Thursday, February 25, 2010


I'm not a big fan of things changing. Okay, I hear the snorts from my friends who are thinking, "Fan? Heck you are a devoted and certifiably implacable enemy of change" and I bow before their knowledge with a grimace. Change is threatening. There is a loud angry voice in my head that screams at the thought even if the change may be for the good. That voice is from a part of me that is convinced that there is an equal, or probably greater chance that things will just get worse.

Anyway, the result is that I predict doom and gloom. I fuss, worry, and stress over proposed change. I delay, dither, and hang back with decisions, weighing the options and looking at the process and eventual results from all angles. Then once a decision is reached I want immediate action. Full steam ahead and git 'er done!

With some chagrin I must own that once the change is made I become blithely forgetful of how things were before the horrible, nerve-wracking alteration. Knowing I'm like that, that in a week or two I'll have trouble remembering how-it-used-to-be, helps me allow the change in the first place. Agonizing will quickly yield to the new status quo.

And all this is a build-up for the Great Carport Removal. If it was a movie we'd advertise the slow planning stages. The original realization that the structure would eventually become unsafe. The early attempt to put off the weather making the change with a whoomp! in the middle of a winter storm. Several years of finding places to store the stuff that had accumulated under cover. My absolute refusal to commence work when the structure was home to bats and swallows during the summer.

Eventually, this spring gave us opportunity in the way of mild weather, I pushed myself to the Let "Er Rip stage, and the troops sprang into action. A certain amount of jostling for position happened among the staff. I hid my head and gnawed my knuckles. The building resisted more than expected but bowed to the inevitable doom of gravity. Now for the clean-up.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The Warm, Wet Spot

It occurred to me yesterday evening that sleeping on or around the Warm, Wet Spot has been somewhat of a theme that appears and re-appears in my life.

You dainty and over-imaginative types can quit reading along about now.

The very earliest manifestation of WWS is simply a product of infancy. We all enter the world sans control. I waited longer than many to develop that control and my mother was relatively phlegmatic, leaving me to deal with the ramifications. In typical kid response I'd cover the WWS with a bathtowel and sleep around it.

Later in life the WWS was a by-product of having a love life. When Himself was frisky I learned to angle my lower regions toward HIS side of the bed so any resulting leakage was over there. C'mon ladies, you know the maneuver! Let the fellow deal with the WWS, especially in the hours after when it has become the CWS.

I'm a bit older now but the WWS is still with me on occasion. No, not what you are thinking! That time is still in the future, although there have been a few times when I woke in a panic realizing I hadn't yet walked to the necessary. Stop! Halt! Hold on there... literally!

The current edition of WWS is provided by the family cat. She saunters through the Oregon rain, knocks at the front door, sashays through and chooses my bed for the task of grooming and water removal. The removed water makes the WWS du jour.

As a life theme, the Warm, Wet Spot is thankfully minor, but herein dutifully noted.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Multiple spoons

Remember the saga of my spoon? I promised an update when and if the replacement arrived and:


Perhaps it was simply a post-menopausal hormonal reaction but when UPS brought my order and I opened the box to see that, indeed, this was MY SPOON? Tears happened. Himself smiled ear to ear over being right and fixing things. He does so like to be a rescuer.

Now for the pertinent details in case you are curious enough to investigate and possibly get your own (how perfectly clever and discerning of you!):

Manufacturer: Hutzler

Distributor: Gourmac

Item#: 3524

Of course I was so giddy at finding THE SPOON that I also ordered items# 3500 & 3234. They look amazingly good as well.

Bon Appétit! (No! Don't eat the melamine!)

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

What's Goin' 'Round...

Today makes a full week that I've been, to put it delicately, under the weather. It was a sudden plummet to the depths for several days and a slow, too slow, still on-going, crawl back up. Lucky for you, I will spare you the details. but I will mention that the floor between my big comfy chair, my bed, and the bathroom is now worn through the carpet and has foot shaped ruts in the concrete substrate.

My entire gastrointestinal system should be sparkling clean. Note: should. Somehow a never-ending supply of (expletive deleted) has developed. Is this stuff being shipped in from some other dimension? After a few days of my jet propulsion Himself hied to town and fetched a variety of OTC remedies. Those for the upper stories of my internal tenement seemed to work but the basement remained in overdrive. Eventually a compromise of on-again off-again was achieved and there we remain: deadlocked. Ooh, maybe a bad choice of words?

So here I am, unable to trust the signals and sensations from below the waistband and thus unwilling to venture far from the necessary. I'm trying to find something to rebalance the system and end the wobble but wondering if the cure simply adds to the over-processing problem. Being an impatient patient means that I'm über-cranky which must mean I'm doing better because last week I was merely pathetic, weepy, and grateful to be noticed. Himself is coping, but yesterday he sought refuge in a town a dozen miles away. Smart man.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Hold it, Phlegm Man!

I stepped out of my friend's vehicle yesterday in the parking lot of a local restaurant to utter an unhappy "Eewww!" at the sight of a multitude of abhorrent wads of human spit littering the ground. Whatever group of good old boys that had stood there shooting the breeze had left their marks behind them, much like a dog does on a hydrant. It was enough to turn my stomach as we both tip-toed our way through a slobber minefield shuddering at the thought of a step that would allow the nasty stuff to adhere to a shoe.

What is it with men and spitting? How did this terribly disgusting habit go from the corner saloon to public demonstration of manliness? Not a single inning in baseball goes by without some player launching a mouthful of heaven-only-knows what out onto the ground. The floors of the dugouts must be awash in the expectorated slime wads. Is there some macho rule that makes carrying a cotton handkerchief a no-no, or states that using a tissue to contain such body waste is a dainty restraint upon guyness?

Listen up you spitters! Unless it is something you do at home in your living room, and this is something I have to see and have your wife let you live, suck it up. Think about the bacteria laden grenades you toss and imagine the ones your buddy coughed up embellishing your hands tonight when you take off your shoes. Bleccch!

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Lost Week

I've spent the past couple of days thinking that the events of last Friday (2/5) were to be followed in one week by the events I have scheduled for, got to be careful here, the next-next-Friday. That would be Friday the 19th. An entire week slipped through my mental net, swam away, and ceased to exist.

Am I time-tripping? My brain has spent the past ten months doing something similar with the year I was sixty-two. Since my last birthday whenever the subject came up I would state unequivocally that I was sixty-three, and was reminded repeatedly that no, in fact I was sixty-two. My mental shopping bag apparently dropped sixty-two and went on without it.

Does this mean anything? I'm not yet ready to claim "senior moment", at least not loudly. Perhaps it is merely a slip in my personal time-continuum or a teensy-tiny space warp that belongs just to me. My friends are likely to be voting for the warp, but leaving out the space part.

Will time resume a more normal aspect after the "missing week" has passed? If it does that may bode well for me being a proper sixty-three after my birthday next month. If the time warp continues to be my modus operandi I'd like to figure out how to jump backward as well as forward and become my own science fiction fantasy. And no more jumping over!

Monday, February 8, 2010

Observed today

No matter how many lists I carry around, I always forget something.

A group of 10 teens from the local high school all dressed in hoodies, tennies, and jeans - all facing away from me. Despite similar height and slouch, it was easy to tell gender. Tight jeans with horizontal wrinkles equals girl. Loose jeans, wrinkled everywhere and with back pockets mid-thigh equals boy. No exceptions.

Two more daffodils are blooming in the front yard.

The acacia trees are blooming and my nose knows. Himself says the tree name is onomatopoetic as acacia is the noise I make when I'm around them. In reality the noise I make is "&%#&*%".

I do not properly pronounce the word EPITAPH. Same trouble with TROUGH.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Tending Shop

Today I am off to help out my friends at Wild Rivers Wool Factory here in Langlois by taking care of the shop while they attend some sort of craft fair. It is fun to play shop-keeper once in a while but...

Being sole attendant in a small store in a tiny town along the coast can be lonely. Much of the economy in a place like this is tourist driven. Today is a rainy winter day and on days like this, even with the advantage of today being Saturday, tourists are not adventuring out. They stay home in droves, and sometimes the entire day can go by without anyone entering the store. Boring!

I bring something to read. I bring relping to keep my hands busy, music to cheer the atmosphere (or drown out the sound of the rain), and snacks for the worst clock-watching moments. What I don't do is ask the universe for excitement.

Did you ever observe that your life was tedious and yawn-producing only to have the roof cave in? Those comical side-kicks in the ether keep their spiritual ears perked for one of us silly mortals to sigh and wish for titillation, for "something interesting" to happen. They gather together to connive an event that qualifies to the request but contains a twist.

My choice today is to embrace boring and avoid the chance of a UFO landing in the parking lot or a stray mountain lion to stroll through the front door. I will eschew an out-of-control big rig careening through town, or a hang-glider sailing through the window. Boring is just fine.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Oh, you guys!

Huggles and smoochies all around to my friends for celebrating with me over The Great Spoon Discovery. Big wet sloppy puppy kisses (Oooooh, yuck!) and immense Martha-soft hugs to go with them. I was ever-so excited and it is nifty to have folks understand and empathize.

Isn't it the best part of community, the thing we need the most, being noticed and having people share and care? There was a time when the idea of living like a hermit appealed to me but isolation, while being (perhaps) good for individual meditation would seem to make us somehow less human. We are social animals and it is in the task of being so that we do our best.

So thank you all for being part of MY social network. Those little comments carry a lot of weight.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

The Spoon - Revisited!

About a week ago I wrote about my favorite spoon - how I loved it and had been looking for a long time for a replacement since the one I have is wearing out.

Himself and I were discussing the spoon today (don't ask!) and he went into the kitchen to take a look at it. When he wandered back, spoon in hand, he was staring at the back side of the handle.

"It has a company written here. And there is a model number." He said. "Its made of melamine. Have you looked for it on the internet?"

Model number? Manufacturer name? OH DUH!!

Himself sits at his desk and in less than a minute is showing me a picture of my spoon. Did you hear my squeal of delight? It resonated across seven western states and fell just short of causing tsunami alerts up and down the Pacific coast.

My order has been placed and I was so giddy with glee that I ordered five spoons, some bowls, and a full set of other kitchen utensils from the company. Now I will pace the floor and chew my nails anticipating the package arrival, whereupon if all is well, you will hear about this again accompanied by .url info in case you are curious to order your own.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Monday, February 1, 2010


Okay, okay, I said I wasn't going to be blogging every single day in February and here it is the first and I'm blogging anyway. Hold your horses before saying "Hah! I knew you couldn't be quiet!" because there will come a silent day. Eventually. Just not yet.

The reason I had to chirp, exhibiting a bit of un-grandmotherly glee (note butt wriggle - if you are brave enough), is that my newest short story got a thumbs-up from the writers group, and that vertical digit emboldened me sufficiently to submit the story to an online flash fiction site. Big deal you may say, meaning it isn't, but I'll take the what-the-words-say position and agree that, as far as I'm concerned it is. BIG. It is one step closer to the rejection that a writer must apparently learn to face. But maybe...

This is the third story I've sent out into the world - peanuts, no, barely potato chip crumbs in terms of venturing forth. But that is three more than it was a year ago, each one a chance to find out that my ego is tough enough to handle it when the story comes back with "Thanks, but no thanks." Getting published doesn't mean a piece is good. But...

But what if something gets published? Almost scarier than remaining un. Either way the writing is exciting. It is almost enjoyable. It is getting to be a habit. But can I keep it going?