Roll with it, Baby

Big Brand Tires in Ventura can kiss my business goodbye. Technically, they've never actually had my business, because the one time I went there it was for the free flat repair. Free does not equal business, except in the all important future business and good will way of looking at it. And a year and a half ago, when they fixed my tire by plugging the hole the wayward screw caused, I was so happy with the free service that I knew I'd go to them for new tires, when that day came.

That day is not now. But the twit who waited on me this morning wanted it to be. They must get a commission.

Yesterday, as I came out of the grocery store, I noticed that my rear tire on the passenger side was very low. By the time I got home it was a few psi's short of flat. My landlord, John, has many tools and handy things in his garage and he put air in with his compressor. I thanked the universe for waiting till I got home for this to happen, rather than having it go flat on the 405 or the 101, as I drove home from LA just the day before.

But this morning, when the jerk from Big Brand Tires looked at my tire, he said, "We can't do anything to repair this. This tire is old. See these cracks? This is very unsafe. See this crack here? (I did not) These tires are over six years old and we can't repair any tire older than six years."

I told him that was strange, that this very shop had repaired a tire just a year or so ago, and all my tires are older than six. He said, "Someone did you a favor."

He then looked at the others and said that my two front tires were okay (they are actually about the same age as the rear ones, with a difference of less than 10,000 miles between them), but the two rear ones just had to be replaced. And he could do it as "cheaply" as $190. plus tax.

I said, "Orrrrr, I can just have someone else fix my tire. Bah-bye."

I came home annoyed and dejected. I hate car issues. John stopped what he was doing and told me to pull my car into the driveway (I park on the street, usually) so he could take a look. He removed the tire and we saw what looked like a nail embedded in it. Turned out to be a screw, broken off, but it looked like a nail head.

We drove to Harbor Freight (in John's truck, not with my three-wheeled car) so I could buy a tire plug kit, then he proceeded to fix it for me. That was less than reassuring. First he couldn't get the screw out. It looked like he was hurting my tire as he dug at it and tried to pry it up. He finally had to unscrew it to get it out, rather than just pull. And the glue part didn't go as it should have, since I guess you're supposed to have no air in the tire when you apply it. We had air. The glue blew up and away and pretty much did nothing it was meant to do. Then he stuck what looked like a corkscrew into the hole, making it bigger. That seemed counterproductive. And finally he pushed this gluey stick into the hole. It didn't go in easily or well or deeply. I tried not to show the concern I was feeling. The screw was doing a better job of keeping the air in my tire, as far as I could see.

Then he pumped the tire up to 50 psi, which had me expecting it to blow at any moment. It didn't. He put it back on my car and we're now waiting and hoping. I'm not sure about the 50 psi part. I mean, if the plug holds, then don't I have to let air out somehow to get it back down to 32? And if it doesn't hold...oh, man, I don't want to think about that.

I'll have to find someplace that doesn't want to sell me tires, who will patch it, and hope that the six year "rule" that the creep at Big Brand Tires talked about isn't a law here. I simply don't have a couple hundred bucks for new tires, just because mine aren't teenagers anymore. Frankly a more mature tire is preferable, I think. Yes, it has a few miles on it, but it's been around, knows the road, and has proven it can roll with whatever I ask of it. Also, it's paid for. So important.

The plug will hold. That's the positive thought I'm going to keep in my mind. After all, the one from last year has held up just fine, right?

And I really do have good luck. The tire held up for the long drive to LA and back, and I live with someone who was willing and able to help me fix it.

A Weed By Any Other Name Would Not Be Plucked

Sometime during the Easter get together I went to, I whined about the current economy and my lack-of-a-job situation. Friends who live in Inglewood (LA, for my non-Cali peeps) said they'd love it if I would do some yard work for them. They have busy careers and two kids, one of whom is 8 and requires nightly homework help, etc. They don't have time to pull weeds.

I've never been much of a gardener. I'd dig holes for plants my mom wanted to put in, or deadhead the pansies, but when sent out to "weed" I'd be finished fairly quickly. If something is pretty, I'm sure it's supposed to be there. And they're all so pretty. Karen and Panther (not her real name) assured me they had plenty of weeds and they needed to go as they'd "taken over the yard." P'shaw, I thought. How bad could it be? I've seen their yard. It's not that big and it's quite lovely. There's an archway entrance with a gorgeous bougainvillea growing over it, an orange tree, three planters, a few rose bushes, and various other plants that I couldn't name if you offered to pay me large sums of money. Seriously, I know roses and daisies, but everything else sort of slips my mind two minutes after you've identified it for me.

I actually said to them, and why they didn't burst out laughing in my face I don't know (well, I suppose it was because they feared I wouldn't show up), "That sounds like something I could do in a few hours. It wouldn't be worth it when you think of how much I'd spend in gas getting there and back." A few hours. I said that.

If I were to share their address (which I have no intention of doing) you could get a bird's eye view and see only the front yard. For some reason, the back yard just doesn't show up the way they took the pictures. The front yard is spotless. Somehow that added to my certainty that the back yard could not have been invaded by alien weeds to such an extent that they'd hire me to eradicate them. Obviously you can all tell that I was wrong. So, so wrong.

But hey, in case the employed or retired among you haven't noticed, it's the Depression Redux out there. And my friends actually thought it would take me two days to do this job, and I could just stay over (saving a long commute and gas), and I was very happy to accept. I just figured I'd need to do something else besides a little weeding to pass all that time. I'd laugh, but it would make muscles other than those in my hands (which are not happy about the typing) move, and that would hurt.

I wanted to get an early start on Thursday, but there'd been a shooting on the freeway the night before and the 101 was shut down. I Googled an alternate route and saw that taking the 118 to the 405 was the way to go. Everyone else did this, too. It should take an hour and 20 minutes to get to their house. It took two hours and 45 minutes. There was a moment, when I could see for miles ahead of me and the traffic was infinite, when I let go of my stress and started singing Que Sera, Sera in my head during the commercials on the radio.  Panther  texted me about getting into the house. I texted back. No, there was absolutely no danger in this (though, of course, still technically illegal), since I wasn't driving, just sitting still and waiting for that golden moment when we'd all move about a foot farther down the road. I also called into a radio station, trying for the $10,000. prize. Didn't win.

When I finally saw the back yard, I panicked (just a little). So much foliage. So, so much. Karen had left me photos of the plants to be spared, but -- if you'll remember my lack of natural ability in this area -- they all looked alike to me. One had yellow flowers. But then there were all these very tall plants with purplish leaves that had yellow flowers on top -- what about them? Turned out they were dandelions. I have never seen them that large. Ever. And here's another handy way to distinguish between a plant that someone wants to keep and a weed that must go: if it comes out easily, it's a plant, but if it holds on as if its roots desperately crave sweet and sour chicken for dinner, it's a weed.

I had a sort of plan in mind when I began. Attack the biggest weeds first (take out the leader and the pack will fear you), then the medium ones, then finally the small stuff in the cracks between the bricks. Alas, my 50 year old body had other ideas. I could only bend over or squat down, dig at roots, and pull for all I was worth so many times in a row before I had to kneel down and dig at medium or small varmints. And yes, they were alive. Or, rather, they were the un-dead. I would cleanse a section of all dandelions, turn my back, and upon a second look find that -- some. had. come. back.

I'm a tad obsessive about work. When I have something to do I like to keep at it till it's done. It's why I could get ten appraisals done in a day back in the '80s. If I ate anything at all, it was from a drive-thru and I consumed it while on my way to the next appointment. Knowing this about myself, I'd confidently stated that I could finish the yard in one day. When I stopped for 15 minutes to drink my Slimfast lunch, I knew that was a fantasy that would not be fulfilled (story of my life). My friend Kathy* texted me to ask how I was doing and I told her that the yard was several football fields long and I had to go before my parts seized and I could no longer move.

I tried listening to my iPod while I worked (so much more melodic than my off-key whistling would be), but no matter how I tried to tuck the earbud cord in somewhere, it would come loose and tangle with the weeds I picked up or the rake or something. I spent an hour fighting it, then decided it was impossible and simply sang to myself (they do have neighbors, after all). Annoyingly, after pricking myself on the rose bush I couldn't get "every rose has its thorns" out of my head.

I wondered if Karen was worried about the flowers she'd paid good money for and planted with such care. As I knocked the dirt off the roots of a dandelion before throwing it at the trash heap, I wondered if she was sitting in her office thinking, "Does she even know to knock the dirt off the roots, or will I need to buy more topsoil when she's done?" Karen never expressed any doubts or fears, but that's the way my brain works. At one point I talked to her on the phone and found out that there wasn't one plant near the blackberries. "But, the pretty ground cover with the orange flowers is a weed? And the purple ones next to them? Weeds? How can that be?" Karen said, "They will turn into a monster with sticky burrs. They only look good now to fool you, so you'll let them grow." The garden is a microcosm of life, it seems.

If only I hadn't been so pathetically weak. At five o'clock I had to stop. I didn't want to. They weren't even home from work yet, and there was plenty of sunlight left to the day. I blame my thighs. They said, "Listen, chickee, you normally don't do more than 15 - 20 squats a day. You passed a thousand hours ago and we need to rest!" My back agreed and my forearms (who knew they could hurt?) sealed the decision. I'd filled one yard waste dumpster and an additional big, black garbage bag. I went inside, put a piece of clothing down on the couch to protect it from my dirty clothes, and passed out in a sitting upright position.

Panther and Karen made a wonderful dinner of chicken marinated in lemon and thyme (freshly picked from the garden -- I know an herb when I see one, so it was safe), salad greens with pears and prosciutto, and bread. Very yummy. I was so tired that going to bed seemed like an excellent idea in lieu of dessert, but I refused to give in to such weakness. One day of physical labor wasn't going to beat me. Totally.

Karen had stuff to do to get ready for a retreat she was planning for the weekend, and Panther and I told ghost stories and then watched them on TV. There's a show on the Travel Channel about these guys who go to haunted places and try to find proof of ghosts. It's very entertaining, from the overly dramatic host to the too brave cameraman and the easily frightened second cameraman. I don't need to be convinced that ghosts exist, having experienced them personally, but the show is a hoot and kind of creepy at the same time. I stayed awake as long as I could, then Panther finally took pity and we all went to sleep.

I'd forgotten the weather forecast. I had been so sure that I could do the yard work in one day, and spend the next one on indoor chores, that I spaced out completely on the rain. But it did rain, starting sometime during the night. Since Karen and Panther have gutters and leaders on their house (as John doesn't), I wasn't woken up by water smashing down right outside my window (as I am at home). Their daughter asked me, before leaving for school, how I was going to work in the garden in the rain. I told her I'd get wet, but it'd be "easier" because the rain would loosen the roots. Really, why do I speak? Will I ever learn?

Yes, some of the weeds did come up with a little less fight, that's true. Others were like, "Rain? You think I care about rain?! Come and get me, bitch!" And, either way, I was no longer shaking dirt off the roots. I was taking more time on each and every pull to deal with the mud. As it rained lightly I not only became wet and cold, but as covered in the mud as the roots I was trying to scrape off. But that was okay! I was getting it done! In hindsight, I wish I'd worked on one area at a time, completing it to perfection. But I'd get sore in a position and in order to ease my muscles I'd attack something else, somewhere else. Who knows why. Certainly not me. I was the wayward gardener.

When it started to pour, I hunched over and muttered, "So what, I'm already wet," and kept on weeding. When the thunder began I worked faster (you don't even want to know what my thighs had to say about that), but I was far from done and so not stopping. It's California. Thunder is rare and usually we just get a couple of rumbles. When I saw the first flash of lightning I believe I said out loud, "Okay, right, I'm not an idiot. I'm done."

I had to leave my mud-covered sneakers outside the door and my clothes in a heap just inside the door, so as not to drip mud throughout the house as I went to the shower.  Panther called a couple of times, and when I was dressed I called her back to see what she wanted. I guess my work ethic had her worried that I might be insane enough to still be out in the weather, risking death and an increase in her home owner's insurance. No, just kidding. About the insurance. She truly was a little concerned that I might still be out there.

I spent the afternoon packing up the stuff in one of their rooms, and moving most of the furniture out to the living room. They're having the floors redone and a lot of stuff was stored on the floor, so that was a project. At one point I sat on the edge of the bed to contemplate my next move, as far as which things should go in which bag/box/backpack/duffle, and standing back up was agony. My quads were waving the white flag, begging me to cease and desist all movement. I told them that I'm no quitter. However, when I finished the room and saw that the sun was shining once again, I didn't venture back into the yard, as I could have. I told the neighbor who saw me putting the rake away that I didn't want to get dirty again, but the truth is that I was afraid I'd be on the ground when Panther came home and I'd need her help standing up. She'd mock me through several lifetimes.

So I called it a day and headed home, unhappy about leaving the yard unfinished but with a few muscle fibers still intact. The traffic wasn't as bad as the day before, but it was traffic, so I sat still for an hour and a half. When I parked in front of the house and opened the car door, it took two (okay three) tries before I could stand up. Saturns are low vehicles.

Today is a new day, though, and each time I stand up or sit down it gets a little easier. I'm sure that by next week I'll be good to go again. Anyone who knows me knows that I need to conquer those weeds -- all of them. Especially the zombies.

*Name changed because my friend didn't like being named in my blog. Not this post, but I like to be thorough so am editing all that she's mentioned in.  As for Panther, that name had to be invented to protect the innocent, as they used to say on some old TV series whose title escapes me right now.

Blogging as steam valve

When did it become rude, wrong or socially unacceptable to speak up for yourself? I'm not talking about being selfish, I'm talking about being a responsible adult. An adult is responsible for what they do, for seeing to it that their needs are met, and for setting and defending boundaries.

I have made it clear, again and again (because we live in a time of everyone having a camera constantly, since no one can so much as go to the bathroom without their multi-use cell phone), that I do not want my photograph shared without my permission. I do not want it posted to the internet. Facebook is part of the internet. Whether one's preferences are set for friends only or open to the public, my image is my image. If I don't want it out there, for anyone to do with as they might please, that's a legitimate boundary that I am entitled to set. Anyone who professes to be my friend should respect it, whether they agree or disagree with what I want.

I don't care if the photographer thinks I look great and that I'm being too picky. I don't care if the photographer thinks it's absurd to believe that some ditz on their friend list, whose emotional growth was stunted at age 17 and who would enjoy copying the unflattering shot to be used later in a fit of drama, might actually copy it. I don't care if my worry in that regard seems frivolous and they think I have too much time on my hands. Frivolous is a value judgment and yes, I do have too much time on my hands -- give me a job and I won't. But I still won't want my picture shared without my permission or posted to the internet. It's my choice, like it or not.

Yet, my stating this is seen as rude or annoying or paranoid, and my wishes are ignored. Hey, if the photo makes the poster look good, or someone else in the shot looks good and the urge to share is great, too bad for me. I'm just being a pain. No need to take my stated boundaries into account. Life is short and taking someone's wishes into consideration is just so darn, well, considerate.

I can say nothing, as I've done in a particular case where risking upsetting the oblivious poster is just too big a risk (due to fragile health on their part). That rankles. That makes me so uncomfortable that I have to distance myself from the person in order to deal with the stress of living a lie (not standing up for oneself is lying by omission).

I can say something. I can nicely point out that I've already made myself clear and ask to have my wishes granted. And then I can watch what I judge to be an over-reaction to that request and see the emotionally stunted ditz "like" the reaction. It makes me want to withdraw from social media entirely. But that's an over-reaction in itself.

On a related note, when you do something that a friend or family member thinks is "wrong," and they lambast you for it, it is your choice to sit quietly and take it. If you want to let them call you names, judge you, attempt to make you feel guilty for not living life the way they think you should, that's a choice you can make as an adult, and live with. But if, in the process of verbally abusing you as if you were still the child they used to abuse like this instead of a grown person, these people also sully someone you profess to care about, and you don't stand up and defend them, you are as bad as the stone-hurlers. Set boundaries, be polite, but speak up for yourself and don't let anyone throw a loved one under the bus without argument.

It's not easy. Shutting up and going along to get along may seem like the simple solution, but if you do it often enough -- losing a bit of your authenticity and integrity each time -- you will disappear. Then the controlling, rude, or aggressively thoughtless personalities in your life will rule the shell you've become.

People who know what they stand for and have the ability to stand for it are healthier. Living a lie is always bad for your heart. That's my opinion and I'm sticking to it.

 

A Stranger and a Strange Man

Those who read my status updates on Facebook know I've been whining about my landlord and his attempts at plumbing work. It started when he decided that the filters for the existing reverse osmosis system cost too much. By the time it was over, I think he could've purchased several year's worth of them with how much he ended up spending. Not only did he buy a new system, but when it didn't fit (after supposedly measuring for that), he bought part after part after part, then a new faucet, then more parts, and each one involved a separate trip to the store (with gas at $4.44 a gallon).

The project started a couple weeks ago and culminated on Saturday, when the thing I've vaguely feared ever since reading Sue Grafton's B is for Burglar (I think, it's been a long time), happened. I was in the shower, with my hair full of conditioner, and the water was shut off. In that, or one of Grafton's books, Kinsey is responsible for having the water turned off to an apartment complex and a woman comes outside in her robe, all soapy, her hair full of shampoo, screaming. Very true to life. I got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door, and screamed loudly enough to make the neighbors curious, I'm sure. John said something about "not knowing" but I yelled back (through the quickly closed door, as he actually walked in my direction and I hadn't stopped to put a robe on) something about did he think I was in there brushing my teeth for half an hour, or something equally eloquent.

It's been stressful.

As the whole plumbing project from Hell lingered on, I've been sad, confused and upset, (over something else far more important than drinking water) but determined not to give in to those negative emotions or the black hole of depression might claim me. Acting happy is hard work.

I'm tired.

Today, as I padded through the house toward the bathroom, my landlord, John, said good morning. I asked what was good about it and he said he had someone coming over later to see about renting the spare room. As I let hot water course over the sore spot on my back (no idea how I upset my muscles, but they're spasming in anger over certain moves I make), I told myself not to worry, that this person probably wouldn't want to move in here. The other two didn't. Once you meet John and see the house, you tend to want to go look at whatever else Craigslist has to offer.

I was sitting at my desk, crying over an email I was writing, when I saw a woman walk toward the front door. She had a horse with her. Okay, it was a dog. But when the dog is part Dalmation and part Great Dane, you can see the confusion. I didn't get up to go meet her and the dog. I just sat and composed myself, until the dog, Birky, found me.

Some of you know that, way back when (1985), I was bitten by a dog. On the face. Specifically my lower lip. For the most part I'm over it, but big dogs still make me nervous. So when this one walked over to me I pushed my chair back against the wall and put my hands up like Birky was holding a gun on me. His owner, Coral, quickly showed up in the hall and called him away. Feeling like a ninny, I said I wasn't good with dogs at first, and gave my perfectly good excuse. She said she'd also been bitten in the face and she understood. Birky, however, did not understand. I know some won't believe me, but that dog looked at me and clearly communicated, "I did nothing. I'm an innocent dog. I'll thank you not to accuse me like that again." It was so effective he had me asking him if it was okay for me to pet him. A little later I got him water, and when he investigated the fireplace and got a snout full of cobwebs, he walked over and wiped them off -- on my knee. Alpha was established, and it's not me.

So far I've shared the normal part of the day. Upon talking with Coral I learned that she's a psychic, an astrologer, a former massage therapist, and a writer. She has now decided she doesn't want to massage anymore, and would like to earn her living by writing alone. So she's manifesting that. In fact, she was here because John wants to enter into an arrangement with her whereby she edits/ghostwrites for him and he provides a room. Edits what, you ask? Why, his 65,000 word novel that he's been writing, unbeknownst to me. Granted, I try not to talk to him much, but...but...I'm not sure how to explain the weirdness of finding out he's writing a book. It's sort of like finding out that your OCD accountant will be showing his abstract paintings at the downtown gallery.

And it's a science fiction novel. And it has elements in it that he's stated in the past aren't real or possible, when we used to talk. This information would've been enough to digest, but Coral was just full of interesting stories and enthusiastic possibilities. She's happy and personable and fun and says things that make you feel good about yourself. And if I wasn't born and bred in New Jersey, there'd be no little voice saying, "Danger, Will Robinson!" Grifters are charming or they wouldn't be successful. I'm not saying that's what she is. She could be entirely legit. I hope she is. I hope she's a free spirit, who just happens to be a nomad, and she'll help John with his story and mutual beneficence will abound.

But, without any thought on either of their sides, and without any checking of references (however futile that may be, realistically), she's moving in here tomorrow. With her horse-sized dog and a cat, too. And John will get approximately 16 hours of her editing/ghostwriting work a month, because her rate is $30 - $35 an hour and that equals about $600. a month, and after that, if he wants more, he will PAY HER.

Okay, it's true that I can't read crap and pretend to like it. And, while I haven't read John's story, I do know that a character named Jim Dandy who does, indeed, come to the rescue, is not my cuppa. So I can't see myself providing this service to John in exchange for rent. Also, he didn't ask me for a very good reason. He needs the money I pay him. This woman is a bonus for him. He's got my money, and he gets to ogle a 38 year old blonde and have her show interest in his masterpiece. It's a win-win for him.

For me, I'm looking forward to having to lock my door any time I'm away from my room, because you can take the girl out of New Jersey but you can't take New Jersey out of the girl, and my Spidey sense says that trusting is not the way to go for now. She doesn't own a bed. The room is unfurnished. She's going to manifest a bed, or sleep on the couch. I'm not being uncharitable, just cautious.

Perhaps this experience is meant to teach me to be more open, to appreciate a wholly different sort of person, and her energy will rub off and motivate me to do more, sooner. Or perhaps we'll come home one day to find all those expensive tools in the garage gone, along with our new roomie and her pets. My door will remain locked, while I try to keep my mind open.

I keep looking Heavenward and saying, "Gwennie, do you know about this? Are you paying attention? Keep an eye out, okay?"

 

Construction, part deux

I now know how to makes shelves. I now also know how not to make shelves. I will probably never want to make my own shelves again. But that could just be the incredible weariness talking. If you didn't read yesterday's blog, lemme see if I can put a link to it here: http://3mmaryquitecontrary.blogspot.com/2012_03_01_archive.html I know there's a nicer way to do it, but I don't know how.

Anyway, the adventure continued today. John said that he'd be ready to start working at 9:00 AM. Since he usually gets up at 10:00, I wasn't holding my breath. We started at 11:00 or thereabouts. Yesterday, when he was tired, he decided that we shouldn't make two shelves, each 3x6. That would require more cutting than he wanted to do, so he said a single shelf measuring 6x6 would be fine. Today, once again feeling energetic, he announced that we really had to make two shelves, because one big one would be too heavy to move around. I tried to say "fine" without a tone.

The winds are blowing today. Offshore winds with gusts around 20 mph. I was afraid John would say we couldn't work on the shelves because of the wind, and he did seem to think about it when he got outside and noticed them, but he likely didn't want to deal with my pouty face if he put it off. I started off all bundled up (I don't care if the rest of the country has "real" winter weather, 60 with a wind chill of 50-55 is cold to me.), with a long-sleeved shirt, a denim shirt over that, and a denim jacket on top. Once again I wore my winter gloves. As we worked my jeans kept falling down because they're loose, and between the gloves and all the layers I had on, I couldn't get a grip on the waistband to hike them up. The sun finally warmed me up enough to take off a few layers and be able to pull my pants back where they belonged.

I thought maybe today would be about me watching John put the shelves together. A girl can dream. He had me measure and mark all the uprights so we'd know where to place the supports. Then I had to hold the boards in place as he used a power tool to screw the supports down. It wasn't going well, and hours later I realized that it was due to the screws being the wrong length. He spent hours fighting to get them in, when he had a different size screw all along. I think he forgot.

He would often ask me if the piece we were working on was square. When I'd check and say no he'd say, "It's close enough. This is rough carpentry." Then he'd ask me again. I began chanting silently to myself. Once again he had me move every piece of wood that needed to be moved, and had me lift each section as we finished it to put it aside. There was a lot that happened that I'd think about sharing later (now) but, perhaps blessedly, it's gone from my memory now.

I know that at one point I started daydreaming about what my great-uncle Paul would say if he were looking down from Heaven on the scene taking place on our patio. Paul was a master carpenter.

"Mary Maureen, how on earth did you get yourself involved in such a fool project?" he'd say.

"Help me, Uncle Paul! I didn't know it'd be like this!"

"Girl, if he says 'It's only rough carpentry' one more time, I want you to step aside, because I'm gonna ask the big fella up here to send down a lightning bolt. What's going on there is sacrilege!"

Yesterday, when he'd insisted that one shelf was the way to go, he wanted to cut the top shelf piece 77 inches. I said no, to cut it 78 inches plus, just in case. Today, when those pieces had to be cut in half for the now two shelves, they needed to be 39 inches each. He took credit for cutting them long, and forgot the number 39 three times in the space of two minutes.

I can't even describe what happened when he suddenly decided we needed to use a 2x4 as a diagonal brace across the back. It began with him wanting me to grow two extra hands and ended with the use of clamps when I failed in that endeavor. It also meant yet more cutting, though the winds took the sawdust out to sea, so I didn't have to sweep it up later.

As we neared completion he started talking about me sanding and painting the monstrosities, um, I mean shelves. I told him that was not going to happen. I couldn't even imagine sanding, since every single piece of wood used to make these shelves has an "issue." He pointed out that splinters were likely unless I always used gloves whenever I went to the storage unit. I told him I knew that, and I intended to get duct tape and use that instead of all the work in sanding and painting, or even just sanding. Since he didn't think of the duct tape idea it was automatically not a good one. He's tried to talk me out of it three times already and likely will again until it's a done deal. At that point he'll say something disparaging about it.

He was surprised that I didn't want to take the shelves over to my unit when we finished, at 3:00 this afternoon. I told him that the storage place closes at six or six-thirty, and I don't want to rush this reorganization. About five minutes later he talked about loading the shelves into the truck. I said it'd be better to do that tomorrow, in case he wants to go out tonight. He looked at me blankly. I said, "I'm not going to do this until tomorrow, remember?" It was as if I'd just said it for the first time.

He understood being taken out to eat, though. We went to his favorite place, Coco's, and I'm sure he enjoyed his meal even more because it was my treat. More than the free food, he wanted praise, so I told him how wonderful the shelves were, how perfect they'd be for my purposes, etc. He wanted to know if I was going to take pictures of them to show my friends. How I kept from rolling my eyes, I don't know. I may take pics, but showing off will not be the motivation.

Oh, he did give me a tiny bit of credit for something today. He'd had me put the shelves on their sides, so he could further shore up the whole thing with more screws. When that was done, it needed to be righted. He'd helped with the first one, but with the second he let me lift it by myself. These things are made out of 2x6s, 2x3s and 2x4s. They're 3 feet wide and 6 feet tall and 18 inches deep. They're heavy. I looked at him and said, "Thanks so much for the help," in my most sarcastic tone. He laughed and said, "You did that all by yourself. I wanted to see if you could, and you did." Womenfolk who are strong will always be a source of amazement to John.

I'm thinking of telling him that I'm going to duct tape the masterpieces in the morning before he's up and ready to deliver them to my storage unit. That should keep him from sleeping in. He'll probably get up at dawn and shout at my door that it's time to go -- just to foil an idea that wasn't his. Unless, by the time I tell him my plan, he's convinced himself that duct tape was his idea and a fine one at that.

To be positive again, rather than ungrateful and complaining, I have two shelves and can now reorganize my stuff so I'll be able to get at it with ease. It took two days and a bit of "going to my happy place" in my mind, but it's done and I've learned a new skill in the process.

 

 

Smiling and Swallowing Sawdust

When I first brought all my worldly goods out to California, the stuff in my storage unit fit nicely. It was neat and organized and there was a path down the middle of the space so I could get to everything. I even knew where just about everything was, even though I'd had no time to label boxes when I had to move in a hurry (long story). But, stuff happens, ya know? I took cold weather (hahahahaha) clothes out and put warm weather clothes back, books out, books in, etc., and I wasn't always careful to repack perfectly.

Then my father wore me down and got me to go back to Florida to pack up as much of my mom's things as I could ("so they won't be stolen after I die"). The things that survived the awful, horrible, untrustworthy, did I say horrible? people at UPS had to go into the unit, too. The stacks went higher and there was no longer a pathway in the middle. After trying to get something I needed one day and being saved from death-by-avalanche-of-boxes by my guardian angel, I gave up retrieving anything that wasn't within a foot of the door. And the stacks of boxes are leaning precariously, and who knows what's happening to the stuff in the bottom boxes. It can't be good.

I thought that a few six foot long 2x12s would be the solution. Stack up some cinder blocks (less than a dollar a piece) between them and -- Bob's your uncle -- shelves! But Home Depot wanted about ten bucks a piece for the boards. It quickly turned into a $40. or so idea, and wouldn't be all that sturdy. Then a friend said he'd give me some boards, that it was no problem because he had scrap wood, blahblahblah. He lied. He didn't get them for me and now he never will.

So the whining began. I swear, it comes so easily to me that I don't even realize I'm doing it. That goes for pouting, too. I'd bang around the kitchen, making lunch or dinner, and grumble about something. John, my landlord, would ask what I was going on about. I'd say that I wasn't talking to him, but since he asked I couldn't get to such and such because my storage unit had become an unfriendly place, and I couldn't buy another such and such knowing there was one in my storage unit -- heavy sigh, lower lip protruding -- somewhere.

He asked if I'd looked at Craigslist to see if anyone was giving away shelves. I had. No one was. He announced yesterday, when the power in our neighborhood was off all day long, that we'd go to Home Depot and price the lumber necessary for him to build me two storage shelves. He'd do it for free, as long as I paid for the materials.

Most who know me know that my opinion of John changed dramatically after Gwen got sick and went into the hospital. And that he did something so despicable that Rick had to teach me self-defense techniques. (I am stuck here for the time being. No one reputable will rent an apartment or a room to someone with no job, so I can't simply move.) But, after weeks of barely speaking to him, except to mention that I'm armed, he's stopped that behavior. And I looked at this as an opportunity to see how "those" women live. The ones who live with men (men they only pretend to like or love, as they make them miserable, refusing to share affection, etc.) while using them as meal tickets. One really shouldn't judge until one knows what they're judging. The closest I'd get to knowing would be this sort of situation. So I went to Home Depot with John.

2x3s are ridiculously expensive. Seriously, the cheapest ones were about 2 dollars each. This time the total was going to be about $50., for a crappy set of shelves that would forever live in the dark of my storage unit. I gave up. But John said I should just keep checking Craigslist every day, because you never know.

I checked Craigslist this morning and the first thing listed under the Free category was, "Wood." The pic showed a big pile of lumber and plywood and gave a number to call. Praying that it wouldn't be located so far away that the price of gas would make it impossible, I called. It was in Oxnard! I went running into the living room and yelled (partly out of excitement, partly because John is hard of hearing), "Free wood in Oxnard!" John wanted to know where in Oxnard, as if somehow the next town over might still be too far to drive, depending. I told him it was 12 minutes away (made that up) and he approved so we left to check it out.

John doesn't like Oxnard. At all. The entire town. Because a lot of Hispanic people live there. That he ever seemed like a nice guy is part of the power of Gwennie. Somehow her love shined so brightly that it hid John's dark side. As we drove slowly down a side street, looking for the address, John announced that he felt like he was in Louisiana, and I knew that probably wasn't a good thing. But I didn't say, "They have less money in this neighborhood, John. It's not a crime or a disease." No, I kept my thoughts to myself because I was using this man to get the material thing I wanted and couldn't get for myself.  I felt slightly ill.

Joe, the wood owner, came out and we introduced ourselves. We walked through his backyard to where the lumber was stacked on the side. It'd been there a while, and some of it was in bad shape, but he wasn't selling it. John started disparaging the condition of the pieces and, feeling embarrassed, I said, "Let's remember the price here, John. Free." Joe smiled and nodded his head at me, obviously not all that bothered by anything John said. He told us we should go around to the other side and check the pieces there. We did, and they looked better to John. He went to move his truck and told me to start bringing pieces over to the front, and put them over the fence so he could load them into the pickup. Joe looked a little upset.

I grabbed a 2x6, all of which were from 8 to 10 feet long, and walked across the front yard and deposited it on the other side of the fence. Joe grabbed one, obviously helping me because John wasn't going to. John is 75 and he doesn't have the strength he once did. I wasn't surprised that he expected me to do the heavy lifting. But, boy, Joe sure was. Then I felt bad because Joe was giving us this wood for free, and now he felt obliged to help me move it, too. So I moved faster. Then I started to pick up a piece and it was two 2x6s nailed together. I didn't think that'd be a problem, and it was two in one trip, so I started back to the fence. Joe turned and saw me and said, "Whoa. You're buff!" Well, no, I'm not, but it was ever so nice to hear. I smiled sweetly. Poor Joe then felt obliged to carry two pieces at a time. All the while John just put one board into the truck at a time, and told me how many more we needed. Maybe you had to be there, but it was uncomfortable and funny at the same time.

I thanked Joe profusely, John ignored him, and we stopped at Home Depot again for a particular kind of screw or nail. I waited in the truck to guard the bounty. The pieces that had all been "not too good, but they'll do" were suddenly temptations for all the other men with pickup trucks who happened to be in the parking lot at the moment.

Back at the house, I unloaded the truck while John moved his power saw (it's on a table with wheels) from the garage to the patio. He had a long discussion with himself about how to build this thing. He'd convinced me that two, 6 foot by 3 foot shelves were the best idea. Now that he saw how much wood needed to be cut to size, one 6 foot by 6 foot shelf was suddenly the only way to go. I truly didn't care. Shelves. Get my stuff organized again, and not have one box crushing another. That's my goal. I waited for him to stop drawing on one of the boards, made comments like, "Um-hum," and "If I knew how to build this, I wouldn't need you to do it," and finally he announced how many of each size we needed. The final total was: a lot.

We had to cut 6 six foot long boards, 8 three foot long boards, two 78 inch boards, and 16 boards that were first cut to 16 inches, then in half to make them 2x3s. Anyone who's cut lumber needs no further explanation, but let me just say to the rest of those reading -- that's a lot of lifting, holding, bending to place in piles, and enough sawdust clean up a medium-sized oil spill. And John had me pick up each and every board. He measured, and he sawed. I'm not a fan of power tools, but I really would've preferred his job after a while. A 2x6 that's 10 feet long is not light.

Today was gorgeous, weather-wise. Sunny, in the mid-60s, with a nice breeze. My sunglasses kept slipping, so the glare blinded me as I held onto the lumber that John was sawing. My hands were sweating inside winter gloves (couldn't find my work gloves -- they're probably somewhere in the storage unit), and the freakin' wind kept blowing the sawdust into my face. I had my eyes closed a lot of the time -- while working around a 10" power radial saw -- but I breathed in way too much of the stuff. Why I didn't put on a mask is one of those mysteries of life, right up there with how I can think I'd know if someone is lying and then not recognize it until I'm hit over the head with the lie, and on my list to contemplate at some later date.

I lost count of how many times John asked me what we were cutting and how many we needed. I've known for some time that his memory is worrisome enough that he should go to a neurologist and be checked out. But it's not my place to suggest it. He had Gwen, and she didn't broach the subject with him. He has a wife, and either she doesn't see him enough to notice it or she doesn't want to say anything, either. I just answered him each time he asked, and suggested we finish the project tomorrow, after all the cutting was done. He was in favor of that, and said I could clean up. Could. As if doing me a favor. But, hey, I couldn't fit all that lumber in my Saturn and I don't know how to build this shelf. I'll know by the time we're done, but for now it's outside my skill set. I smiled and cleaned up.

The most annoying aspect of working with John was that I was doing most of the work and he was acting as if he was doing all the heavy lifting -- literally. He's practically preening over how he's building this thing for me, and how my life as I know it will be immeasurably improved because John deigned to help me with this problem. And I'm smiling and nodding and thanking him. Because I want the damn shelf.

This is a small thing. Unless something unforeseen happens, we should finish it tomorrow. I will buy him lunch (I've already given him $5. for gas), and refuse to let him pretend to help me with my stuff. He can deliver the shelf to my unit and go home, and I'll spend a couple hours moving things myself. It'll be over, though I imagine he'll want to bask in how wonderful he's been for some time. And that will bug me, but life is full of little annoyances that we have to deal with. I'd never do more than smile falsely or thank insincerely to get something, and after this experience I doubt I'll go this far again. It's dishonest. It's going on my permanent record, for sure. And I'd rather be too nice, too trusting, too generous, and ultimately too gullible, but be free of guile.

I can't imagine how women stay in marriages or relationships with men they are using for financial reasons. To stay with someone, most especially someone you loved and respected at some point but no longer do, because you want the nice house or the good school district for your son, must kill your soul. That's the lesson I learned, along with how to build a shelf.

 

Super Day

After arriving at the Oxnard house and greeting the usual suspects and some folks I don't get to see often enough, I mentioned my friend Claudine's directive to me. I was supposed to "have fun" and "blog about it later." We all agreed that having fun doesn't make much of a tale to tell (hence the need for conflict in our novels), and joked that something bad would have to happen to give me material.

Be careful what you wish for. Okay, no, I shouldn't sound so ominous. It wasn't that bad. She'll live, and not even be scarred.

The three kids who are normally at the house for football Sundays were joined yesterday by a couple more, the children of a guest who isn't usually there. I'm trying not to use names, to protect anyone who might not want to be mentioned in my public blog (not because they're hiding anything, but because I err on the side of over-protecting privacy). So, anyway, the kids were pumped up and running around with more gusto than care. Oh look, I'm already trying to blame the six year old. My bad.

I was standing with my back to the "circuit," which is the route through the kitchen, green room, entry way, living room, and dining room that the little ones run over and over, usually as they laugh or egg each on to "catch me, catch me," or something similar. In my defense there was no giggling, no taunting audible when it happened. I was standing near the dining room table, talking to  Kathy* and thinking, "Oh, how nice, someone brought broccoli," and I raised my left foot and moved it back. It's a habit of mine to stand with my weight on one leg and my other leg bent and my toes against the floor. It's hard to explain, both how it looks and why I do it. I simply always have, for as long as I can remember.

As I did this, at the exact moment that my foot went back just a little, Lexi* ran behind me. Yes, I tripped her. NOT ON PURPOSE. Can't stress that enough. She went down hard on the tile floor, banging her knee.  Kathy tried the usual "shake it off, you're okay" spiel, but my guilt and horror over what I'd done had me saying, "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry, are you alright?" with great concern in my voice. Naturally that made Lexi cry. To all you friends who always say I'd make a great mom -- maybe not. If I had looked at Kathy at that moment I'm sure she was rolling her eyes or showing contempt in some other way. The rule is to not coddle them or it makes it worse. So I tripped the child and failed to respond correctly. And I kept it up, too. Just kept apologizing and asking how she was -- I couldn't stop myself.

Kathy asked Lexi if she wanted to put ice on her knee and she said yes.   Kathy shot me a look that I'm pretty sure was meant to communicate, "Now look what you've done, she's going to milk this forever!" I would've bought Lexi a Carvel cake to hold on her knee if she asked for it, so the look didn't make me shut up. Poor Kathy had a sniveling child and a stupid friend to deal with, and she handled it in an unexpected way, I must say.

As she held the bag of ice to Lexi's knee she said, "Do you want me to beat Mary up?" That got both Lexi and me to sit up and take notice. "Do you think she tripped you on purpose? Is it that bad? Should I take her outside and beat her up good? Tell me now, and I'll do it," Kathy continued, as I said, "Nooooo, I don't like that idea at all. Lexi, it was an accident!"  Kathy was keeping a completely straight face (that's how I like to think about it, not that she could have been serious) and asked Lexi again, "Are you better now or should I hurt Mary?" Bless her little heart, Lexi said, "NO! I'm okay, it's better now, don't do that."

WHEW.

I'm sure Lexi felt even more loved, while I was a little leery of my good bud, Kathy. Was throwing me under the bus really the only way to handle the situation? When I hurt myself as a kid my mom would joke, "I can promise it'll be better before you're married." Boy, she had noooooo idea how far off that truly was.

The kids continued playing, Lexi seeming none the worse for having taken a tumble and being required to determine my fate, and the day continued in a happy, boring-to-blog-about way.

Then the stupid Lost Boys (AKA the NY Giants, who have played in New Jersey for a couple of decades but refuse to change their name) came back and won the Superbowl, which annoyed me so much I can't even put a humorous spin on it.

We watched Shrek Forever After (supposedly for the kids, but we all laughed, too), then after a long, enjoyable day spent with friends, I drove home under a nearly full moon. It really did feel like too much fun to blog about without putting anyone who's reading to sleep. 

*Ironically, since I originally posted that I was not naming names and wanted to err on the side of protecting privacy, I've had to go back and edit this old post and change more names.  Seems "Kathy" considers being named in my blog as no different from sharing a photograph without permission.