still a niggle of discontent… but I thought it was about as satisfactory as I was likely to get. 

OK, name found, now I can tell the story…

Except that I went googling for some images and fell down a rabbit hole. I was looking for something about two women taking selfies and came across this:

And I remembered... 

my friend had named herself.

 We had gone to see this movie together when it came out - and on the way home, she’d said, 

“That is US… I’m Thelma and you’re Louise.”

The names fit like a glove 27 years ago and they still fit today.

So now that my friend is named and you’ve all been introduced, I can get down to writing up our adventures…

(But while we're on the subject of names and buddy films, may I just pause to confess that I'm slightly more fond of being Louise to her Thelma than I am of my Lucy & Ethel pairing with another old friend... especially since, in that combination, we take turns being Lucy! All characterizations may apply - but I definitely prefer to think I rock the Louise vibe better.) ;-D

Things I Wouldn't Have Thought Needed Spelling Out, #18

I popped into the bathroom at my doctor’s office and saw this above the little “drop off” table:

Jaw dropped, I stared in disbelief…

Like, who would leave a sample without it being requested?

What on earth could have prompted that?

              Practical jokers?

              Rogue pee fetishists?

I had a sudden vision of some unsuspecting member of the office staff walking in and finding the little table groaning under the weight of a jumble of unauthorized samples, stacked like votive offerings at a shrine… Oh, the horror!

(like this)

OK, it's probably just an insurance company rule...

     ... but I like my version better!  ;-p

Sticky Fingers

I broke out the Gorilla Glue in an (unsuccessful) effort to reattach a warped base mat. Having had some unpleasant chemical adhesive experiences in the past, I was quite careful and put everything away, confident that I had cleaned up all lingering residue.

So you can imagine my dismay when, several hours later, I realized that one of my fingernails looked remarkably as though it had been liberally festooned with the remains of a sneeze…

          except sneeze geeb will come off…

                    and this did not.

It was three days of sporting polyurethane boogers before that mess would finally chip off.

At least I could continue to use my hands, however…

(I've done this, too.
Fingernails are better.)

In Which I Am Reduced to Tears (of Laughter)

Recently, a couple of friends popped back in my life after an extended period of silence. I go way back with each of them - one is a woman I worked with 27 years ago, the other a guy I knew from my first job after college - so add 10 more years for him. They are both very dear to me but in each case, our paths had diverged and we’d lost touch.  

Now they were back, however, and it was time to play catch up. Meaning, of course, that I had to mention my breakup with BG. (I promise I did talk about other things as well, but l'amour is one of those obligatory topics among friends, no?)

Their responses proved that good friends can always pick right up where they left off.

(And that the best friends will have you rolling on the floor in no time flat. :-D)

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The Female Friend:

“Now, how long had you been seeing him?”

“Eight years”

     ~pause ~

“That’s a long time… 

       Well, you can’t say you’re not good at long-term relationships!”

“Yeah, particularly long-term relationships that ultimately go nowhere.”

She paused again for a moment, then grinned.

“Is there a crown for that?!? You need a crown…!!!"

So I retrieved (and donned) the rhinestone tiara that I keep on hand in my kitchen (what? doesn’t everyone?!?) and we giggled the blues away.

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The Male Friend:

“re: your lovelife and its continuing disappointments. So…, what’s the problem?”

I laughed so hard I nearly snorted coffee out my nose.

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The Support of Old Friends.

What would life be without it? :-p