Thursday, July 06, 2017

cow [sic] tipping

Um. My life seems hard right now. I know compared to some it isn't. I fell over on the 4th of July. I just fell over and landed, unbuffered, on my right hip. Like this: I purchased a pair of extra wide cowboy boots because my feet are Birkenstocky and I am accustomed to wearing comfortable shoes. I never did train my feet to endure heels or pointed toes, thankfully. Torture. The cowboy boots are bad enough. So, I bought them for being on the motorcycle, because, sandals. We'd decided to take a run over to Garibaldi for the day, so I yanked on my new boots, jumped up and down in them and stuck an extra pair of sandals in the saddlebags just in case I couldn't take the restrictive boots. It was a fine day, and when it got time to head back, I, of course, opted for the sandals. It wasn't easy getting out of the cowboy boots, so I asked for help. Picture this: me leaned up against a minivan, Jenny pulling off the boots one by one. The first one was okay. The second? Well, she had to give an extra little tug and it tipped me just off center enough that I began to tip. You know that feeling when you've passed your center of gravity and there is no hope of recovery? Well, I do. My back slid along the minivan and I knew, in that slow motion sort of way, that nothing broke my fall except my hip. I heard a crunch. I thought bad thoughts. I just laid there for awhile, assessing my situation. Can I stand up? Is it broken? Is this fear or pain? So I went through the available range of motion, mine a tiny bit limited on a good day, and figured I was good to go. I hopped back on the bike and off we went. Nah. That's not what happened. I struggled up from the pavement, wandered around a little bit, then got back on the bike with a tiny bit of help. "If we get as far a Tillamook and it still hurts, I'm going to the ER and get an xray." So that's what happened. it still hurt, of course. Hurt worse, in fact, and we pulled in to the hospital and got a picture taken. So far so good. No fracture.

The ER doc wasn't thrilled to put me on a motorcycle to go home, but options were few, far from home on a holiday weekend. Well, it wasn't a weekend, I guess. it was Tuesday. So anyway, I made it home. I am alive.

This next part is personal. You don't even have to read it. I just wanted to record it as a day in my life so sue me. It is my blog, after all. So I am old and female and have hemorrhoids. I'd decided to do something about it. Something like surgery. So I made an appointment weeks ago and today was the day for my consult. I was going to see the surgeon, have him check it out, chat it up and schedule surgery for August when I have some time off.

Imagine my surprise when he decides to do the procedure in the exam room this morning. I said something like, ".. but i dont' have much time and i have my little dog out in the car and you know how people are about dogs in cars and it isn't even hot i mean i treat him better than most people treat their children." So anyway, he jams his gloved hand and some scope thing and rubberbands where nothing wants to go and boom. I've had a procedure done. I make it to work and I am somewhat traumatized.

But I don't have a voice today. I woke up without a voice. So, broken hip, butt-reamed, laryngitis. I'm exhausted.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

30

Thursday marks 30 years of not drinking booze. It seems an over-reaction, sometimes, of an extended adolescence and some, very few really, matters of public record. The phrase "pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization" comes to mind. But still... 30 years? I joke. I'm so grateful I don't drink. I'm so grateful to have found my way out of that familial deathtrap. I was not alone then and am not alone now. Happy 30, HP.

Friday, June 30, 2017

mil rant

When I married Kurt, his mother came to stay with us. Same week. She stayed a month and a half after saying a week and a half. She came in the door, advance directive in hand, and asked me to sign it. I declined. I told her I'd be happy to offer her son support as she ages, but I am not signing up for the job. I already have one.

It may be because I deal with elders all day, and have for all my life, that she has always come as such a shock to me. She is vain and boycrazy and almost eighty. Her demands for attention have been unending, and Kurt is always willing to step up to do what she needs. Not good enough. She was mad at his/our kids because they don't act like debutantes. No thank you notes. Dreadlocks. Purposely ratty clothing. The other grandchildren, the children of her daughter who died, and their many-fathered children, are the objects of her affection. I love those kids too, I do, but our kids deserve a g'ma.

So thirteen years we have included her in every holiday, K fixing and moving and shifting and putting together whatever she buys. I cooked for her and cared for her after a surgery, but it became clear that surgeries were elective and I backed away from that form of support. She became snitty if she wasn't invited out every other week, but didn't invite us to her place. The usual crap. Years go by while she goes on cruise after trip after guided tour. Years.

Then, a couple months ago, mil begins acting funny. Like she is hiding something from us. Turns out she had been working with a realtor and was planning a move south. Like it was a secret. Like we'd try to stop her. Very long story short, she sold a perfectly nice condo, and over the course of many trips south, many reversals in decision, she tries to back out of the sale on her condo and cannot, and is now forced to -- no, chooses to -- purchase a crappy 80's mobile in a crappy trailer park. Okay. Not my monkey...

So, this week, after my husband has tried to understand what she is doing, not even why -- just what the fuck are you doing, mom -- she tells him she's rented a truck and her realtor is driving it down to Medford. Wierd, but... Then, mid-week, it becomes clear to my husband, her only surviving child, that she has no way to make this happen. Nobody to move her things, etc. nobody to load or unload. And she's clearly been throwing Kurt under the bus to all of her friends. And we didn't even get the memo about her moving.

So Kurt finally asks wtf? He tells her he'll drive the truck down for her, when does she need to be out. She says, "the 30th." He says, "July?" "No," she says. "June." Tomorrow. Jeezus. He can't move big stuff because of his recently replaced $60,000.00 not really bionic ankle, but he'll help. So she got some kids to help load stuff and off they went. Her friends at the 55+ condo place gathered around her to say, "so glad you get to be near family finally." I can't imagine how my husband felt.

So, he drove her down there, and he and his son and his sons helped her unload. Its a good thing she went to live near family. 




Saturday, June 24, 2017

gong show blues

I'll admit it: I have some pretty fond memories of my misspent youth. The Gong Show is one. As my sweet husband says, "I loved getting up and turning on the Gong Show." Well, it started at noon, so that should tell you something. I don't know how long it played, it could have been one season or a decade -- time is a funny thing -- but acts such as "Having My Baby," a musical number sung by a guy in a dick suit with a condom on it; or Gene Gene the Dancing Machine, Fish Out of Water, and who can forget The Unknown Comic? These little vaudeville acts were funny. You didn't even have to be loaded, but it didn't hurt. And, to make it all work, in the center of the gong, was the master of ceremonies, the man with the shepherd's hook, the great part-time CIA assassin, Chuck Barris. I saw him at Wordstock a few years ago. It was inspiring to see him in person, and although I'm sad that he died, I'm glad he wasn't watching CBS last night.

As you may know, The Gong Show attempted a comeback. It may not have been on CBS. It doesn't matter. It was wrong. It was sick and sad and not funny at all and the winning act was part porn part carnival barker part drag queen vomiting bananas. It wasn't pleasant. It was the vaudevillian equivalent of Running Man. Entertainment gone awry. There is such a thing as too far. And just because it is allowable according to our rigorous FCC standards, does that mean its good? We still can't say shit on TV, but this is okay? And I fear there will be more episodes because people were laughing and it was billed as good summer fun. And Michael Myers as an aging Austin Powers version of Barris, in yet another attempt to resuscitate his career, was an affront to my hazy memories. Who's my cheeky monkey? Really?

You can't go home again. This we know.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

many little inconveniences

I wish I could make up my mind. This house, this endless series of brand new menopause beige walls, open concept, just isn't me. I don't dare start painting. I'd never stop. The last time I painted I had cancer and the color I picked was a bilious shade of green better used on the floor. A true reflection on my mental state. Terminal green. To say that I've lost faith in my sense of style is not accurate, but I can't imagine choosing something that I'd like for long. That's the thing: everyone -- well, not everyone -- says, hey, if you don't like it you can just paint it. Yeah. You go first.

You won't be surprised that this doesn't keep me from shopping. I just ordered a billion dollars worth of baby blue and dirt burlap brown linen bedding. I have yet to put it on the bed. I know if there's one thing that will make me paint its new bedding. Shit. But the thing is that in my new house all of the corners of the walls are rounded so when do you stop painting? Do you just keep going? Do you try to make a straight line on one side or the other? I'd go mad, especially with my pre-parkinsonian twitch. Jesus. Put me in a round room and tell me to stand in the corner. I'd try.

On to politics: I fear us demon-crats are going to ruin any real chance of impeachment by bald-faced zealousness. We're just too excited about it. Rabid dogs slathered in their own drool, rattling the gates of the kingdom, trying to act demure. Part of me says we deserve this -- the other part knows no one does.



amazon

Somebody from amazon sent me a nice set of headphones. A noise-cancelling, pop in your ear to look like you're not schizophrenic, new set of headphones. With it, in the same plastic package, was a little black handheld mirror. Why, I wondered, would someone combine headphones and a mirror as a gift? There was no return address. I hadn't ordered anything that I recalled. Then, I pulled the mirror out of the package and turned it over to the mirror side and voila, no mirror. It was just black leather on both sides. I turned it back and forth in wonder: an upholstered ping pong paddle? I picked up the plastic sleeve it came in. Black on one side, clear on the other. "Large Sex Paddle." Imagine my surprise. Imagine my husband's surprise. Now, special gifts that are added to internet purchases are not unusual, but they are typically based on a person's search habits. My search habits just do not run to the porny. They just don't. I don't. Given my druthers I'd be invisible. I definitely don't like being hit. Believe me, I know about being hit. I don't want any part of it. So, here sits the sex paddle, kind of just being on the entry table, daring me to throw it away or to keep it. Its just the kind of thing for a white elephant gift exchange. At work.

We've been working around the yard, keeping up with the jones' and I've discovered that the answer to all things yard is dark brown bark. It makes weeds look well groomed. At two bucks a bag, we've spent about a hunnerd. It will allegedly suppress, or at least hide, the horrible thorny weeds that are native to Yamhill.

I fired the maintenance guy. Turns out he is Danish. On his termination paper he wrote, "Jeg der krongen" which, roughly translated, means "I am the king." Okay. Well, I am the queen. Check and mate.


Sunday, May 07, 2017

spring at last spring at last thank god almighty its spring at last

It is time to wonder about the fungi that pester hollyhocks, why roses have blackspot why the yard is yellow. Rain. It is the answer to all the questions: why do you own so many black turtlenecks? Why are your legs so white? Why do you squint when you look up? Why so much vitamin D?

Rain.

After the weather liars predicted rain all weekend, I was happily surprised at two days of sun and shine and scurried down to Wilco to buy another sixty bucks worth of posies. I love my flowers. I love seeing what happens when I pile a bunch in a container and wait for water and light to make magic. I know enough to keep most of them alive. I am happy to report that my Furnival's Daughter bloomed. (refer to previous post.) Harold Greer, the Rhodie King of the Willamette Valley, said he wasn't sure if it would. One did, one doesn't look like it will this first year.

We, my love and I, are married 13 years now. As I approach 64 and him 60, we are content and surprised to have survived the madness of two coinciding youths. Much like oncoming trains. I often wish we'd married sooner, what with wives and husbands in the interim, but we both know that it would have been a mess. Still, I have loved him forever. That he will love me when I'm 64 is a great comfort. And a thrill. Still...

There is a McKee Bridge Extravaganza on June 10th to celebrate 100 years of being a bridge. I grew   up under that bridge, watched the paddle wheel with awe, camped for months on end, learned to swim, got my worst sunburns, made bologna sandwiches in the sand while drinking 151. My son was born while we lived in a tiny trailer at McKee Bridge Trailer Park and I baptized his tiny feet in the January waters of the Applegate River that runs beneath the bridge and through my life in a cool green ribbon of memories both sweet and dangerous on its way to the sea.

Whew.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

not yet

It is a quiet day in Yamhill, clouds hanging low in the morning sky, heaving with unspilled rain. The weather Nazis in Portland promise sun -- no, they promise warmth -- and are liars. It remains cold and May is tomorrow. Mayday. Our anniversary. 13. The number that dare not speak its name.

Yesterday we clammed at Longbeach, Washington. It is a damned long beach. 26 miles. An okay beach, but I know Seaside. I know, for example, that year to year there is a small shifting tidal creek that burrows a trench in the sand and makes for deeper water. At Longbeach, it caught me off-guard. I almost fell off the edge and into the surf. It wouldn't be the first time, but like I said, it isn't warm out. I'd heard tell of the huge razor clams from the Ilwaco and Longbeach area. To me, they seem pretty much like Oregon clams. I mean, they are clams. There just isn't that much variation. I was not impressed but I don't think the clams cared. Traffic was hideous. I guess Washington is conservative about how often they open the beaches for this sort of thing, and everyone from Oregon was up there, cramming their vehicles across that long bridge from Astoria to Washington, and the first stop across the border -- to pee, to get a day-license, was slammed. And only a single outhouse. Seriously. I stood in line: men, women and children ahead of me, and waited my turn. This is no longer easy for me.

Work is work. With my business office manager (BOM) off on maternity leave, I am responsible for portions of the work better left to the mathematically-inclined. I spent Friday afternoon trouble-shooting my first bank deposit with a machine that wouldn't recognize my computer. It doesn't make for interesting blogging, but bless the folks at our Home Office who have this stuff down. It isn't that I've never done payroll or deposits or paid bills -- just the supporting technology has changed a lot since I've done it all. I can add.

The dogs are outside and too quiet. Kurt is napping. All is well.