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.


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?


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.


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.

Saturday, April 01, 2017

and if that wasn't bad enough

Kurt took me out to dinner after the late afternoon cold sun broke through the gloom. We took the bike to Margaritas. We've given this new Mexican restaurant in Carlton three tries. Three. No more. This really has been a fool's day. Fajitas should not be made with bbq sauce. This is written down somewhere, I'm certain. My pal Nikki says it takes a certain kind of fuck it to ruin Mexican food.

side show

I'm not that nice of a person. We all know this. I am pretty nice to the people I love, but generally have disdain for the public. Except at work. At work I am good at people.

This morning, this Saturday, it was supposed to be a bit dreary in the morning, then, for the first time in a year, give way to a mostly sunny weekend. That's what they said. They promised, therefore I am entitled. I would work in the sun until my shoulders were pink, I'd have rings around my eyes from sunglasses, I'd be happy. And warm. Oh, and dry. I'd made a hair appointment to cover the wet part of the day, then was free to enjoy the remainder, playing in my yard.

I thought I'd run into Mac early, McMinnville, our "closest town of any size" to get some cheap wire fencing to keep the dogs out of the strawberry patch. Walmart has that sort of thing. So I got ready, drove into town before my hair appointment, and pulled into Walmart. I'm wearing my overalls and bogs for the gardening part of the day. The sunny part.

It seemed like everyone was moving in slow motion, limping like zombies, only doughy and white, dragging one foot or the other through the parking lot. Then, too suddenly, the neon lights of Walmarche, ablaze in the morning gloom. Greeting me as I entered was an exceptionally fat woman with green and purple hair sticking out in pigtails, wearing a neon-yellow Walmart safety vest. Beside her was a tiny midget with hair dyed as yellow as his own little tiny safety vest. The size contrast was impossible to ignore as the morning zombies milled around, flailing canes and carts and baskets and walkers. I know it is bad of me to be afraid of midgets, but there it is: part and parcel of my fragile psyche. 

I found the fencing, loaded more than I needed in the cart, and, head-down-not-making-eye-contact, made my way back through the store to the checkout. I was hurrying, I'll admit it. With side show clowns still watching the door, I rushed out the nearest exit. People were chasing me. I sped up, then heard some guy yelling at me. Apparently I'd left my 60.00 cashback at the register. I had to make my sheepish way back through the fat lady and her circus monkey, get my money and leave through the proper door. The midget called out as I left, "Goodbye, Sir." It took all of my self control not to tell him to fuck off. Really. All. ew.

I got to my hair appointment only to find I was an hour early. I cancelled. Fuck it. I want to go home. It is truly April Fool's Day. And the sun still hasn't come out. Not one single warm day this year and it is April. I am enraged. I am entitled. I am cold. I'd settle happily for a false spring.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017


This is a rant.  And, spliced in with that is news. I got a new car. I like it a lot except the color. Red. I like black or white. But it was a bargain. She paid 34K and I'm paying 20. That 20K is a bargain in any language is unthinkable. It has 11,000 miles on it and she's done five oil changes. "They're free," she said. I'd be lucky to get two into my busy schedule.  I am trying a new antidepressant for anxiety. Sometimes I can't breathe. It seems important. I have stressors in my life. One is a puppy, and tonight, the other is a step-daughter who hates me.

I have written little about Nicole, knowing she reads this blog, but tonight it seems more important to express myself than protect her feelings. She is, among many things, bipolar (or borderline pd), so she requires more therapeutic ignoring than the ordinary person. I let things go. I have for thirteen years now. But last night, she actually reached out for help, acknowledging a recent suicide attempt and sincere plans to kill a step-person. Not me. Her mother's husband. I think they're married. When she reaches out to her father, via text, this manipulates my beloved into a froth, as it would any adoring parent. She dumps the text in his lap, and he into mine, and then she fails to respond for hours -- hours in which I'm sure he pictures her hanging from the rafters somewhere in SE Portland. I can't stand to see him suffer and I texted her my concern, and said that I was glad she'd reached out. What I got in return was so mean. She is so mean. She basically laid the entire failure of her life at my feet because I won't let her live with us, lay in the house, be fed, and like a lovely but moody African Violet, face due east and bloom once a year.

In her text, she said, "Maybe we could talk about how often I've been raped for a place to sleep," then, "Seriously Judy, take your worry and choke on it." I didn't have the heart to tell her I was worried about Kurt. And we could speak about the rapes, I guess, but I'd win. Hands down. If that was meant to shock me into guilt over her troubles, she's barking up the wrong tree. I know the stock in trade. In my case, like hers, I opted not to work, and I lived in a tree instead of paying my way, so the boys took it out in trade. It wasn't usually very fun for me and I'm sure it isn't fun for her, but she isn't the first girl to have a shitty life. Not my monkey not my circus.

I met the girls when they were 13 and 11. There is hardly a year separating them, but they couldn't be more different. Nicole has bipolar disease, more depressive than manic by far. She lays down for years at a time. I've tried to support her or her parents to apply for SSD, but no one will take the time. She hasn't held a job for more than a month in several years. She takes a job, any job, becomes employee of the month, realizes how stupid everyone else is, and walks away. She is the poster child for the saying, "You can't fix a broken mind with a broken mind." I've hooked her up with many counselors, many nice women, all of whom she blew off after an appointment, or sometimes two, before she discovered their idiocy. In her text to her dad she claimed to be living by "manipulating idiots for a place to stay." I think these are probably nice people. Nicole is a charming and lovely girl when she needs to be, and a smelly hermit that bites like a snake once she gets her foot in the door.

Kurt asked me not to hold her wrath against him... not to take her meanness out on him. I am grateful he finally understands how cruel she has been, and for how long. At Christmas, as I said in a previous post, Haley talked about how everyone is poor in this family. And I think I understood her to say how sad it is that Nicole "has to stay with strangers who just accept her the way she is and take care of her." But that is nonsense. Most of these relationships are with those "morons"and they last weeks at most. She's a nasty tempered couch surfer who is currently paying the bill the hard way. One family's only stipulation was that she shower and she wouldn't do that. I remember setting that limit.... didn't work for me either.

Ah, I'm ranted out. I'm too tired and too fucking old for this shit.

Thursday, February 09, 2017

puttin' packy down

"All the animals in the zoo are jumping up and down for you." This was the earworm of my ninth year, just after my father died and little Packy was born. We didn't have PETA then, or know about cattle prods or elephant's symptoms of depression. It was just a sweet happy thing in a sweet happy world.

I'm sure it wasn't. But Trump wasn't president.

I guess he had TB. I wonder if they kept him in a cold room with damp sheets. That's my favorite Van Morrison song: TB Sheets. After Brown Eyed Girl. Anyway, this is just a little vignette for the only elephant I ever knew.

Sunday, February 05, 2017

ground hog's day

I test drove my new car today. I'm buying it from a little old lady who decided to move to Canada. Not a bad idea. She has a red Mazda CX5 that may stand for cross country. Its like my little white one, only bigger. I'm not crazy about the red, but it has all the electronic stuff, like the bluetooth hookup so it feel like you're in the phone if you're driving.

I marched in the January 21st Women's March. We made history. I didn't have a pussy hat, just a big sign that said no.just plain no. It was cold and miserable and didn't result in impeachment, I am sad to say. I will continue to resist in my small way against this very bad person and his henchmen.

Mac is wild. Never try to housebreak a puppy in a blizzard. On the other hand, I saw my oncologist eating a hotdog at Costco. That gave me hope. Things may not be as bad as advertised.