That's Ms. Hill to You

Holy Cow

2011-03-04T00:01:00.003-05:00

Well, this is kind of sad. I haven't posted since early 2008, yet my personal description is still pretty much the same...not that I've been unemployed since 2006, but I sure as hell am unemployed now - since early 2009. Yeah, I'm not suicidal, but I wouldn't object to a freak accident...

But wait! In the intervening years I picked up warm glass as a hobby - so on evenings where I'm not mourning my station in life, I may just post information about my ongoing projects :-)

Right now I've just wrapped up my homework for the day (more on that later), and I've got 2 episodes of HGTV's "Selling NY" to watch, I've never seen the show before, but Mom recommends... and I'm living in her basement, and splicing off her cable, so, what the hell - let's drink a little dram while we dream a little dream....

The People I Don't Want to Be...

2008-04-12T02:50:00.001-04:00

I ran with a “bad” crowd, back then.
Scammed for deceased grandparents’ Medicaid checks.
Cashed food stamp dollars so there would be enough change for cigarettes and beer.
Slept in a basement storage room.

So romantic,
We made love on top of buildings….
But it was really because we had no other place to go.
I remember listening to early rap in the basement of an old folks’ home…
We could camp there because no one was awake after 10.
Had sex on the gravel of their roof, and in their basement.The occupants all blissfully unaware…..
He used more gel than I did, but it was the 80’s
Not unusual to try to run your fingers through your lover’s hair
And find them stymied by hairspray….

HALLELUJA!!

2006-08-28T17:54:00.000-04:00

I haven’t been writing lately, kind of working on the “If you can’t say something nice…” premise. I had nothing good to say, everything that I’d worked for was being stripped away, and I was going to get through it, but I certainly didn’t want to write about it. Now, the light at the end of the tunnel has not only appeared, it’s given me a damn pretty tan.

I won my unemployment case! I got a job with better pay, hours, vision, and ethics than my last one! I am suddenly solvent AND employed. I am thrilled and a little overwhelmed, given that these events transpired within a couple days of each other. But holy cow, it sure felt good to get up this morning and go to a meeting…how often does one say that?!

Will write more later, just wanted to share my joy with the world.

I'm Not Dead, Just Busy

2006-07-27T22:21:00.000-04:00

I keep thinking about blogging, what should I say, where am I at, what am I doing? But I'm so damn busy doing the things that I'm doing, and STILL trying to figure out where I'm at, and what I should do, that I haven't managed to actually write until, well, now.

I'm headed to Wisconsin on Sunday...I've managed to line up more interviews there in one week than I've had here in Michigan in several months. Sad, and frustrating.

I'm also busting ass to finish up some house projects - repainting the TV room, stairwell and master bedroom. Of course first I have to finish stripping 8 million years worth of wallpaper and paint from the plaster. I don't know what they used for wallpaper glue back in the early 1900's, but it sure is tenacious (I suspect it involved horse hooves and some sort of human sacrifice). My real estate agent is coming over tomorrow so we can discuss what would be involved, and absolutely need to be done, for me to sell the house.

I'm trying to prepare for the worst ( having to sell the house and move right now), while hoping for the best (the trading analyst position here in Kzoo will come through and I can move back to WI in a year or two under my own prideful steam). In the meantime I've got a collection of moving boxes on the front porch, but haven't been able to bring myself to actually pack anything... I've been doing some half-hearted sorting, but I just don't wanna do anything concrete until I know I have to. Once I start packing then its all over, I'll be heading back to Wisconsin with my tail between my legs.

And of course there are the beasties to consider. It occurred to me tonight that I know a few people who act as "foster parents" for animal rescue. Could I get one of them to foster my dogs for a few months until I sell the Lawton house and get a place of my own ? I'd pay for food, heartworm and a (hopefully) nominal fee for care, of course, I just can't afford a kennel, especially when I'm dealing with an unknown amount of time. I don't know, must make some calls. If I must give them up my vet is willing to adopt Sandy... and I'm thinking that I could contact Harley's original family...now that he's neutered and up do date on shots their only expense would be $10 for heartworn and a big bag of dog food each month...I hope I don't have to give them up.

Stopped at Eggroll and Belle Belle's earlier this week, needed to borrow their cat carrier (Goldie is welcome at M&D's), and return Belle Belle's cake cover. They took me out for a boat ride and it was the most relaxed I've felt in forever...why on earth haven't I been out there sooner?

I've made the best friends I've ever had here in Michigan. I have a life here, albeit a currently unemployed and fearful one. Sure, my family is in Wisconsin, but outside of Mom & Dad I don't know anyone (not even my brother, really) there. The job opportunities are much better. Mom & Dad are offering to subsidize my starting over. Its a good deal. I just keep telling myself that, and hoping that I don't have to take them up on it.

My bit of humor for the day: I ran the "Blogger.com" spellcheck on this prior to posting, and "blogging" came up as a typo. Their spellcheck suggestion was "flogging". Yeah, if I had one I'd be flogging it for comfort, but I don't, so I write.

Guess who wrote this

2006-07-21T04:02:00.000-04:00

My manner of thinking, so you say, cannot be approved. Do you suppose I care? A poor fool indeed is he who adopts a manner of thinking for others! My manner of thinking stems straight from my considered reflections; it holds with my existence, with the way I am made. It is not in my power to alter it; and were it, I'd not do so.

This manner of thinking you find fault with is my sole consolation in life. It alleviates all my sufferings in prison, it comprises all my pleasures in the world outside, it is dearer to me than life itself. Not my manner of thinking, but the manner of thinking of others has been the source of my unhappiness.

The reasoning man who scorns the prejudices of simpletons necessarily becomes the enemy of simpletons; he must expect as much, and laugh at the inevitable. A traveler journeys along a fine road. It has been strewn with traps. He falls into one. Do you say it is the traveler's fault, or that of the scoundrel who lays the traps? If then, as you tell me, they are willing to restore my liberty if I am willing to pay for it by the sacrifice of my principles or my tastes, we may bid one another an eternal adieu, for rather than part with those, I would sacrifice a thousand lives and a thousand liberties, if I had them.

These principles and these tastes, I am their fanatic adherent; and fanaticism in me is the product of the persecutions I have endured from my tyrants. The longer they continue their vexations, the deeper they root my principles in my heart, and I openly declare that no one need ever talk to me of liberty if it is offered to me only in return for their destruction.

Saving Grace

2006-07-21T01:01:00.000-04:00

Do you know where you're going to?
Do you like the things that life is showing you?
Where are you going to?
Do you know?
Do you get what you're hoping for?
When you look behind you there's no open door
What are you hoping for?
Do you know?

Sappy song, I know, I also know that I don’t know.  I don’t seem to know anything anymore, I just hope a lot.

I also like Tom Petty’s new song, “Saving Grace”

“And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway, don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace…”

And yes, the guitar riffs on the song have the sound of George Thorogood & The Destroyers, but the lyrics are pure Tom Petty; he’s all about searching, finding, and finding its wrong and searching some more.  OK, enough of my music review.

Most people would give their eye-teeth (whatever those are), or their right arm, for a chance to start over.  A financially subsidized chance to start over.  So why the hell am I crying, and fighting this?  Because it smacks of failure.

One of the more memorable things that my ex-husband said to me, when I was having a conniption over his unemployment, was “Dawn, you always keep going no matter what.”  Yeah, I can’t use the excuse that I just can’t do it anymore, because I always do keep doing it, even when I don’t want to.  Giving up and giving in just aren’t in my nature, although sometimes they seem like attractive alternatives – thus the drinking, it’s a way to drop out, if only for 12 hours or so.

I try to be ready for anything, I’m a big believer in the Boy Scout credo, “Always be prepared.”  There should be a sub-credo to that, “Always be prepared to be unprepared.”  What do you do when the thing you thought would never happen, happens?  What can you think about the unthinkable?  I never, ever, believed that I would remain unemployed this long.  I have never had trouble finding work, and yet, I am living the unthinkable, the unbelievable, at least as far as my universal view is concerned.

So what do I do?  Sure, I cry, and drink too much, and worry, but then I suck it up and move on.  I’m meeting with my real estate agent on Monday, applying for jobs in both Wisconsin and Michigan, and hoping like hell that something, anywhere, works out.  I run on anyway (don’t I baby?).

All That Matters is Now...

2006-07-18T01:41:00.000-04:00

Been on a crying jag, three days. Drinking doesn’t work. Smoking doesn’t work. Drinking, downing leftover vicodin, and smoking doesn’t work. Food is not attractive. I’ve had it. Here’s a copy of the email I sent my parents today…

If things don't work out with the Plante & Moran job then I'll contact my real estate agent and see what the minimum is that I need to do to get the house on the market. I really wanted to hold out and finish it, and move back to La Crosse under my own steam, but I can't take this any more, feel completely useless, hopeless, and pretty much beaten. I'm sure that you're not only as frustrated as I am, but its also costing you $$. Would like to keep the cat.

Got a call from Plante & Moran while I was out (around 8pm)…they’re putting the position on hold for a couple weeks, vacations and some internal things need to be sorted out first. Apparently they don’t realize that they are my lifeline. Of course, if I tell them this, then they can hire me for shit…and work me like a jailhouse boy. But, compared to nothing, how bad is that? Yes, I will take it up the ass with sandpaper, if it means that I can leave this town with my head up, and will have finished what I set out to do.

I look at my history, and it seems that since the bad choice to get married, every choice I’ve made has gone to shit. I dreamt last night that I remarried my ex, and we spent our time quibbling about what happened to the items we split up during our first divorce (the china, crystal, etc.). I’ve been spending my days trying to figure out where I could’ve stopped this…what turning point I could have changed, had I noticed it. Same thing as quibbling with the ex, it doesn’t matter any more. All that matters is now. All that matters is now, and THAT is what I have to fix.

I Didn't Win the Lottery, Again

2006-07-03T23:28:00.000-04:00

I haven’t won the lottery again. I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I haven’t won the lottery, again.

I hold out. Stretch out the dream, as it were. I’ll buy a ticket, and then just wait…extending the daydream. What if I did win? But I know that I won’t. I’m reasonably optimistic, but I never win these damn things.

But what if I did? I’d finish this house the way I want to, and then build my dream home (I’ve been building that baby for years, every time I have insomnia, which is often.). The big question is whether the dream home would be in Wisconsin or Michigan? If the winnings were big enough maybe I’d do both. Even if I could only do one my plan is to leave it, and a trust, so that it can become an artists’ retreat for the unschooled artists like me. I’d give our local library a new wing, and the La Crosse library, where I spent so much of my youth, a hefty donation as well.

I spoke with my mom once, about the what if’s. I told her I’d finally be able to pay back all the money I’ve borrowed over the years…she said that she thought a million would cover it, ha, ha!! Don’t know if I’d give my brother any money…haven’t heard from him lately, and we aren’t close. His wife is fabulous, but if I gave him money then she might just divorce him and take half, and I have to take care of family, just on principle. So no, no money for my brother – he’s better off with the fabulous wife.

B&C I’d make millionaires, but, being communists, they’d probably give most of it away. Well hell, that’s their prerogative, I’ll just have to give them more to cover for the charity. And E&B, I’d help them out of their current, unexpected hole. And C’s brother E, I’d take care of him too, if I could figure out how to get around the FBI. And what a joy for me, to finally be able to pay all of my bills, in full!

I think, aside from the dream house (and a trust set up purely to pay property taxes, etc.), that I would end up just as broke as I am now, were I to win the lottery, which I won’t.

Just checked. Nope, I didn’t win the lottery, again. Damn. Not even one number.

The Elusive Kibble Beast, Part I

2006-06-26T23:24:00.000-04:00

It was the shoes; the damn shoes were everywhere. They perched on windowsills, side tables, even the dining room table. None of them matched – sometimes in the bathroom she would find a tennis shoe that matched the one on the entertainment center two rooms away. More often they were singles. Sometimes there were socks too, and the odd bit of underwear, or a half eaten page from a book – or perhaps it was a bill.

Hunting, always hunting. Elusive beasts, her tiny prey. The dogs didn’t know where to look, so they stayed home, stalking shoes, socks, and the really smelly bits of underwear she was too forgetful to put away, or wash.

The cat was easier…she went out each morning after pawing her mistress awake, and came in each evening to mouse, or bat about the flotsam and jetsam on the floor. Bits of an insole, a stray underwire, the lower corner of the cover of “The Stand”. And always there was the fur, imaginary bunnies to bat about, until they gathered large and intimidating in the corners and lesser-used parts of the space.

It would have been a satisfying life, if not for the constant hunt. The damn little beasties could be elusive, and it was difficult to capture them in large numbers, which was what her beasties required, what she required. So it was out at daylight, and back long after it was done, with a few meager coupons that could be traded for the meat of the elusive kibble beast. She was too old to hunt, really. Now she hunted for the means to buy the product of the hunt.

She was haunted by the shoes, the half-eaten bits of leather that told her she was not bringing home enough. She was haunted by the days she was gone, when she missed the dogs’ aboriginal joy in shredding the bits of civilization she left carelessly sitting about. She would have happily joined them in shredding the navy-blue high heels, but regretted the loss of the insoles in her brown leather clogs.

She would come home, and place the shoes, socks, and still recognizable bits of underwear out of reach of the dogs. It was a habit. She seldom thought to retrieve them to a safe location…after all, they were safe, sitting on the windowsills, fireplace mantel, and yes, even the dining room table. She considered mounting them above the fireplace as trophies, but decided that she could still use the slightly chewed black pumps in her hunt. The rest, like the swatted mosquitos she sometimes forgot to wipe off the cupboards, would serve as a reminder that the hunt must go on.

2006-06-22T01:47:00.000-04:00

Love me baby...just a little to the left...

2006-06-22T01:46:00.001-04:00

Who's in charge!

2006-06-22T01:46:00.000-04:00

Happy Beasties

Maybe I'm Crazy

2006-05-31T23:04:00.000-04:00

There have been any number of times in my life, where, once committed to a course, I find myself unable to vary from it, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much sense heading in the other direction makes. On occasion I go crazy: I do it quietly.

I went crazy loudly once, in Chicago, with a husband to “watch over me”. Bloody lot of help he was. Now I’ve got a better grip, and a better sense of what I need to do to keep myself sane, and a healthy dose of self-preservation mixed with a healthy dose of “the rest of you can go to hell”. Once you’ve had a nervous breakdown, well, a lot of the niceties, and the falsities, seem downright silly.

The funny thing is that more often than not, still, I have to squelch my generous impulses. Back in Chicago one of my good deeds used to be to buy the paper, read the interesting parts on the El, and then leave the whole thing for the next rider. Much easier to do a random act of kindness that way… The ex didn’t appreciate the night that I brought a crack ho home and gave her my old winter coat and all of our leftovers.

These days, when I’m flush, I want to give my friends the world. Sometimes I want to give strangers the world. Usually I can stop myself…but a part of me says, “What’s so crazy about THAT?” Kindness isn't crazy, but in this world people perceive it as strange…strange to be kind to relative strangers, strange to be kind to real strangers. Dogs don't have that problem.

I can feel it when I’m wobbling, or following a path that other people will think is nuts. Usually I can stop myself. Sometimes I can’t. There’s more than a wee bit of the obsessive compulsive in me, sometimes even though the voice of “sanity” is screaming that I’m doing something dumb I find myself doing it anyway.

I adopted another dog. I don’t have the time (oddly enough, even though I’m unemployed), or the energy to play with Harley the way that he needs to play, and dogs need a pack. Months ago I saw an add on FreeCycle for a white German Shepherd, about a year and a half old. I emailed the woman a few weeks ago, and asked if anyone had taken the beast. It had appeared in her yard in October, trailing a broken chain. The woman held onto it, put out ads seeking the owner, and gave the dog the temporary name "Sequoia". She held on to Sequoia, hoping for a good home for the incredibly friendly critter that she could not keep.

She has four beagles, a Pyrenese Mountain Dog, a husband, four kids, and innumberable farm animals; she's got enough mouths to feed. Sequoia was the "spare" dog and just didn't get enough attention. She said that she'd hoped that one of her children would take a special interest in the stray, but they didn't. Handing over a dog to the authorities though, well, we all know what happens to most of the dogs in the pound. She couldn't bring herself to do it.

Two weeks ago Friday Sequoia came for a “play date”. As with any good date, Sandy, nee "Sequoia" ended up spending the weekend...

Maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m following a crazy path…I certainly can’t afford another beast, all logic dictated that I ignore this urge. That little “sane” part of my brain screamed at me…but I couldn't stop. When something in you overrides the “sanity” isn’t the sanest thing to do what your heart tells you to? If not, then what on earth is instinct for?

Sandy is adorable, a white german shephard with a little something mixed in that makes her coat look, well, sandy. Her name actually came to me because of the song from "Grease": "Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity..." Sandy moves as though she's on a cushion of air, and has the most delicate way of coming up, sniffing your nose, and then belching softly in your face. To prove her alpha status she spends a fair amount of time humping Harley's head...yeah, you heard me, his head.

She's hand and foot shy, but unlike a lot of dogs who have been abused she merely sinks down for a moment on her cushion of air, and when she realizes that the hand is reaching out to pet her, or the foot is kicking a ball for her to chase, she dives in with joy, and its like the sun coming out. Crazy I may be, but I'll take joy in her joy - and Harley loves her too, despite (or because of) all the humping.

Lost Weekend

2006-05-27T21:02:00.000-04:00

I’m in the midst of a lost weekend. I should be at a wedding, but began coming down with a nasty bug on Thursday, and when I woke on Friday, well, there was just no way. Not to mention the sprained left shoulder.

I spent two days self-medicating the sprain with vicodin left over from my last knee surgery, and still, when I went to the library Friday to load up on books, I had to walk like the hunchback of Notre Dame, left shoulder up to my ear, left arm pinned to my side. That’s the last time I transplant shrubbery and small trees on my own. Of course it will be the last time, because now they’re all moved, and appear to be taking well to their new spots. The pain is much better now, although turning my head all the way left, or right, is not an entirely pleasant experience.

Sprained shoulder, and a nasty viral something; complete with fever, chills, runny nose, cough, and an inexplicable craving for sweets. I figured that no one at the wedding would want what I had, and so here I am, at home, with a fabulous excuse to do nothing. I still want to do stuff, I have a load of plants that need to get into the ground, but I won’t be doing my shoulder any favors if I do it now, not to mention the coughing fits I go into if I breathe too hard…so I’m baking myself.

I have books, I have water, I have lemon juice and gin, and I have a fairly comfy canvas chair with a footrest built in. I have a weekend that will be sunny and average 85 degrees. I also have a determination to rid myself of the “farmer’s tan” that I’ve developed over the last month or two. I wear jeans and a t-shirt for everything, so only my face and forearms are tan; my legs and décolletage virtually glow in the dark. This must change.

So I am going to spend the weekend icing my shoulder and alternately baking and marinating my virus…could be worse, could be much, much worse. Today’s book was good, I managed not to sunburn myself (I alternate between applications of SPF 15 and SPF 30), and I’m still laughing about my encounter with the librarian.

I checked out a book called “Leonardo DaVinci: Flights of the Mind, a Biography” about a month ago from our library (and a very fine library it is for such a small town. I continue to be impressed.). When I went to the library on Friday, and returned all of the books except for the DaVinci one I said to the librarian, “I’m not quite done with the DaVinci book, its very dense reading. Is it ok if I hold onto it a bit longer?”

“Well, “ she said, “as long as you’re reading fast, because I think that there are other people waiting for it.”

I wasn’t entirely surprised. Reading “The DaVinci Code” may have inspired people to investigate Leonardo DaVinci himself. “I’ll read fast,” I assured her as I stepped into the “New Releases” aisle, looking for some light reading for my lost weekend.

The librarian approached me a few moments later, “Don’t worry about the book,” she said, smiling. “I thought you were talking about “The DaVinci Code”, there’s a waiting list for that, but no one’s signed up to read his biography, so you can keep it as long as you like.”

Ah, so much for my faith in peoples’ desire to dig deeper for truth. All the better for me, I do find his biography fascinating; for a million reasons that I won’t go into here…I may blog on it later.

So here I am, stuffed up and sore, but amused, because I can keep the DaVinci biogrophy, and relieved because I received a check from my father today that was more than my mortgage payment…it will also cover some of my utilities.

They had initially told me that they were cutting the money down to the mortgage payment, and that’s all. I may write about what I’ve done in the past week or two to raise money…or I may not. Tonight I am suncooked, reasonably happy, and slightly marinated in gin and lemon juice. I have a dog snoozing on my couch, a cat on my porch, a good book on my lap, and a little money in the bank.

At this moment, for this moment, I am content.

Insomnia...and Blessings

2006-05-23T06:52:00.000-04:00

Ah, my old friend insomnia. I’m beginning to wonder if insomnia isn’t just another form of procrastination…I’ve got things to do tomorrow morning that I don’t want to do - how much better if I can’t get to sleep, and then when I do I’ll sleep through those unwanted tasks? I wonder if that’s why I had so many sleepless nights on my last job. Of course, being unemployed I have no "real" schedule…and there never is such a thing as missing unwanted tasks, they just get pushed back.

Went to Church today. It was one of those tight-in-the-chest, what-am-I-going-to-do-for-money, what-am-I-going-to-do-for-a-job, my-world-is-falling-apart kind of mornings. After being raised Catholic, and years of being a “lost lamb”, I do find a kind of peace in going to mass. Usually when I go I’m so emotionally raw that my eyes well up at inopportune times…especially in this Church, where at one point in the mass the entire congregation holds hands. I haven’t broken down sobbing in the midst of mass yet, and when its over I feel like I’ve left some of my burden behind, if only for a little while.

It turned out to be a celebratory mass for a newly ordained priest. He wasn’t young, had some gray in his hair. The high school choir sang, and they were wonderful. At the end of mass the new priest spoke, and thanked the choir, and his family for coming down from Detroit, and invited everyone over to the church hall for light snacks and…and…he lost his words. He finally made the side-hand sign of the cross that indicates blessings…yes, everyone please come over to the hall for camaraderie, light snacks, and BLESSINGS! The whole church was laughing, the older priest was laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes, and the new priest was laughing too.

Some people radiate goodness, certainly not all. Not all priests do, but this one did. Perhaps it was the shininess of his recent ordination, but I spoke with him briefly after mass, took his hand in both of mine and congratulated him, and I got the sense that he is a good man. I didn’t go to the hall, I wasn’t quite up to small talk…especially that ever-present question, “So what do you do?” I went home and dug in the dirt.

Well, first I released the puppy from his confinement in the TV room, and we played. He’s learning to play soccer- now he doesn’t just chase after the ball when I kick it, he uses his forepaws and nose to push it back to me, and his eyes and attitude say “Kick it again!!” This is why I’ve wanted a dog, and why I love them. In their pure canine way they make me laugh…and make me see the world in a fresher light.

Goldie the Cat, in her own feline way, does the same. I spent the afternoon in the front yard, moving shrubbery and splitting and replanting. She lounged on the sidewalk in a shaft of sunlight, and every once in a while would roll on her back, wiggle for a while, and, for no apparent reason, sprint up the side of the big maple. Thankfully she was able to make her own way back down…and she didn’t seem to mind that I was laughing my ass off through the entire escapade.

I have a tendency to get too serious. I’m aware of it, and I believe that the things and people that can make me smile, make me laugh, are priceless. I’ve purchased books, shower curtains, bubble mix…all to break through that damn serious side of me. The friends I choose are the same…and the pets.

But now here I am, and its 1 a.m., the cat is sacked out upstairs, the dog on the couch, and what do I do? I think of the new priest, losing his words in his eagerness to share his joy - and I’m thankful that he, and his ability to laugh at himself, makes me laugh too.

Ramen Noodles and Gin

2006-05-11T19:12:00.000-04:00

I’d been living off Ramen Noodles and gin
With a little raisin bran tossed in
For fiber
Until I ran out of milk
And cereal

Then it was just Ramen Noodles and gin
With an olive or two tossed in
For nutritional content
I fed the ice cubes from the martini shaker to the dog
To calm him down
And keep him from swiping my drinks when I wasn’t looking

I had to make a choice, Ramen Noodles or gin
The olive supply was getting thin
The vermouth was holding out (doesn’t it always?)
But the gin was down
To Nothing

I was living off cigarettes and gin
With whatever the dog could catch thrown in
For protein…usually
He keeps himself skinny
Just in case
I decide to stop drinking
Agin

This Used to be My Garden

2006-05-10T00:44:00.000-04:00

Spent the day digging – am now so sore and relaxed that you’d think I’d spent the afternoon having sex. I am showered, moisturized, and almost completely clean (sometimes that dirt under the fingernails just refuses to come out). I know that tomorrow when I get up I’ll be walking like an 80 year old woman and my hands will feel like bricks, but still, right now I am eminently satisfied…and smoking a pseudo post-coital cigarette.

Went out late this morning to dig up plants from a woman who’d put a post on FreeCycle, I’ll call her “B”. It was about a 30-minute drive to the boonies, the sun was shining, the breeze was blowing, and the mix on the radio was good. She gave good directions, and thank god they stuck in my head, because as I got close I realized I’d left them at home. The house was a little run down, and the yard overgrown, but you could see that at some point the gardens had been fabulous.

I knocked on the door, a dog barked and a brunette head peeked past lifted curtains. “I’m Dawn, from FreeCycle. I know I’m a little early.”

She smiled widely, revealing a gap where 2 or 3 teeth should have been, and opened the door. “Oh!” she crowed to an older woman in the kitchen. “It’s Dawn. From FreeCycle!”

Her dog pushed up to be petted as she hobbled back into the house. “Just give me a minute to finish my coffee and get my walker. Its only my second cup today.”

I would guess that B was in her mid-40’s, but she had a stroke 5 years ago and can’t walk well, dig with a shovel, or, oddly enough, feel her head. Her mother, the older woman in the kitchen, had to tell her at one point that there was a wasp trapped and buzzing in her hair – and gently lift a lock to shoosh it away.

As B got her walker and I grabbed my shovel and plastic bags, her son, daughter, and daughter’s son and daughter pulled in. Four generations of family meandering with me through five acres of woodland with clearings that had been caringly planted.

As with any backwoods farmhouse, there was a certain amount of junk scattered throughout the yard, but she’d made use of it; there was a green tire dragon looping around the pond, cowboy boot bird houses hanging from the trees, and a bog boat that had been made into a bog garden. There were little walkways, and sitting areas, and interesting things to look at everywhere, even though overgrowth and weeds sometimes obscured them. This was a woman who had loved her gardening.

We went first to the daffodils. They were done blooming, and hidden behind an overgrowth of sticky weed and nettles – I was glad I’d worn jeans. She pointed out where her sister had come and dug up some bulbs from the center of the bed where there were no weeds to fight with. “And look, she left all the rest!”

I dug up two grocery bags worth of daffodils, a hundred bulbs worth, if not more, and told her I thought that was enough of those.

“Oh, are you sure you don’t want more?”

Her twenty-something son piped up, “Take them all!”

I demurred, and her son offered to carry the bulb-heavy bags to my car. I let him, battling the nettles and weeds to dig up those babies was tiring.

As we walked to the next stop, day lily central, she told me that she’d been in the hospital post-surgery when she had the stroke. “I ended up being in there for months, and when I got home everything was overgrown…now its just gotten worse.”

She said she’d been doing a lot of gardening in Indiana.

“What’s in Indiana?” I asked.

“My mom’s garden, and not much else,” she snorted.

“My grandfather used to live in Indiana, and I kind of think the same,” I told her with a grin.

“My dad has all of these mower things…a riding mower with hydraulics, a roller, a vacuum, a mulcher, he just has to sit down to take care of everything! But it’s nice because I can just sit down and dig too.”

The day lilies had originally been planted in tires, but the bulbs had spread and now each tire was completely hidden behind a halo of new lilies. “Could you leave the tires and dig up the ones around them?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said as I pulled away the sticky weed so that I could see where I was digging. “See, you’re not only getting rid of some plants, you’re getting some weeding done too.”

She laughed, and told me they were mostly ditch lilies (tiger lilies), but there might be some other colors in there too. Two heavy bagfuls later and once again I was done, and once again her son carried the bags to my car. In the meantime her daughter’s children were romping around in the woods near the pond.

“Now don’t you go in the pond!” she yelled.

“But he is!” her granddaughter yelled back, pointing to the portly dog as it eased its way into the water.

“Well, he’s going to have to have a bath!” she said, as we approached the pond. “And then he’s going to have to stay outside until he dries. Did you see any frogs?”

“Yeah!” said the little girl, maybe 7, with short hair and missing baby teeth that matched her grandmother’s smile. “There’s a LOT!”

As we approached the pond, B pointed out a variegated groundcover that neither of us could remember the name for. “Do you want some? It’ll take over everything.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’ve got an area under the fruit trees where nothing but dandelions and violets will grow, and the dandelions are winning.” I told her that I’d gotten kind of a kick out of her response to my email asking when I could come out – she’d replied, “Disabled, don’t work, come any time.”

I told her that my response should have been, “Unemployed, don’t work, can come anytime.”

I proceeded to dig some more, and she told me that these “whatever they ares” bloomed yellow. Perfect, I had some of their brethren at home, but they bloomed purple, I’d end up with an excellent garish contrast. Once again her son provided bag-boy service.

“What next, what next?” B muttered. “Did you want some of the Black-Eyed Susans?”

“Yes! Which way next?”

“They’re in the back 40,” her daughter said, pointing to a clearing that could be seen beyond that woods and pond.

“I’m going to sit while you dig this time,” B said, “ But I can carry your shovel as we walk.”

She had a one-handled walker, kind of like a cane with four feet, and used my shovel as a cane in her other hand as we walked to the “back 40”.

We entered the clearing, and B headed for a round table in the center of it all, leaned my shovel against it, and yanked a plastic lawn chair away from the weeds. It was the perfect spot for a bonfire party, and I could see that at some point in time it had been used for just that purpose. I told B’s daughter this and she smiled.

“You should’ve seen it. This whole area was mowed, and you can still kind of see the fire pit over there, and Mom had the whole edge planted with flowers…it was great.”

B called out to her son, who was wandering with his 5ish nephew, “Are the irises blooming yet? Over there? No, not there, over there!” she pointed, and he headed.

“Yeah, they are.”

“How many? Is it worth it for me to come over there?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “There’s one, three, seven of them blooming, its gorgeous!”

I’d been watching, and B looked at me and asked, “Could you dig up the Black-Eyed Susans from the spots that look like they’ve been mowed?”

It was apparent that nothing had been mowed recently, but yes, I could tell the areas that had been mowed from those that were not. Identifying a black-eyed susan seedling though…that I was not so sure of. I pointed at a fuzzy seedling, “These are them, right?”

“Yep. Don’t you know your plants?”

“Well, I know the ones I’ve grown…but the ones I haven’t, not so well.”

“Well, those are the black-eyed susans, and you can have some of these too, they’re coneflowers – this used to be my butterfly garden.”

She limped away to check out the irises. This time her daughter carried the bags to my car, and I stood in the clearing and just enjoyed the sun, and the breeze, and the smell of lilacs.

B and son came back from the irises, “Did you want some catalpa tree seedlings?”

“No, I’ve got too many trees, but did you say you had lilac shoots?”

“Yes, up this way.” She sent her son ahead, to pick out the lilacs that had healthy looking shoots. He directed us to a lavender colored one that was steadily taking over the path It smelled marvelous despite its few blooms.

She laughed as I began to dig. “At least your shovel is holding out! Last year Steve broke my shovel when he was working in the yard, and even though I can’t use a shovel, a gardener doesn’t feel right without a working shovel.”

“I got lucky,” I told her. “When I finally found my house and started gardening again I broke two crappy shovels, then I found this good one at Big Lots for cheap.”

“Really? This one hasn’t bloomed well, but I think it’s getting too much shade. The double flowered ones don’t send up shoots at all, I think its because they’re hybrids.”

I told her I had the same problem with my own lilac, a double-flowered white, very old, that had send up only one shoot, right next to a fence post, making it impossible to dig up and relocate.

“Have you got it?”

“Not quite yet,” I said, testing the ground with my shovel. “I need to figure out where the feeder root is coming from.” I found it, and hopped onto the shovel with both feet to cut through the root.

“I couldn’t do that, “ B said. “Not with my balance these days.”

“I shouldn’t be doing it either,” I told her, smiling. “My knees have been worked on more times than the Bionic Man’s.”

I packed up the lilac shoots and told her I thought I was done for the day.

“Oh, are you sure? There’s still the violets, and the bridal wreath, and, well, I know we could fill up your truck.”

“I think I’ve done as much digging as I can do for the day…and some of the plants look shocky, I should get them back in the ground.”

“How long is your drive?”

“Lawton.”

Her daughter grimaced, “That’s a drive.”

“If you can’t get them planted today then leave them be for a couple days, let them perk up before you try to replant them." B walked me to my car, once again “carrying” my shovel, which at that point I would have been happy to use as a staff as well.

I thanked her, profusely, for letting me dig up her yard. She told me she just wished I had taken more.

“Well, once I get these in the ground I may be calling you back, and I’ll let my friends who garden know.”

She smiled, a gap-toothed smile, absolutely genuine, “You do that!”

The Final Kitchen Remodel...

2006-05-03T00:55:00.000-04:00

Sure, I still need to replace the sink, but still, DAMN, I'm good!!

What is There to Say?

2006-04-25T00:54:00.000-04:00

I hit a point, several years ago, where, for no truly apparent reason, I decided that all of my writing was shit.  What did I have to say to anyone that hadn’t already been said?  What experience could I share that hadn’t already been documented?  I was proud of my road trip tale…but didn’t Kerouac do it better?  Aside from that, what did I have that was new, different, life changing for someone to read?

Self-doubt sucks.  But I write, I have always written, and so I kept on, for my own edification.  Not always.  I don’t “journal” regularly, but when something disturbing, or interesting came up, I wrote.

Now, thanks to blogs, I have the opportunity to share the ephemera of my mind…whether the writing is good, bad, or indifferent.  I remember an argument that I had with an ex-lover.  He was always pushing the envelope, and I asked him, told him, wondered why he couldn’t take joy in the little things…watching a flock of birds wheeling through the sky, the camaraderie of strangers, those odd days where one wakes up thrilled to be alive.

He told me he was looking for a life-changing sign, something that would blow our “normal” lives out of the water.  This was right before 2000, and I must admit, I wouldn’t have minded if the status quo had gone to shit.

I would still like the status quo to wither and die, but I believe in taking joy in the little things: a flock of birds, a dog romping, any unexpected glimpse of beauty.  I still don’t know if I have anything to say to anyone; some days I question my own sanity.  But then, I think, isn’t that our job?

If we didn’t question the reality that we live in, well, we’d have nothing to hold over those flocks of birds and romping dogs…we’d just be critters.  So I write, and question, and think…and I hope that you do too.

Top 5 in Both Directions

2006-04-25T00:16:00.000-04:00

I must admit, I’d forgotten how exhausting having a puppy could be. And adopting an “older” puppy means that they’ve gotten away with shit that you would never let them do. So now the training begins…

Top 5 Reasons Why Harley is Fabulous:

He’s young enough that I can change his name.

He came running when I opened a beer on the back stoop.

He did a test lick of a martini, and went back for thirds…

He will obey in exchange for an ice cube; especially one that has spent time in a martini shaker (thanks to Buck for the suggestion!)

He’s big, and burly, and wiggly, and handsome.

Top 5 Reasons Why Harley is Not Fabulous:

He nips when he gets really hyper.

He nips when he gets really hyper – and he weighs 56 lbs., stands 23 inches at the shoulder, has a really big mouth, and goes for my ankles, my hands, and any body part in between.

He’s more afraid of small dogs than big ‘uns.

He gets jumpy for no apparent reason.

He has driven my cat to living upstairs.

2006-04-23T04:12:00.000-04:00

My Big Beastie...

An Inadvertent Ode to Sebastian

2006-04-23T03:01:00.000-04:00

Harley is oddly gentle, one of those huge dogs that you can give stuffed animals to and they merely carry them around, tossing them from time to time. This is a revelation – Sebastian was a shredder.

The only “toy” I could get for Sebastian was rawhide, and once we moved to the country he was highly efficient about ridding the farm of groundhogs. I’ve got to admit, I’m not sure if I like this kinder, gentler form of big dog. I was used to opening the door to the back 40 and saying, “Go kill something, “ as Sebastian flew out. Invariably he did, usually groundhogs, raccoons, and opossums, and once a pair of twin does. The downside was that once in a while I’d wake up with a dead cat in the yard.

I was a bitch when Dave and I went dog shopping – I don’t even remember what spurred us on in the first place. Dave wanted something along the lines of a beagle, but when we walked into the pet shop I saw Sebastian and the world stopped. I hear that happens for true love, and it hasn’t happened for me with a man, but it happened with a beast.

He was alone in a big cage, the last of his litter, alone, presumably because he had no tail, not much of one. When we got him it was a stub that wagged the puppy; when he died it was only 4 inches long, and he still waggled his butt when he was really happy, as if to make up for the lack in tail.

I saw him and the search was over, he was “it”. David looked around some more, found an adorable Beagle pup, but no, if I was going to go home with a puppy, it was going to be the fuzzball without a tail.

Because I chose the pup, I felt I should at least let David name him. He looked at the puppy for a long time and said, “Sebastian.”

“Sebastian! Why Sebastian?” as we rode home to our apartment in a cab, fuzzy puppy ensconced in a cardboard carrier.

“He looks like a Sebastian.”

“Sebastian it is then.”

Given my antics in the pet store I didn’t feel that I could argue, but as Sebastian grew I taught him to come to a whistle (because I hate to yell), and I usually called him Beast, or a derivative thereof: “Happy Beast”, “Stinky Beast”, “Floppy Beast” (when he was tired he couldn’t keep his ears up – yeah, I know….), or just Beastie.

When we got him we lived in a one bedroom behind Water Tower Place, one block off of Michigan Avenue and the “Miracle Mile” in Chicago. Lots of money and a faboo dog park just a block away. My dog sniffed Oprah’s dog, and her chocolate cocker didn’t mind, but she did. Then Dave got fired…. and took a lower paying chef’s position…then I lost my job, and spent three months looking for work, and training Sebastian. He was my baby.

We found a great loft in Ukrainian Village on the West side (before it was fashionable), our place was the first floor of an old fire station, hardwood floors throughout, and a courtyard. One of the great joys in life is seeing how a dog handles (or doesn’t) a hardwood floor when chasing a ball.

I’m fairly certain that Sebastian saved my life once, or at least my sanity. We were still in Ukrainian Village, and he was about a year old, an 85-pound one-year-old, and I woke up early one morning on a weekend (6ish). I was up, he was up, and the hubby was dead to the world, so we went for a walk. About a block away from our place (this was a residential area, all houses) we came across a man, stumbling towards us, asking “Que es Chicago?”

Chicago Avenue was three blocks north of us, so I pointed and said “Tres…blocks, norte.” He kept on stumbling across the street towards us…and then Sebastian’s hackles went up and he began to growl. Suddenly the man who was stumbling a minute before was able to sprint in a straight line - away from us.

The next day on the news there was a segment saying that a rapist in our area had been using the “drunk routine” to get close enough to women to grab them. I don’t know if that was the guy…I just know that Sebastian never, ever, reacted that way to anyone else we ever met.

He was my boy. My husband and I could fight (oh baby, we could fight!), but there was always My Beastie. I had taught him hand signals, some of which my husband wasn’t aware. Don’t wanna have sex tonight? Do the wrist flip thing so the dog will leap up between you, interrupting Dave’s sad attempts at foreplay and reconciliation.

When I fought for Sebastian in the divorce my soon-to-be-ex gave in and said, “He was always yours anyway.” Part of why he was always mine is because; shortly after we got him I lost my job. I had plenty of time to bond with the puppy, serendipity.

I miss My Beastie…I always will. If I could’ve married a dog, he would’ve been it. I often found myself looking at him, and at the dearth of character in the men I met, and deciding that I would rather spend the rest of my life with Sebastian than with any of them.

Then he died. It wasn’t a quick and easy, wake up and you find him stiff. No, I went to bed on a Tuesday, and woke up on Wednesday and Sebastian, well, the things that made him Sebastian were gone. He was lying in a pool of his own vomit in the back end of the house, but still alive. My vet called it a “neurological event”.

My vet is a toughie, she will kick your ass if you don’t keep your dog up to date on every shot, but she’s got reason. She kept Sebastian alive through a nasty heartworm treatment following the year I couldn’t afford to buy him his pills. She cried with me when she put him to sleep.

We tried to keep him going for three days. It was early December, and he wouldn’t eat, not even broth, not even real meat. I knew we were in trouble when I took him into the vet’s office and he didn’t go after the office cat. He’d been chasing that pussy for years. Now he just didn’t care.

When I got him home he’d willingly walk outside into the cold weather and plant himself somewhere where I couldn’t get him back in…the corner between the stairs and the back porch, between the two big shrubs that grow in front of the front porch. He would dig his heels in and want to stay in the cold…and I couldn’t carry his 95-pound frame in by myself, so I used everything from plastic sheeting to spare plywood “sleds” to get him back inside. He would never bite, or actively fight me, he just dug in. I think he just wanted to die in the cold.

I took three days off of work. I slept on the first floor with him, crunched up on pillows I pulled from the love seat, beside him on the floor. He was gone.

Comrade K came, on the day I was taking him in to be put down. I had told her I didn’t need any help, didn’t want any. Nonetheless she showed up, and helped me carry him to the car, and into the vet’s office, balanced in an oriental rug that he’d loved to lie on.

She cried with me too.

She drove me, afterwards, with his carcass in the back, to the place that would cremate him. She left me alone for that last moment, after we popped the back hood, when the cremators were waiting, so I could run my fingers through his shoulder ruff one more time, and whisper “Big Beastie” one more time in his dead ear.

He sits in a can now, on my desk, just behind my screen. My family bought an extra spot for me, in the "family plot", just in case I ever marry again. I've told them that they should use it for Sebastian, and barring that, I want his ashes in my grave.

A Harley Instead of a Road Trip

2006-04-21T15:20:00.000-04:00

Well, I was pretty well set on the road trip idea, and then I logged into Freecyle – I’d offered up some household stuff and thought I’d see if anyone had responded. There it was; “Free puppy to good home, German shepherd /huskie mix.” Damn.

I think you all know how much I’ve missed Sebastian, and although Goldie the Cat is fabulous, she is very much a cat…and I miss having a big, fuzzy beast around the house. I thought about it, and figured getting a new dog his shots/neutering would cost me about as much as I had budgeted for the road trip – and give me 12 years or so of joy. So I responded…and waited. I checked my email obsessively for three days.

If you’ve ever used Freecyle you know its never a sure thing, the people giving stuff away can choose whomever they want of the respondents. So I waited, and waited, and waited some more – and finally on Thursday afternoon I heard back. I was the chosen one!!!

I drove out to Richland this morning and met Harley’s owners, who had gotten him three months ago and then, after all of their cars broke down in one way or another, found that they couldn’t afford vet care, or much of anything else for him. Not that I’m rolling in the dough myself – but with a healthy tax refund in my account I can afford to get his health care for the year set up, and keep him fed.

Harley handled the drive home pretty well, and Goldie didn’t kill him when we came in the door, although she hissed when he tried to galumph in her direction. Thankfully he was raised in a house with two cats and knows enough to keep his face away from the claws.

So far I’ve taken him for a long walk around the neighborhood (my neighbor’s dog barked at him from a second story window and scared the hell out of him!) and played with him in the backyard for about an hour. At a little under five months old he’s still in that adorable gangly stage where he’s just as likely to take off after a falling leaf as after the ball you just threw for him. He’s sniffed his way around the first floor of the house about eight million times and now he’s finally sacked out on one of the couches in the sitting room, and unlike Sebastian, he doesn’t snore. I think this is going to work.

2006-04-20T16:41:00.000-04:00

More on this fuzzy beast a little later (the dog, not the kid)...

2006-04-20T16:38:00.000-04:00

Old, Old Route 66 going into New Mexico

Road Trippin

2006-04-12T02:01:00.000-04:00

Road Trippin”

What is it about the road trip that gets me?  It’s not about getting away, although that’s a good thing.  It’s not about discovering something new; I know that others have been there before me.

What its really about, for me, is seeing something new.  Sometimes all it takes is just a different route home, or spotting something that I’ve never noticed before.  But in the bad times the only option is a road trip, a real, get- out- of- my- head, get- out- of- my- state, get- the- hell- out- of- here road trip.

Sometimes you just gotta go.

I gotta go.

Last time I did this, with no job waiting, but a severance package backing me up, I needed to go.  This time around, with no job waiting, and no severance package, I need it more.  I no longer qualify for “HelpNet”, or any of those other pseudo-helpful psychiatric services – they just want to help you enough to get you back to work.

No, I need a road trip, a trip out of my head, out of my environment, out of all that I’m used to.  I need to be surprised, and amazed, and struck by bliss when I least expect it.  I don’t think I was put on earth so that I could earn income and pay bills and taxes, but I need to see something, a new sign, to show me that there’s a different road.

ON THE ROAD WITH GINGER HILL

2006-04-11T23:48:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking about road tripping again-it does wonderful things for my peace of mind...and so I thought I'd re-publish my road trip memoirs from the last time I was unemployed.

I remember that when I came back one of my friends told me that she had hoped that I wouldn't, that I would find what I was looking for, somewhere out there (cue barbara Streisand...no, on second thought, don't). Its time to make my world big again...

ON THE ROAD WITH GINGER HILL
-OR-
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

The great American tradition of the road trip still lives within our hearts, even if our world, and our dreams, do sometimes seem to shrink day by day. Earlier this year my world seemed to be getting smaller by the minute as I put most of my energy into paying the bills, keeping a job that I didn’t even like to do so. I’d been very sick, my dog was sick, the bills were piling up and I was about to turn 30...I was working my way towards a nervous breakdown or an early mid-life crisis.

Then a wonderful thing happened. I lost my job. Thank the gods that I’d been there long enough to get a pretty good severance package (almost as rare as the unicorn these days). After the initial few days of debauchery, panic and vertigo, I realized that I suddenly felt better about my life, and that I had one heck of an opportunity on my hands.

Toyed with a couple of ideas. Key West, New Orleans? No, they’d be miserable in mid-summer. A friend said, “What about Route 66”? My brain echoed, “What about Route 66?” I decided that I didn’t want a destination. I wanted a journey.

In the week and a half between wrapping up my Summerfest duties and my departure date of July 16, I joined AAA, did printouts of maps and speed traps (yes, you can find listings for those on the Internet) and got my car into the mechanic for new brakes. I also decided that I was not only going to do Route 66, I was going to drive the Pacific Coast Highway, too.

One of my favorite old sayings is, “If a Jewish man should eat pork, he should enjoy it so much that the juices run down his chin”. In other words, if you’re going to do something (even if you shouldn’t) enjoy it to the fullest. That was my plan.

I bid my friends goodbye, gave my dog a kiss and was off. So strange. I’d always done the smart thing, the practical thing, done whatever needed to be done. Now I was on the highway with only a vague agenda and a tentative schedule. I was grinning like an idiot before I’d crossed the first state line. I wanted to get out of the states I’d been in (Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, fear, depression...) and into the ones I hadn’t.

July 16, 2001 - 383 miles
Finally - on the road. Had meant to camp tonight, but developed one more mile syndrome.
Didn’t seem real until I took my first photo of a Route 66 sign south of Braidsville, IL. Had it mostly to myself. I was able to see the construction back-ups on I-55 as I whizzed along on Route 66’s curves and jogs. This road is as new and improved as it’s gonna be.
Some of Route 66’s curves pass through spanking new subdivisions now; one form of the American dream passing through another. The houses are cookie cutter similar and only a few feet apart. I prefer the road. Still doesn’t quite seem real. Is this me? Doing this?

July 17, 2001 - 555 miles
Blue caddy with tinted windows passed me this morning. Illinois plates BB BLUZ 5. I wonder if I was, ever so briefly, ridin’ with the king.

Overall, the travel gods were with me today. Never got truly lost and traveled some great back roads...hilly and winding and really made me wish that I had something low to the ground with a stick shift and a lot of power. I could get myself into trouble on these roads.

I finally decided to let my freak flag fly and mount my car compass on the dash. No, I’m not a sixty-eight year old Grandpa RVer; I’m a 30 year old with a leopard print steering wheel cover and a desire to know where I’m going (we won’t get into the deeper philosophical implications of that statement right now).

Stopped to visit the St. Louis Arch, neat to look at, but filled with eight million sweaty people and their screaming kids. I’m supposed to wait an hour in line to cram into a glorified elevator with them and ride to the top? I think not. This will be the first and last time I’ll stop to look at something because I think I should rather than because I really want to.

Running a day behind “schedule”, but it feels good to throw that schedule to the wind.

July 18 2001 - 963 miles
Camped at Meramec Caverns Campground last night, at an elbow in the Meramec River, about 8 feet from shore. First thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a blue heron flying up into the shell pink sky. You don’t get that in a hotel. Blessedly quiet since it’s only 5:30 a.m. here.
Stopped at the Rattlesnake Ranch, just up the road from Merrimac Caverns - looked like a cheesy place, so I had to stop, but it was actually kind of touching. Most of the animals there, including a lion of all things, started out their lives as exotic pets. Then their owners realized “Gee, you mean a lion (anaconda, boa constrictor, crocodile) gets that big and eats that much? I’ll have to get rid of it.”

You have to know which animals to be careful around; it was o.k. to rub your finger on the lion’s fur through a little opening in the chain link, but you couldn’t pet the rabbits because they were biters.

I had lunch at the Elbow Inn, near Devil’s Elbow, Missouri. Absolute best bbq beef sandwich I’ve ever had and there’s nothing like a bar festooned with brassieres to brighten up your day. Looked like a fun place, free camping for patrons on weekends. Made me wish it were a weekend. Unfortunately it’s not, so I only got to spend an hour or so eating bbq with the local bikers as we heckled Jerry Springer on the big screen TV.

I’m at the Heartland Motel in Chelsea, OK tonight. The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the office was the “NO DRUNKS, NO DRUGS, NO TOLERANCE” sign posted on the desk. It almost made me feel guilty about the six-pack of Rolling Rock I brought in, almost.

They also had a poster detailing the ingredients and equipment required for a methamphetamine lab. Presumably so that if anyone tried to check in while carrying a Bunsen burner and a bag of ephedrine the desk clerk would know to turn them away.

Turns out the MSU solar car team stayed here last night, in my room. They’re doing the solar car race on Route 66 this year, the cars are cool, but I’ve been stuck behind them a few times, not very fast.

July 19, 2001 - 1398 Miles
Rolled 1000 on my odometer this morning. Oklahoma signage is not good - got spoiled by the signs in IL, MO, & KS that were reassuringly frequent and had arrows...What a concept! A lot of 66 in OK is now State Road 66 - well used and with all the feeling of an interstate. There are old sections there, but you need a state Gazetteer and a divining rod to find them.

Stopped west of Clinton at Jiggs Smokehouse - good BBQ beef sandwich the size of a small planet. Talked with Virginia, the owner, for a couple of hours. She moved to Clinton in 1958, before that she lived in Lawton, MO (much bigger than Lawton, MI) Great lady, interesting viewpoint on life.

About a mile over the border the landscape opens up and you realize you’re in Texas. Decided that Shamrock was the place to stay and chose my hotel by the fact it had a “private club & bar” (and a AAA discount).

I thought it was a little funny when the woman at the front desk told me that it would be a great night at the bar - Karaoke night on a Thursday is not my idea of a festival, but she said it would be packed. I just wanted a beer, and they had Guinness on tap...life is good.

What I didn’t realize was that this is a dry county. You either join the American Legion or the Irish Inn bar club if you want to be able to drink outside your home (or pickup truck- this is Texas). Jenna, the bartender, was quick on filling my Old Hat mug with Guinness (some people take a teddy bear or family photos with them when they travel, I take my beer mug), and Karaoke night was a trip. A few people there could actually sing, and some of the college girls really couldn’t, but who cares? It was Karaoke night, and I got to listen to a cowboy sing Patsy Cline because he lost a game of pool. Welcome to Texas.

(Part II)

July 20 -1665 miles
Palo Duro Canyon was beautiful. All of Texas was. I’ve never seen so much sky, with clouds perfectly puffy and spaced above the yellowing grass and red earth. Hiked along the edge of the canyon and learned to watch out for the short cacti that seem to aim for your ankles.

Hit the midpoint of Route 66 today. Stopped for lunch at the Midpoint Cafe in Adrian, Texas. 1139 miles from Chicago, 1139 miles from LA and a million miles away from my normal life. From there I went for a visit to the Cadillac Ranch, no signs, just a stark field with a line of buried cars dotting the horizon. This is where I should’ve taken my old Eldorado…

Took an old, old section of Route 66 into New Mexico from Glenrio. The guidebook advised against it because of the slippery gravel, but to heck with the guidebook. It was gorgeous! Nothing, nothing but arroyos and abandoned houses once in a blue moon, and miles and miles of scrub and green and the occasional cow. I loved it. Didn’t pass anyone, didn’t see anyone. I’d love to live here if only for the solitude, but I need forests. Must have trees and more green (and less rattlesnakes). There was one spot where there were chunks of the old highway scattered on the side of the road in piles. One of them is in my trunk now; it’ll make a lovely centerpiece for my kitchen table.

Camping in Tucumcari, NM. I can see Tucumcari Mountain through my tent door and watched my first meteor shower tonight. Giant flaming baseballs shooting across the sky (perhaps a bad analogy, but it’s what first came to mind). Prefer camping to staying in motels. You truly get a sense of where you are when you’re outdoors - the stars are different, the night sounds are different, and the sound of the wind whipping across the flatlands lulls you to sleep. Much better than the insulated encapsulation of a generic room that could be anywhere once you pull the shades.

July 21 - 2100 miles
Driving through New Mexico makes me feel very small. Between the huge sky and the mountains I feel about the size of a matchbox car. To the north, near Santa Fe where the mountains are a bit more rounded and gentle, there’s a sense of being on the bottom of some huge aquarium. I kept waiting for the sky to open up and douse us all, or for a giant sand crab to appear. If I were a UFO, New Mexico would be my landing strip of choice.

July 22 (or 23?) - 2271 miles
Got off at Grants to see the Ice Caves yesterday and did an accidental tour through Zuni National Forest/Zuni Canyon. It was stark and beautiful, and I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed the drive if I didn’t need an emergency “pit stop”. The bumpy gravel road didn’t help. There are no bathrooms or ranger stations along the drive, nor any conveniently large bushes. Finally marked my territory at “Point of Interest #5. There wasn’t any cover, but there wasn’t anyone else there either, and at that point I didn't care anyway.

Eventually got out and joined back up with 53. I found the Ice Caves, but I’d had enough for the day and got on I-40 headed for Blue Lake State Park, a.k.a. Lake of a Thousand Mosquitoes. Stopped at Pop & Son’s store just before the park entrance. Sandy was running the store, as her ex, “Pop”, had passed away and “Son” was only 17. She told me if I wanted beer I’d have to go back to the highway (not!).

The regular campsites were packed, so I off-roaded it around the lake up to a ridge marked “Drive At Your Own Risk”. I wouldn’t recommend the road to anyone without an SUV, but my little beige Buick and I made it up the ridge and down a short steep drive to a lovely outcropping that overlooked the lake and dam. Had to use big rocks to hold down my tent - it was either that or use a jackhammer to drive the stakes in.

Anyway, I staked my claim, drove back to the ranger’s station to pay, and when I got back and out of the car, all I could hear was a high-pitched whine as 8 zillion mosquitoes descended, drawn by the interior light of my car. Several thousand spent the night in there. They didn’t come after me too much, but they were huge and lime green. Thankfully the temperature dropped pretty quickly and they settled down, but it sounded like it was raining when I first turned on the lantern inside my tent and they began to fly against the canvas.

I was awakened by the wind kicking up around 2:30 in the morning, stepped out of my tent and saw a big flashing light slowly flying over the ridgeline across the lake. Initially I thought it might just be some kids with a really cool strobe light, but it kept changing size, shape and intensity - and then it flew about 100 feet over the dam. I watched it for an hour or so; it didn’t go spiraling off into space of anything, just kept slowly moving along, so I went back to bed.
Asked Sandy about it this morning on my way out. “Oh, don’t even think about it” was all she said. Was she just not impressed or was she a member of the hive trying to keep me from delving too deeply? You decide.

You don’t need drugs to see things in Arizona. The state is like one big Dali painting - huge rabbits and dinosaurs popping up along the highway, stuffed bears in the middle of parking lots, and a sky that’s a deeper blue than anywhere else I’ve been.

July 24 - 2504 miles
I’m sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon, literally. My fear of heights seems to have short circuited after the initial vertigo I felt when I got here yesterday. Not that I’m planning on rappelling down the side, but I hate standing behind bars, and this is a perfectly sound (I hope) stony outcrop.

The vista is just amazing; some alien landscape of ancient red pyramids plopped into a chasm. It almost looks too symmetrical. Are we sure that aliens or Mayans didn’t have a temple down here eons ago?

Watched the sun set at Hopi Point last night. Beautiful. The crowd actually applauded when it went down.

The roads inside the park are great; at late twilight when the clouds are just barely outlined with light and you can smell the cool, mushroomy scent of the pines it feels like driving on the top edge of the world.

July 25
Woke up at 4:30 this morning to coyotes yodeling at each other across the campgrounds. The pack behind me didn’t sound too far away. Got up so early because I wanted to see the sun rise over the canyon. It was worth it. Had the point to myself until the very end. The only sound was the wind whistling through the canyon and the swooshes of the swifts and the bats diving for bugs. As I watched the sky light up I found myself thinking, “They’ve got it right, all those people who do the cheesy, clichéd pottery and paintings with alternating pastels and neons of the sunrises out here; they’ve got it right.” It’s still cheesy and clichéd because they’re seldom able to catch the spirit of the sunrise, but they’ve got the colors right.

After sunrise I went back to pack up my site and was about to hit the road when I spotted about 12 condors out for their morning exercise over the canyon. I pulled over at the nearest overlook to watch them. They may be ugly close up, but when they fly...

Stopped at Delgadillo’s Sno-Cap this morning. Free coffee (always a plus), nice guys, and dead chicken on the menu (listed as such).

July 26 - 3160 miles
Drove through Winslow, Arizona - home of “Standin’ on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, got seven women on my mind...”

They have a statue of Glen Fry on the corner that the city fathers guessed he was singing about...with the girl in the flatbed Ford painted on the building behind it

There were two Navajo guys panhandling there, said their wives had kicked them out... “You want us to take a picture of you? Do you want to take a picture of us?” Gave them a dollar that I’d found on the beach at Blue Lake, seemed right to pass it on.

The older one said that if he were going to give me a Navajo name, it would be Teclemate. He said it would translate into “the moment just before sunrise when the rays of color are shooting into the sky”. I’d introduced myself as Ginger...how’d he guess my name?

Route 66 runs through Oatman, Arizona, a town in one of the most desolate areas I’ve ever seen. It was 108 in the shade this afternoon while I was out there (but it’s a dry heat). It used to be a mining town, and the burros left behind by the miners are protected animals now. They roam through the streets, sidewalks, sometimes even the stores, at will.

One of the shop owners was telling me that they get a lot of interesting auto insurance claims from Oatman because the burros have no compunction about kicking car doors and eating upholstery. During mating season one year the male of the herd was doing his duty - and continually landing butt first on the hood of someone’s car. By the time he was done the front end was completely trashed. How do you explain that one to your insurance agent?

July 27 - 3481 miles
Camped last night in Needles, California. The California border guard confiscated my apples because they were from New Zealand...wonder what they do with all that stuff?

Spent the afternoon at Exotic World in Helendale. It’s a museum dedicated to the fine art of burlesque, and Dixie Evans (once known as the Marilyn Monroe of burlesque) runs the place now. The museum covers everything from Mata Hari up until today, and is actually an interesting perspective to view history from, as burlesque is one of the oldest professions...

Dixie is still as feisty and energetic as I imagine she was in her heyday - she gave me the rundown on her old routines, how they worked with (or worked around) the local authorities when on tour, and how some of the more interesting costume items work. All this for a voluntary donation (I bought a bunch of stuff in her gift shop and gave five dollars. I thought it was worth it). I hope I’ve still got my mojo working like she does when I’m older.

(Part III)

7/28 3758 mi.
Finished the Route 66 leg today. Santa Monica was a disappointment. The smog greeted me in San Bernardino and held out until I was north of Santa Barbara. Visibility was about a ¼ mile and the air was just icky. The carousel on the Santa Monica Pier was shut down for repairs and the rest of the pier was full of tacky sales carts, homeless, panhandlers, and many, many people. Pretty much the minute I got there I thought, “I need to get out of this town.” So I did. I love traveling by myself, no one to argue with about what to do next.

After twelve days of having the road to myself I was not amused by the crowded highways and lack of turn signal usage (my biggest driving pet peeve).

I spent an hour or so at the beach at Montana de Oro State Park collecting rocks and happy as a clam. My rock collection is growing exponentially.

Miss my dog, I’m such a wimp when it comes to him.

7/29 3889 mi.
Finding a campground in Big Sur, on a Saturday, without a reservation two months in advance is pretty much impossible, but hey, I got into the Grand Canyon without a reservation, and I found a place here too. Andrew Molera State Park, a buck a night. You have to hike in a quarter mile to the meadow that is the campground (no defined sites just pick a spot that you like). It’s another ¾ of a mile and some amateur rock climbing to get to the beach, which is almost pristine. There’s a freshwater lagoon just before you hit the ocean, warm as bathwater, who needs showers?

The campground was a mix of surfers, hippies, mountain climbers, and people like me, just looking to get away. Just about everyone came down the path with coolers of beer, their surfboards and gear strapped precariously on top. By two a.m. the campground looked like a frat party taken over by the Cirque de Soliel, complete with dancing, people sleeping in trees, and trolley races ending in a leap over a bonfire. Absolutely fabulous…like I’ve said, you don’t need drugs to see strange and wondrous things, you just have to look around.

7/30 3928 mi.
Found a fairly cheap motel, a nice break after a week of roughing it. I’ve spent the last day and a half here in Monterey, cool town; I’d love to come back in the off-season. I’ve truly come to hate huge, mindless milling crowds of people, and the aquarium was one big stockade of them. I would, however, recommend it to anyone. The jellyfish exhibit alone was amazing; if it had been quiet I could’ve sat there for hours, or in front of the super duper huge aquarium window. I think it’s the largest in the world, and the glass is angled, so if you sit right next to it and look up it feels like you’re underwater (with sharks circling overhead).

Wish I had time to go to the Steinbeck museum in Salinas, but need to speed up a bit if I want to spend a few days in the redwoods. Next time.

7/31 4004 mi.
This campground is obviously built for the rich and famous. I’ve never been to a campground with saunas in the shower buildings, a gourmet café, and stables and corrals if you choose to take your horses camping. The campsites themselves are pretty sub-par though. No sense of privacy or of being alone in the woods, just a spot to raise a tent. Hiked out to a field overlooking the ocean north of the campgrounds, and my thirty-dollar campsite fee was just repaid by having two snowy owls fly directly overhead. They truly are silent, and lovely. One flew over me then turned back and hovered for a moment to get a better look. I wonder what he saw. Is it like night vision goggles or much, much better?

Love northern California, they can keep LA. Too many people, too much smog, you couldn’t pay me to live down there. But here the trees are big and plentiful and the coast is absolutely breathtaking. Every time a car gets behind me I pull over to let them pass. I don’t want my leisurely, variable-speed drive ruined by someone tailgating me.

8/2 4163 mi.
I wanted to go to the Exploratoreum (a science museum) before I left San Francisco; unfortunately, one of those pesky blackouts struck just as I pulled into the parking lot and they had to evacuate the building. That was my cue to leave, north over the Golden Gate Bridge - funny, it’s free if you’re driving north, but they charge you a toll to drive south. Stopped and took a bunch of pictures, it is quite impressive.

Tonight I’m at a campground in Olema, and wish that I wasn’t. It’s one of those campgrounds that’s set up like a parking lot (this isn’t camping, it’s suburbia with tents!), on one side I’ve got an obnoxious family with an equally obnoxious child and on the other I’ve got a family with a child who’s been vomiting since I got here. Unfortunately, it’s Friday, I know that I won’t be able to find another campground, and the prices for motels around here are obscene. So I’m just drinking a beer (okay, several) and dreaming of the time when camping meant you didn’t see another soul, much less have to listen to them retch.

8/3 4463 mi.
Spent a long morning romping around Point Reyes National Seashore. Saw herds of elk, had a condor fly about 10 feet over my head (awesome, but also very intimidating, those birds are huge), saw a sea otter swimming in the bay and a dead shark washed up on the shore-one of the many reasons not to swim here.

There was a bull elk on a hilltop, watching me watch him as I hiked the mile back to my car - and all the while I was blissfully alone, a welcome break after the campground from hell.
In the mornings, with the fog and lack of traffic, driving the Pacific Coast Highway is like driving through a dream.

I’ve made it to the redwood forest! Camping tonight (and tomorrow night) at Humbolt Redwoods State Park. Drove through the Avenue of the Giants coming in here and thought, “This is what churches should be.” I’m not surprised that people believe in Bigfoot around here, it seems appropriate. Built a campfire all by myself (first time), the night is clear, I can see the stars through the canopy of redwoods, and I can’t see any of the other campers.

8/5 4998 mi.
Picked up California State Highway 36. It runs through Grizzly Creek Redwoods State Park, Shasta Trinity National Forest and Cassel Lassen National Forest. It’s full of blind curves, switch- backs and 10% grades. It’s also the hands down winner for the most beautiful road I’ve ever driven. If all roads were like that I could drive forever. Sheer bliss, all day.

Past the mountains, near Susanville I pulled over for a picnic lunch and to say goodbye to California. Considered opening a bottle of Mendocino County Merlot, but I still had a lot of driving to do.

Felt perky, so I decided not to stop in Reno. I picked up Route 50 (aka “The Loneliest Road in America”) and kept going. The nice thing about that lonely road is you can go as fast as you want, there’s no one else there.

Kept driving until about midnight. I was just starting up the Toyabe Mountains when the full moon rose, about four times it’s normal size, lighting up the mountains and surrounding desert. During the day driving through Nevada was like one of those dreams where you’re running but not getting anywhere. The landscape never changed; desert, mountain, desert, mountain and none of it very attractive, but at dusk and moonrise it’s gorgeous. As I write this I don’t even need a lantern, the moon’s light is enough.

8/7 5878 mi.
Utah was becoming another one of those not so attractive states, if only because of the construction backups that kept me crawling through it at about 5 miles per hour, but then I hit the Moab desert as it rises into the Rockies near the Colorado border. There was a thunderstorm coming in.

It was gorgeous watching the lightning shooting over the mountains at twilight. I have got to get a better camera, and learn how to use it.

Would’ve kept driving tonight, but that thunderstorm that was so lovely to look at from afar had me hydroplaning on the mountain roads -so here I am in Dillon, Colorado. It was after nine when I checked in, and my AAA card got me upgraded to a mini-suite with a Jacuzzi tub, so I don’t feel too bad about having to stop for the night.

8/8 6265 mi.
Welcome to Kansas! Cornfields, sunflower fields, cornfields, sunflower fields, cornfields, sunflower fields… I’m staying with Uncle Lou and Harriet in Hays; they’ve given me the driving tour of Fort Hays State University where they teach (he physics, she business law). Nice campus, they’ve spent a fair amount of time telling me that if I’m going to go back to college I should enroll here and move in with them. I’d love the company, but there just aren’t enough trees. A hike in the woods would last about two seconds out here.

I’m leaving tomorrow; I’ll have to bust butt to get to Madison in time for the Great Taste, but I wanted to spend more than one day with Lou and Harriet, I hardly ever get to see them. They said they’re planning on doing a Great Lakes tour next year though, and they’ll make it a point to come visit me, awesome.

8/9 6895 mi.
Harriet recommended that I check out the Garden
of Eden, since I’ve developed an appreciation for roadside art. I would love to do something huge and obnoxious in my own yard - think the landlord would mind?

On my way up I passed a field that had full size Easter Island statues in it - yep, Kansas is definitely home to the grassroots art movement, if they had more trees I’d actually consider moving here.

The Garden of Eden is a trip, I’m looking up at this huge statue of Satan with a big floating eye over his head (it lights up red at night). Samuel Dinsmoor built the whole complex in the early 1900’s. It’s his view of the history of the world, in concrete.

Interesting, his mausoleum says “Samuel Dinsmoor & Wife”. Apparently her name didn’t matter? He had two, married the second when he was 81 and she was 20 and had two more children by her - way to go Dinsmoor!

8/10 7097 mi.
I made it to Madison! Funny, I’ve managed to drive 7,000 some miles without getting lost, and then I couldn’t find a state park that I’ve actually camped at before - go figure. But now I’m here, and I’m going to see all my friends and drink good beer at the Great Taste of the Midwest. There are much worse ways to end a journey!

Afterword:
In the weeks following my return, a lot of people asked me if I was glad to be home. My honest answer? “No.”

I was happy to see all my friends, my dog, my adopted hometown and my favorite microbrewery and it’s denizens, of course, but I could've kept driving.
I'm happy, in a normal, day-today way now that I'm back...with a job, school and everyday responsibilities, but I have never been happier than when I was driving down the road with a vague agenda and a tentative schedule. It was that blissful dizzy happy of falling in love, and I was falling in love with the world all over again. I didn't have any responsibilities, and I had a wide-open road in front of me. Remember how easy it is to let your world get small? I keep a photo of my favorite stretch of Route 66 on my desk at work to remind me that it is just as easy to make it big again.

Cleanse Thine Ears

2006-04-01T05:08:00.000-05:00

Cleanse thine ears, little one,
Of the jibber jabber the tall ones speak.
It is not real.

Listen to the wind.
Soft.
Rushing over mountains of blue thunder.
And the droplets of song
That spray from waters on rocky shores.

Look to the green things,
The earthy things.
Listen!
They are deep, and real, and true.
They last.

Remember.
The shallow whispers that issue from
The tall ones' lips
can be snatched away by the wind,
Or lost in the water's song,
But the earth's wisdom will always be with you.

Flask Fiction - lifted from Writer's Digest

2006-04-01T03:41:00.000-05:00

FLASK FICTION: A short, powerful and intense fictional story composed while under the influence of alcohol.

Drunken Cleaning and Other Activities for the Unemployed

2006-03-24T17:34:00.000-05:00

It’s been three months now since I was fired from my job.  It was sucking the life out of me and turning me into a humorless bitch, so I felt a true sense of relief when it happened.  I had already initiated a job search, and then, at the end of a Thursday afternoon near Christmas, I was called to human resources and told to pack up my things and move on.

For the first month or so, at odd moments during the day, I would find myself thinking of one work project or another and end the thought with a heartfelt, “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about THAT anymore.”

But it’s been three months now and my brain is starting to feed on itself for lack of anything better to do.  Sure, I’ve got a whole house to remodel, but its not as if many of the projects provide a lot of intellectual stimulation.  We won’t even delve into the humiliation of having to depend on my parents for money at the age of 35.  They’ve been fabulous about it, but I’ve been on my own since I was 17, and my pride is wincing every day.

I believe that introspection can be a good thing in small doses; in larger packages it becomes nothing but an unhealthy exercise.  Who really cares what my issues are, other than me?  And if I haven’t been able to change myself at this point in the game, shouldn’t I just suck it up and get on with my life, personality flaws and all?  Shouldn’t I just suck up my pride and apply for a job at Burger King?  Aaargh, mental stop.

So I scrape wallpaper, and I think.  I put in base moldings, and I think.  I putter aimlessly, and I think.  The projects I had planned on completing by now are still only partially done, and I find I’m justifying my lack of progress to my own inner dominatrix, “But I’m sore, I’m tired, I just don’t feel like scraping wallpaper today!!”

This week I’ve been distracted, unfocused, and all those other things that come from stress; I’m waiting to hear back from the unemployment bureau about my request for a redetermination.  They’re overdue.  Kind of ironic, when one considers that I was fired for not meeting deadlines, but I’ve had enough of the irony of being bit in the butt by bureaucracy after having been a bureaucrat for five years.  I really, really, just want my unemployment benefits.

Ideally I’d distract myself with work.  My inner dominatrix likes it when I do that, but I’m already distracted, and I try not to work with power tools that could cut off a limb when I’m distracted.  I’ve watched a lot of TV this week, and I couldn’t tell you what any of it was…

There’s no one to tell me what to do, no boss, no parent, just that inner, unrelenting dominatrix.  She’s enough.  On occasion I’ll take an evening and just get drunk, but even massive quantities of bourbon aren’t enough to shut her up.  I’ll find myself cleaning, doing laundry, dishes, sweeping – yep, it’s 3 a.m., I’m high as a kite, and rather than just enjoying the experience and letting my mind wander, or decently passing out on the couch, I’m sorting laundry.  What on earth is wrong with me?!  Well, to figure that out would require more introspection, and we all know how unhealthy THAT can be.

If it hadn't happened to me I wouldn't believe it...or...Pondering a Bumper Sticker

2006-03-21T23:25:00.000-05:00

Driving home tonight from the talk I found myself behind a creamy Cadillac, a full on pimpmobile with the spoked spare tire attached to the rear of the trunk. It wasn’t the car I noticed first though, not even the fully chromed spare tire assembly. What I noticed was the lips, full, red, and about 10 times actual size. Beneath a streetlamp I was able to read the words above the lips, “I like lipstick”.

In silhouette I could see that the car was full of young men, short hair, twitching around, and I thought of all of the possible endings, if, indeed, the sticker in their rear window, and the part that I could read, was part of a larger body of poetry. For a mile or so I was behind them, partly because it was on my way home, and partly because I was curious. I considered turning on my brights to bring their statement to the world into full view, but decided against. We finally hit a point in the road where our paths parted and, as I changed lanes, I slowed and was able to catch the remainder of their urban poetry, “Around my dipstick”.

Ah, a group of young mechanics who like to cover their dipsticks with wax based lipstick to provide color and prevent corrosion…do you think? I wonder if they, or, more properly, he, the owner of the car, imagines that someday, a beautiful woman, in a hot, candy apple red ‘66 Mustang convertible, will someday be driving behind him and view the sticker as an invitation.

They’ll be approaching an intersection on a slow road just past twilight, and she’ll pull up beside him, hair tossed, cleavage showing, and smile. “So, you like lipstick around your dipstick…”, she’ll say, smiling slowly. “You must be a mechanic.”

“No, I’m an engineering major, but I’m good with my hands.”

“Pull over.” She says this with some authority, and he obeys, nosing the pimpmobile onto the gravel at the side of the road. She pulls in behind him, and as he steps out of his car his eyes reflect light like those of a deer.

“Get back in the car,” she says, untying the silk scarf that is around her neck.

He complies, feeling fear and exhilaration, realizing that he loves being told what to do. He ponders for half a second whether that accounts for his popularity, and then returns to the moment, realizing that the woman is kneeling in the gravel beside his driver’s seat, and that his headlights are fading to nothing in the road before him, and that he has never, ever, been this excited before.

He prays that he won’t come when she touches him - anywhere, but he hopes for it, because if he can get past that first time he could do her for days, with gravel digging into his knees and headlights streaming past. He doesn’t know what he wishes for, but he thinks…hopes, that part of it may come true.

Time to Stop

2006-03-08T19:05:00.000-05:00

There are a number of ways to decide when its time to stop work for the day, mine came around 6 pm, as I was attaching the hockey puck under lighting to a shelf that will go over my stove. I put all of them on upside down, and didn’t realize it until I went to put the lens caps on and they didn’t fit correctly.

I looked at the cap, looked at the puck fixture, hmm – did I screw it down too tight (see, I’m still not realizing that the bulb is facing THE SHELF!!). I went to loosen the screws on one of the fixtures to see if then the cap would fit – at this point the proverbial light bulb went off and I told the cat I was an idiot…she already knows this, but I’m an idiot with food, catnip, and a big lap, so she puts up with me.

The End of the Tunnel

2006-02-28T08:20:00.000-05:00

The End of the Tunnel (I Mean Kitchen Remodel) is in Sight

OK, I’ve put 2 more coats of goo on the kitchen floor; brush marks …sanding…hit bare wood…aaaargh!!!  Got high on fumes, had to spend two days making “alternative” bathroom arrangements, and now, finally, finally, the floor looks REALLY good, even under close inspection, and I’m moving on to putting in the floating countertops around the stove.

God forbid the original homebuilders do anything like PUT THE STUDS AT REGULAR INTERVALS INSIDE THE WALLS!!!!  Deep breath…yes, my stud finder is useless on plaster and in bars, but it did work in the kitchen, and I found my studs…at least I’ve got something to screw………………..shelves into ;-)

I started out with a bad drawing and moved into actual diagrams, but I’m still no good at cuttin’ wood until I’ve got something physical to work with…so I spent the afternoon yesterday really measuring, cutting out shelves and supports, drilling for studs, etc.

The drilling really set off the mice living in the attic – it sounded like they were having a lambada dance party up there.  I sent the cat in, but she quickly lost interest, and they quickly started back up doing whatever it was that they were doing (it sounds like they’re trying to dig their way through the insulation and ceiling, right     over     my     head     EEEW!).  I hate to use poison, but I also hate to hear frantic scrabbling noises directly above me, it just puts me on edge a bit.

So, anyway, I always tell myself that I’ll work until I start to get stupid (you know, the point when you need to switch out a drill bit and you hit the “reverse” button rather than unscrewing the keyless chuck – repeatedly).  But then I kept thinking of little jobs that didn’t require intelligence, and here I am, its 8:13 a.m., and I’ve been awake since 6:30 a.m. yesterday morning, insomnia is an insidious beast.  Of course it is cool, in a          barfly-unemployed-rebel kind of way, to be drinking Old Style in the morning, but the only reason I’m doing it is that I ran out of bourbon- good lord, I think Kinky Freidman might understand – and that scares me!!!

Well, the sun is out, the floor is dry, I no longer have to use a disposable cooler as a “bathroom”, and it’s probably time for a nap…after all, this is Michigan, I can’t reload on bourbon until at least 10 a.m.

2006-02-28T07:57:00.000-05:00

Kinda bluprintish...

High Ho the Floor is Done!

2006-02-24T09:37:00.000-05:00

(sung to the tune of “High Ho the Witch is Dead” from the Wizard of Oz)

Yes, finally, the floor is done, after a few setbacks, of course.

I filled in the score marks from pulling up the old flooring with an old-fashioned mix of sawdust and wood glue, which is recommended by places like “This Old House” because you get an exact match to the wood you’re working on.  Well, apparently some sort of chemical reaction took place, because although it dried perfectly fine in some spots, in others it dried to a tannish-green shade that stuck out like a sore thumb.  I have used more tools on this floor than on any project EVER!  I used a wood chisel and a mallet to knock out the bad filling, then used the same chisel and mallet to blend the scores into the same level as the rest of the floor – yes, it left some dips, but it is an 80 some year old floor, and dips are far less noticeable than score lines in a different color.

When I first pulled up the old flooring I couldn’t figure out why someone would cover up a perfectly good oak floor with linoleum, but I know now…that floor is hard as a rock!  When I rented the vibrating sander the guy at the rental shop asked me what kind of floor I was working on and recommended that I get a drum sander instead, but I told him I was concerned about gouging the floor because it was such a small space and I wouldn’t be able to maneuver easily.  Next time I’ll listen, because if floors could laugh mine certainly was.  I ended up taking my belt-sander to the spots left by the adhesive.  The sander was a cheap one, $35 at Big Lots, and by the time I was done sanding out all of the spots the guide that kept the sandpaper in place had worn down and it was shooting sparks…I just kept praying to the power tool gods that it wouldn’t blow up before I finished (and it didn’t…I’ll have to sacrifice a goat or something to thank the powers that be).

I went over the floor many, many times with the vibrating sander, starting out with 20-grit paper.  I wasn’t able to get all of the scratch marks out of the floor, but it smoothed out reasonably well, and I figure this is an old house, with character; hopefully scratches in the floor constitute character, because I just couldn’t sand any more (my entire body continued to vibrate for days after I returned the vibrating floor sander).  I ended up using my Dremel to clean up the spots under the cabinet ledges and along the edges of the floor where the big sanders couldn’t quite reach (like I’ve said – I used more tools on this project than any single other project I’ve ever done).

Sweep, vacuum, tack cloth, and on to the first coat of sealant.  Little bits and pieces of chinking got pulled up by the brush, even after all of the clean up, so I had to be careful to get them out before it started to dry – my fingers ended up getting varnished as well on that first coat.  NOW, three layers of finish, sanded in between coats, and the floor is shiny, pretty, and far better looking than the old worn out linoleum…

Uh oh, I just walked in the kitchen for more coffee, and the sun shining through the window revealed a spot with visible brush marks.  I’m just going to have to leave that alone for a while – or run screaming though the front door, never to return!!!

2006-02-24T08:43:00.000-05:00

Finally Finished!!

2006-02-24T08:39:00.000-05:00

101 Spots of Goo

Have Heatgun Will Travel

2006-02-18T22:40:00.000-05:00

Have Heatgun Will Travel
Day One

The nails are pulled or countersunk (all eight million of them) in the kitchen floor, and I’d like to do a preliminary sanding to make it easier to see all of the holes I now need to fill.  My initial plan was to use a belt sander to remove the old adhesive polka dotting the floor, but, as with every plan, I’m finding that that’s not working out as well as I would have hoped.  The heat generated by the belt sander is actually softening the old adhesive, thus gumming up the sandpaper, I could continue sanding, replacing the belts every 6 square feet or so, but I’d end up spending a small fortune on sanding belts.  Being unemployed, I’ve got more time than money

So I’ve brought out the heat gun and the scraper.  There is a big glob of adhesive every six square inches (I can say one thing, when they put in that old flooring they did NOT mess around!),

Scrape, scrape, scrape… I’m sitting on an old milk crate with a folded towel on top for padding…I found the crate in the basement, amongst the old canning jars, light fixtures, and gallons of paint.  This wreaks havoc on my lower back…but after having surgery on both knees kneeling is just not an option.  Scrape, scrape, scrape some more, when I’m all done I’ll have a pristine floor.

Days Three and Four

Had to take an off day yesterday.  Started out the morning looking for jobs via the internet and found myself applying to a couple, then started looking for advice on fixing up the house and was sucked into the internet…five hours later I emerged with numerous ideas and no physical labor completed.  Such is life – I learned a lot though.

This floor has got to be finished.  Can’t pull out the sink until the floor is sealed (oh yes, once I finish the floor then I get to move onto replacing the sink and countertop…will the fun ever end?)  Scrape some more…using toothpicks and wood glue to fill in the holes where I was able to pull the nails out of the floor.  I would hate for the next generation of remodelers to come along, start sanding the floors, and find a bunch of holes emerging…thus, toothpicks.  There are a number of spots where the circular saw scored the floor though, despite my best efforts, that’s going to be problematic.  Hopefully sanding will take them down a notch.

Meditations on a Bed of Nails

2006-02-03T20:01:00.000-05:00

Spent the day pulling nails out of the newly denude kitchen floor...sitting on a milk crate, pliers, crowbar, mallet, and nail set all close at hand. After a while it was almost like some painful form of meditation (like lying on a bed of nails...I bet that could make your back ache too).

Despite the back pain I do love the “deconstruction” part of rehabbing. You see bits and pieces of the lives that were lived in the home over generations. The pencil marks on the floor where someone mapped out where the doors would go, the wear patterns, the mystery spot under the stove where the flooring was replaced with painted boards from somewhere else, they’re all like a homeowner’s version of scrawling “Kilroy was here…” on a wall. They let me know that I’m just one of many people who has cared for and worked on this home. I hope that those who come after me feel the same.

2006-02-01T10:51:00.000-05:00

Someone actually wrote this and thought it made sense!

2006-02-01T10:50:00.000-05:00

My Kitchen - Before

The Never-Ending Kitchen Remodel

2006-01-31T16:51:00.000-05:00

My refrigerator and stove are in the living room, my pots and pans are on the front porch, my silverware is in the bathroom, and my stamina went out for beer about half an hour ago. Nonetheless, the end is in sight for the never ending kitchen remodel. The cabinets and drawers are painted (every square inch of them), the walls and ceiling are patched and painted, and the majority of the moulding around the doors only needs one more sanding and one more coat of paint. I swear, if I’d realized how mind-numbing doing a kitchen remodel on my own would be I would’ve left the room in the same cavelike state that it was when I moved in.

As it is, I’m pulling up three layers of flooring to expose the original hardwood floors, and this is absolutely, positively, NOT fun. I thought about this project a lot before I actually started, I exposed the edge of the flooring at the basement door and found that there was slightly less than a ¼ inch of flooring, stratified in shades of green and brown (eeew!), the top two were linoleum, easy enough, but the bottom layer is a veneer of particleboard that is nailed EVERYWHERE. They could’ve kept Satan attached the floor with the number of nails that they used. I removed a couple of square feet using a mallet and crowbar, and realized that it was doable, but that when I was done I probably wouldn’t be able to move for week, so I let the ideas percolate in my head for a while and got on with my unemployed life.

My initial thought was to use my circular saw to score the floor just slightly less than ¼ inch, effectively splitting it into relatively easy to remove strips, without scoring the underlying hardwood. A quick look at my circular saw (which I’ve never had need to use before) showed me that its shallowest cut depth was exactly ¼ inch, ever so slightly too deep. Hmmm... well, I picked up a router cheap on Ebay a few months ago and haven’t had a chance to use it, maybe that would do the trick. Then I tried to read the instructions...(see above)

All I can say is that writing jobs for technical manuals should never, ever, ever be outsourced overseas… If I took the time to figure this out it would be months before I finished the kitchen, and I need to get on with the bedroom, bathroom, TV room, and stairwell remodeling (the scary thing is that when I sit down to take a break I usually watch HGTV. I sense that there is something deeply wrong with that).

Allright, lets look at the circular saw again. I found that I could adjust it to slightly less than a ¼ inch – woo hoo! This will go fast now! Happy, happy me!

One problem; my circular saw is cordless. I got it as part of a set (drill, reciprocating saw, circular saw) – it even came with its own carrying case, how cool is that? Not so cool once I realized that one pass about 2/3 of the way across the kitchen floor, which takes about two seconds, depletes that rechargeable battery completely. And the “quick charge” function on the charger? Not so quick...so here I sit, writing, waiting, getting up to check the charger every few minutes, and desperately wanting a beer. Of course I can’t have beer if I’m playing with a tool that could cut off a limb, and I also want to get at least one full section torn up today, but if another 10 minutes goes by and that thing is still blinking I may have to succumb.

Yep, stiiiillll charging...

Finally, the two batteries fully recharged, and I got FOUR seconds of cutting time. It is slick though - I'm cutting the floor into about 2 ft. x 2 ft. squares and they're coming up pretty easy (still a whole lotta nails though). I've cleared about a third of the kitchen floor, my arms are sore, the batteries are recharging, and NOW I can have a beer. Maybe I'll wear the respirator mask and safety glasses to the bar, its an interesting look for me.

Next...Adventures in Belt Sanding

Dont you DARE be sick!

2006-01-18T01:45:00.000-05:00

Don’t you DARE be sick!

It’s winter, and the ads for cold and flu remedies are all over the TV, and they have a consistent message that is absolutely driving me nuts…”Don’t you dare take time off of work to get better.”

Certainly everyone has work, and I do believe in showing up to do the job you’re paid to do – but I also believe that we have sick time for a reason, because sometimes we get sick.  What is it with this self-sacrifice for the workplace attitude?  Outside of a paycheck, what has your job done for you lately?  Why would you want to take a drug that masks your symptoms (but still leaves you contagious), so you can go into work, run yourself down further and share your virus with your co-workers?  Are you saving the world?  Ok, then please, go to work, we need you.  Not saving the world?  STAY HOME!!

I used to work in an office where the stress related illnesses were off the charts; three of the four employees were on anti-depressants, prescription antacids and saw the chiropractor regularly to relieve all of that built up tension (yes, I was one of them).  Of course my workplace was, I hope, a rarity, and a fine example of a “sick” environment.  But the message is out there, and although any number of human resources and health care provider studies will tell you (and your employer) that it is better to stay home when ill, your boss may tell you exactly the opposite, as will advertisers.

Why do we let them?  What is it about our society that tells us to put our work over our health, our families, and our personal satisfaction?  At my former workplace the employee who was held up as a paragon of what we should be continued to work while ill. She ultimately collapsed and had to be hospitalized for a week and a half because she had lost 30% of her blood volume through a bleeding ulcer.  We’re talking about a job, not a religion, but our boss required the same kind of dedication that most people reserve for religion.  I’ve got no desire to be a martyr to the workplace, and I don’t believe that I will go to heaven because I showed up at work when I felt like crap, but I may go to the hospital.