Mutant Flies!

Ok, something is wrong around here. Very, very wrong. And I'm beginning to think that I'm being scammed.

Here's the story: I've been leaving my doors (screens) open the last few weeks and let's just say that there are a few flies in my house. Actually, more than a few and some of them are big. And they're in just about every room in the house.

But that shouldn't be a problem, right? You go to the store, you buy fly paper, you stick it up on your ceiling and the flies are history. Yeah, well, you'd think that would work, but I'm here to tell you that it doesn't.

I've had two fly papers hanging for a week. So far, they've only caught one Mayfly. If you're not from the Pacific Northwest, you may not know what a Mayfly is, but it's this big honking thing with long, long legs. Anyway, it's stuck on the fly paper, but not one stinking fly body has yet appeared.

You have to wonder. Have flies mutated over the winter? Have they become smarter? Do they know that fly paper kills? And if so, how did they find out? Why are they flying in every corner of the room but the two where the fly paper is hanging? And if fly paper worked for years and years, why doesn't it work this year? Is mine old? Past its expiration point? Does fly paper have an expiration date? Do I care? No, I don't care. I just want to catch the flies.

So, now I'm going to have to resort to a fly swatter. This is OLD technology, folks. It requires work. I hate work and if you don't believe me, read down where I go on about it, almost endlessly.

I thought of training my dog to catch the little buggers. My cat isn't much help. Heck, my cat only catches my daughter's escaped mice. When we had mice, or a small infestation of them, did he catch those? NO, he did not! Only our own personal stash of mice did he mutilate.

I could put the hubby on it. Make him chase flies. I could open all the doors and windows and blow them out with huge fans. I could move. I could spray them with insect killer.

So many options. So little time.

IDIOT OF THE WEEK!

And the award goes to Dun and Bradstreet for their efforts and making business better for everyone, everywhere.

Ok, here's how this story goes. In 1999 when I first started "selling" little pieces of my writing, I got a business license for tax purposes. I named it Dancing Word Productions, you know, a catchy little title that made me stand out. I had business cards made and handed them out at conferences or to whomever.

So, a couple of years ago, I get a call from D&B wanting more information on my "business". I told them that I wasn't in business, that I was a freelance writer and there was nothing they needed to know about me. And I hung up.

Well, today I was googling myself just to make sure my website is up there and what do I find but a company called Manta and also D&B, and they are selling reports on my "business". For $9.95 you can get basic information on me, for $139 you can get a crap load of information on me. (Not that there is any.) But wait, it gets better. I'm not a freelance author. I'm a dance studio and fine arts organization. So they say.

So, I call D&B. The Manta business has NO phone number listed (gee, how convenient). I get a D&B rep on the phone, tell him my story, ask him to remove my listing. Oh, no, they won't remove my listing. I'm a business. In fact, they are legally able to sell my listing and they are sending me the documents that prove that they can! But, they will change the listing so it shows "author" rather than dance studio.

OK, D&B, what is your problem? I don't do business with anyone. When I sell a book, I'm a private contractor. I got the freaking license for tax purposes ONLY, not to do business, not to be listed on your site, not to have my address and phone number sold to some dance catalog business. What is your problem?

So, the moral of the story is this: I have no clue! Life sucks? D&B sucks? I'm not sure.

The World Hotdog Eating Championship

Yep, you saw it first on ESPN. Remember, the E in ESPN stands for ENTERTAINMENT and this was certainly entertaining.

It was Joey Chestnut with 52 and the Japanese guy with 53. Each had their own style. Joey kind of stuffed the hotdogs in, or twisted them into his mouth like a corkscrew and the other guy, he chomped down in big bites.

These are some athletes! Apparently they train for the competition.

Ok, how do you train for a hotdog eating contest? You have trial runs? You practice at home? WHAT?

I felt bad for Joey. He constantly looked like he might puke. The other guy, though, he had focus. He could eat and eat and nary a vein popped out on his head. He showed tremendous focus.

I wonder if they have a puke bucket behind them.

Well, here's how it might have gone if I'd been reporting:

"Ok, we're in Coney Island today for the Nathan's Hotdog sponsored World Hotdog Eating Championship. Remember, Nathan's put the "N" in hotdogs. It's a beautiful day in Coney Island. The sun is out, there's a bit of a haze, and you can hear the ocean behind us. Or is it the sound? Oh, who cares?"

"It's the American, Joey Chestnut, against that Japanese guy with the yellow hair and the headband, whatever his name is. The Japanese guy beat Joey at the National Hamburger Eating Championship, so there's a lot at stake here, folks. You can see the sweat pouring down their faces."

"The crowd stands in anticipation as about twenty people stand behind the table, each with a judge in front of them, ready for today's nitrate gobbling fest. Yes, you saw it here first, and only, on ESPN, the channel for professional sports."

"And they're off!"

Yes, it was an exciting twelve minutes. True TV. It had suspense, competition, young people, a woman, a guy with a towel on his head, and one with face paint. Never have I been so thrilled to watch athletes compete at such a high level.

Well, that's what I've been doing today. Watching professional, trained athletes gorge themselves on hotdogs. What fun!

Why I Like Rodents and Here Comes Dad!

Ok, I admit it. I have this thing about rodents. I really, really like rats and mice and gerbils and hamsters and, and, and...and whatever other rodents there are that you can put in a cage. I know this is sick, but it's how I am. (And, yes, I will get to the part of this story that goes with the picture of the plane, but hold on!)

I confess that it started when my youngest, then about five, wanted to get a rat. She convinced me that they are social creatures with a heart of gold (come on!) and that she had to have one. Like any self-respecting mother, I said yes. You can have one, but you have to take care of it.

But everybody knows about Norman, the rat. (I've talked about him in other posts, so you'll have to go read that if you want the gory details.) He's the rat who is buried under the big log with the cross (made of pencils) jammed in the top in my backyard. He received the highest level burial in this family, better even than my own father who insisted that we spread his ashes over his favorite tavern.

Now that's a story. Ok, so my brother, my niece, my sister, and the pilot go up in this little two seater plane, nearly taking out a few trees on their way up, and my other sister and I wait on the shore of the bay, next to my father's favorite tavern, for the arrival of the ceremonial tossing of the ashes. Finally the plane comes along, they open the window, and then dump the ashes out of the plane. I pull up my hood and yell to my sister, "Take cover! Here comes Dad," (you'd have to understand the relationships here to get this) as the ashes land on MY head. Yes, MY head. And my sister's head. Totally missed the tavern. Hardly got any in the bay. Most of them landed on ME and in the parking lot of the restaurant next to the tavern.

I stand there with this gray stuff all over me. "Thanks, Dad," I say. "That was really nice."

Thank God there weren't a lot of ashes or I'd have been the one who was buried that day.

Which is why I say that my rat got a better burial than my dad. But it's how he would have wanted it. No muss, no fuss. He was a basic guy, with a house as austere as just about any vacant house on the block. But that's another story.

Which reminds me. When we got his ashes, they arrived in a cardboard box with a plastic liner. My sister, Charlene, really wanted some of those ashes. She wanted to put them in a glass box and keep them on her mantle. Why? I don't know. She wanted to be close to him?

But the problem was that he was in this box. I could see that it was killing her, so I went to the kitchen, got a big honking spoon and a baggie, and went back to the dining room table. I opened the box of ashes and started shoveling some into the baggie. My brother opens the door and says, "What are you..." and then he just leaves.

And my sister sits there with tears in her eyes as I shovel her some really gray, gritty ashes with a tooth or two mixed in, because she now has a part of my father and he is going to live on her mantle.

I, on the other hand, do not have a bone of sentimentality in me, except when it comes to my own kids, so I didn't need any of the ashes. I did appreciate, however, the idea of dumping them on your favorite tavern. If only they'd hit the mark.

Which is why I love rodents so much. You put them in a cage. No muss, no fuss. When they die, you toss them in the garbage, unless, of course, the rat is someone as good as Norman, in which case, he gets a burial in our family plot out back.

Rating by Depends

If a book was really funny, would you give it 5 Depends?

Here we are, wasting away again in Bunionville

When I become rich and famous as a writer, I know that people will ask me how I managed to survive while I wrote my bestseller. It wasn't easy, people! I almost starved on several occasions. The first time was when my husband refused to let me scrape the bottom of the ice cream carton. I had to hit him over the head with the ice cream scoop before I got a bite. Then there was also this time when my kids caught me stealing food off their plates and they stuck a fork in my hand. They have a lot of nerve. For God's sake, I was a starving artist. (OK, Blogspot is at it again. Now it won't let me make paragraphs. Sheesh. Bear with me, ok?) OK, so I was a starving artist. And as I starved, I took part time jobs to feed the children, lest they starve, also. Any self respecting mother would NOT let her children waste away, and I was among them. And then there's the cat who bites me if I don't feed him and after a few chomps on the leg, I wasn't going there. So, here's how I made the bucks on my way to stardom. First there was the job selling used trailers in trailer parks. That was a good one. It gave me tons of material for the novel CRACKING NORMAL that I just finished and it was while on that job that I was told the story that became the basis for bad girls club. Lots of material in those trailers. When that got old (business went dead), I moved on to working with my husband in his manufactured housing business. That had its cool moments. I got to install a new phone system. I brought the internet to every desk through a very complicated mess of telephone wire and cable which no one but me could decipher. No lack of forethought there. I knew if I ever left (which I did) that no one would be able to figure it all out. Ha! Well, that grew old. Actually, it just got really rotten, so I left. And I went back to being a staring artist until I really started to starve and had to find another job. That's when I took the job at Bunionville, the shoe store (name disguised to protect the innocent) where I learned everything there is to know about feet and then some. Feet are an interesting thing. They come in all shapes, sizes, and smells. I actually met a man one day whose feet were purple and black (dying, folks) and he was in complete denial. There was the lady who let a doctor perform 15 surgeries on her feet (and ruin them) without a blink of the eye. I saw lots of botched surgeries (names withheld to protect the innocent). The list goes on. Bunions. God, lots and lots of bunions. Big bunions, little bunions, surgeryized bunions, bunions that became mangled feet, bunions that no one could fix. Old ladies with bunions. You get it, bunions! Eighteen long months of bunions, calluses, fallen arches, bunionettes, plantar fasciitis, tendonitis, infections, amputated foot parts, amputated feet (or foot because they wouldn't be in a shoe store if they didn't have ONE foot), and then, of course, normal feet. Unfortunately, this job did not provide material for a book. There were a few characters there, useful for another book, but really, no plots jumped into my head and said, "BOO!" What the heck kind of job is that? Really... And it does make me wonder. Do I have to go back to selling trailers to continue as a writer? I'm just not sure.

Cheese Whiz as an anti-aging elixir

While driving back to Seattle the other day, I saw Mt. Rainier to the southwest as I drove toward Ellensburg. Now, I see this mountain all the time, but I've never seen it from there. It was an awesome sight as you'll notice that the Cascade Mountains in the foreground are very small compared to Rainier. We're talking BIG mountain here.

And on another note: What ever happened to Rainier Beer? Does anyone remember the beer cans running through the forest? They were second only to Ivar's clams running around the beach. Ok, so it was people in a beer or a clam suit, but they were my favorite commercials.

Oh, on another note, I decided while in a Mexican fast food restaurant that if I put their cheeze whiz on my face that I would be so well preserved that I might not age for another ten years. My husband had to leave the restaurant when I told him that because it struck him as very funny.

But picture it. Me with Cheese Whiz on my face. Not something you can wear to bed. Can't go out in public with it. But, if the preservatives in it can keep Cheese Whiz "edible" for ten years, why not my face. Apply liberally. Don't leave the house. I'll post a picture when I have completed that task.

I'm back!

I'm sure I was sorely missed. But if you didn't miss me, I forgive you.

I was gone for four days visiting my oldest daughter in Spokane. She goes to college near there and we went to celebrate her 20th birthday. What a great four days.

First, I love driving across Washington State. When I get over the mountains and hit the east side of the state, something inside me just mellows out. And the tunes are good over there, so I turn on the radio and just drive. The scenery is beautiful. Every fifty miles or so you hit new terrain, so it stays interesting. My list of words this week are: Columbia River, plateau, high desert, sage brush, marmosets, yellow corn, gorge, mountains, valleys, agriculture.

Spokane is an interesting city. It was SO hot that I didn't do a lot of exploring, but I stayed right at the Riverfront Park and I did explore the park. My kids loved the marmosets. I liked the river. The fireworks were spectacular. We were only a block or so away, but could see them from our hotel window.

It was also good to get back home. I had a novel to proofread one more time! Ugh. I'm working on marketing/promo stuff for bad girls club, and I had to send some stuff out to agents. I do love this book I'm working on now. Lots and lots of fun. There's an excerpt up on my website. I've changed the title and haven't quite figured out how, on the Authors Guild template, to change that, but I'll figure it out sooner or later.

So, it's an easy going day and things are good.

A Poem

YOU

I give you things
I never got.
Seeing myself
in your eyes.

You are not me
Or me, you.
You have your own destiny
But
I am filling your life
With the things
I missed.

And you are
One of those things.

Give Me A High Five!

I did it. I finished my novel. Now all I have to do is go through it one last time for a typo check and other small tweakings. I'm psyched. I started this book about 4-5 years ago. It was so different from what I normally write that it's taken me a long time to get it just right. Now to sell it. Any takers?

'THE SUMMER OF DIRT

If 1969 was the Summer of Love, then 2006 is the Summer of Dirt.

Let me share the differences and comparisons:

1. The Summer of Love had mud. I just have dirt. But with a little water, I could make mud.

2. Lots of people attended the Summer of Love and they did a lot of grooving. There is no one helping me, so I'm not grooving .

3. There were real good live tunes in 1969. All I have is an old boom box.

4. People at the Summer of Love were very dirty. Well, so am I, but unlike them, I can take a shower. (This is a real plus.)

5. People saw lots of weird stuff at Woodstock. Stuff that didn't exist. Well, I'm seeing weird stuff, but unfortunately, it exists.

6. I didn't get to participate at the Summer of Love. But I am participating in the Summer of Dirt.

7. You had to pay to get into the Summer of Love. Yeah, I'm paying. My neck hurts, my back hurts, and my feet hurt. Unfortunately, I don't feel that I'm getting my money's worth.


Other than that, there really are no similarities. It's hot. It's dirty. And it will end.

But, in all truthfulness, this is what I have accomplished (with help from one friend) in 9 days:

My backyard is pruned, heavily.
Front yard is almost done.
Garage is cleaned
All closets in house are cleaned.
Windows are done, in and out.
Floors are clean.
Bathrooms are done.
Laundry room is cleaned.
All laundry is clean.
All drycleaning is at the dry cleaners.
Family room is spotless.
Kitchen is spotless.
All doors, molding, and door frames are clean.


And, I worked on my novel some.

This is all good.

On Being An Author

Well, it's great to be an author. Greater yet are the misconceptions the public has about its authors. But fear not. I am here to dispell them today.

1. All authors are famous.

Hahahahaha! I wish. Most authors are unknown and obscure. You have to search through four hundred gazillion books at B&N just to find their book, if it's even there. Oh, can't find it? Well, it can always be ordered if you want to wait 10 days, in which time you'll probably have moved on to some other book.

But I desire to be famous. Does that count? I'd love to get a call from someone that my book has been reviewed in the NY Times. Is that enough? Probably not. But the simple fact that it would be ok with me if I became famous may be enough to project me right into famousness.

2. All authors make a lot of money.

Hahahahahaha! I wish. Most authors make less than $10,000 a year at writing. We wish we were rich. We really could use the money. I'd like to pay off my van before I die, so a little money would be good.

Ok, I admit it. I like money. I'd like to not only pay off my van, but also my house. A huge wardrobe of boutique clothes would be nice. I could do that with about $5000 in hand. Or maybe I could buy a Mercedes. Yeah, that would be nice. And a bigger house. Maybe a yacht. I like yachts. And, I love to travel.

3. All authors are bestsellers.

Hahahahahaha! I wish. If they publish 50,000 books a year, maybe 100 make the bestseller list. Maybe a few more, I don't know. But I do know that the 50,000 don't make it.

But I dream about being on the bestseller list. I don't care which one because I'm not a picky author. Really, I'm not. You can put me on any list and I'll be happy. Even the list from my hometown paper with a readership of 1,000. That's fine. I'll take what I can get.

Now here are some things about authors you may not know:

1. Authors are brilliant people.

This is very true. We are the best and the brightest. We also have a great sense of humor and God know, the world needs it. It also needs our great intellect and most of all, it needs our ability to sort out what life is really about. We're good at that.

While we're on the topic of brilliance, I once mentioned to my husband that I want this written on my gravestone: "She was brilliant and fascinating." He laughed at me. Can you imagine? Here I was expressing one of the greater desires of my heart and the guy falls down into a weeping mound of humor. The nerve!

2. Authors are special people.

Yes, that's true, too. We are special. My mother told me when I was very little that I was special and I've gotten a lot of mileage out of that. Come on, folks, it ain't easy to write a book. You have to be pretty special to do that. Besides, we value specialness in this culture. The more special you are, the better. No one wants to be ordinary. And we're not.

Besides, my dog thinks I'm special. He likes to sit on my feet and look up at me with adoring eyes. If the rest of the world would just get onboard!

3. Authors have very big egos.

Nah, that's not true. Skip that one.

4. Authors are gods.

Yeah, a lot of people think that. Isn't it great? There are so many myths about writing, publishing, and authorship that authors reach near godlikeness in the minds of many people. Keep it up folks. This works for me.

Besides, you really do need godlike qualities to finish a novel. It isn't easy work, people. All that world building, character building, narrative tension. You think this comes out of the mortal mind? NO, it does not. This comes out of the minds of gods. If it was so easy to write a book, everyone would be doing it.

Oh, wait. Everyone is. I take that back.

Well, that's it for my brilliance today. I have to get back to cleaning my garage.

A Joke A Day

I promised one of my former co-workers that I'd post a joke a day, just for him. Well, I have failed. I'm on day six and I haven't said anything funny in all that time. It's a tragedy, I know, but he'll have to live with it. After all, do I owe him a joke a day just because I promised it? Nah, I wouldn't go that far. Do I desire to say something funny? Sure I do. But it's so danged hot that I can't get the humor engine going. (Blogspot won't let me make paragraphs again today. What is wrong with this danged program?) But anyway, if I was going to be funny, what might I talk about? Let us ponder this a moment. Here are some ideas: What is this picture about on the left? Is it about being different? Having a nice chest? Sweating a lot? You know, I don't know where I got this picture but it was in my "My Pictures" folder and it was the best I could come up with on short notice. I don't have a hidden file of clever pictures for moments like this. I wish I did because if I did, I'd post one and then my former co-worker and his cronies could chuckle while they slave away and I'm not there. Hahahahah!

Ok, so I promise to think of something funny. I'm just so involved in cleaning right now that I can't be funny. Cleaning is a very serious business. Filth is nothing to laugh at. That's right, Kit, it's nothing to laugh at.

But, if in the meantime you need a chuckle, read down to the post where I was trying to sell my husband. That is worth revisiting. Or send me some kind of prompt, something that will get the juices going. Or wait.

Why I Hate Work

Because it's work!

Meet my garage. Nice, huh? And this is after a whole van load of crap went to the dump. This is an improvement. Actually, it's a major improvement. You can now get past the exercise equipment and get to the door. That's good, because now you can get in the house which is needful sometimes.

Ok, back to work. I hate work. Actually, I have this love/hate relationship with work. I hate being bored, but I hate work. If I could find that nice medium where I wasn't bored but I wasn't working, I think I'd be in Nirvana. Does such a place exist? Nah. Not on your life.

Well, it's time for the ceremonial cleaning of the garage. That time in the decade when you open the door and part of the crap falls from the garage into your house and you just know that you have put off work for a little bit too long. And now, instead of a nice little job, you have a big old hummer on your hands. Whoopie!

So, off I go. Separating out the crap from the good stuff. The record player for 1981 must go. The three dead computers are staying along with the monitors and keyboards. Just can't let them go. All the clothes my kids saved from elementary school are out of here, but the toys stay. They could be worth money someday.

The bikes? I just don't know yet. The tires we bought and never put on the car...well, they are probably rotten by now, so they're going. What about all that crap on the shelves? Going. That's where I'll put the computers.

What I dread the most is cleaning out the kids' stuff. They have this habit of bagging stuff up and throwing it in the corner near the bikes. Bags and bags of stuff that probably will cause them heart failure if I throw it out, but, oh, well. Such is life.

Is there anything funny about cleaning a garage? No, there is not. I cannot come up with one funny remark about cleaning out this mess. I'm happy, though, that I'll be able to get to and open my freezer again. I haven't done that in two years and I know there's food in there somewhere. I'm happy I found the chainsaw. I have a few things I'd like to hack up, but that means more yard work, so maybe not. I'm also happy to see the three dead vacuums I bought at yard sales. No more of that! And all the beach floaties. I need them for my vacation.

No, folks, this is not fun. It's 90 degrees out and I'm sorting crap in my garage. Nothing pretty about that.

Meet My Filthy Closet

Life imitates art. Or does art imitate life? It's hard to say. In this case, I would say that my filthy closet is a symbol of life imitating art because this closet represents the last ten years of my life. We moved in ten years ago from tomorrow, an auspicious day to say the least.

We were making life changes. Downsizing when downsizing was a nice way of saying that we just couldn't afford to live the way we were. We came out of a big new house and moved into a smaller older house that needed major remodeling which we did over the course of about 9 years.

And all the while, I kept throwing things in my closet. Things I had no space for. Things I didn't know what to do with. Things that no one wanted. Pocketbooks. A steam cleaner. Christmas ornaments that were never to be found again. An expensive raincoat I bought in a thrift store when I had no money. I never wore it, but there it sits.

It is also packed with Christmas wrapping paper I forgot about the day I put it there. Old gloves that were never to be found again. Boxes. Comforters. Stuff.

And over the years, I kept piling stuff in, as if getting them out of sight would get them out of mind. And it did. And then one day I couldn't shut the door. Not another coat could fit in the danged closet and it was time to clean it out.

As I pulled each thing out, I realized that they represented a time in my life when I was too preoccupied with my own demons to do much about anything else around here. My sister was sick and dying. I was in a bad car accident and didn't walk so well for a few years. The trauma of my own childhood came flooding in on me one day and grabbed me by the throat until I'd listen and let it out. And I kept packing those things in the closet.

But as I pulled them all out yesterday, I realized that the demons are gone and it's a good reason to clean things up and start new.

That is what I'm doing this summer. I'm starting anew.

What I'm Doing On My Summer Vacation

Well, I quit my job and I am home for the summer with my trusty dog and other assorted animals including Napoleon the frog and Lloyd Christmas my gerbil (see picture below). Also have an offspring here with me. She hasn't offered to help me clean the place up because I think she has an allergy to cleaning or some kind of evil aversion to cleaning solutions.

Anyway, when you think of me, picture me sitting under that tiny little umbrella on my patio. The green and white one that you can hardly see. I spend a lot of time there. Yesterday I started reading UNLESS, a book I ordered in 2003 because I was hot to read it. Obviously, not THAT hot, but I got to it in less than three full years, so I'm doing good.

I really like this book. I'd call it reflective fiction. I like that style. It's about a woman whose daughter of 19 has taken up sitting on a street corner in Toronto holding a sign that says "GOODNESS". She lives in a shelter, won't come home, won't talk to her parents and I don't know why yet. But the poor mother is reflecting upon her life, and also, of course, the loss of her eldest daughter.

My eldest is nineteen. I can't imagine losing her to a street corner. Or anything else, for that matter.

But what I really like about this book is the whole reflective thing. Not lots of action going on here. The main character is just thinking her way through her days, probably the way I would if my daughter had taken off for a street corner. I think this is the kind of novel I'd like to write next, when I finish the one I haven't touched in 7 months. I may get to it this summer after I'm doing cleaning the house and pruning the yard. That's about 2 more weeks of work and then I can get back to my writing.

I've had a love/hate relationship with writing. I love to write. I hate to have to produce. I hate that I don't write the kind of stuff that sells like M&M's and soda pop on a hot day. You know, flavor of the month stuff. Lots of that out there. But I love it that I write about deep issues that mean something to me. To each his own, I guess.

Anyway, I'm living in my big shirt and my capris. I look like hell. My hands are dirty. The house is looking better. How did I ever let it get this bad? I think it was the 7 years of writing 12 hours a day most days, 7 days a week. I forgot that I had a life. I got that life back last year and now I am catching up.

So think of me.

It's a dog's life...

Meet Moose. Friendly companion, loyal buddy.

The Ceremonial Bringing Out of the Blower

Lloyd Christmas Watches as I Play With My Blower













(No hamsters were hurt, injured, or tested upon in mean and evil ways during in the making of this blog!)

Nothing signifies nor celebrates the arrival of summer more than the bringing out of the Toro Leaf, Dirt, Rock, and Dead Rose Heads Blower. It is a proud moment, one which I experience early every warm season with great pride and hilarity. Usually the blower is hidden somewhere in the hinterland of my garage, behind some garbage bags filled with old clothes or perhaps behind some dead computer. It can even be found behind my freezer which now acts like a shelf for the carpet that never made it into bedroom number three, the Christmas ornaments, and the chainsaw. But this year was different. In a stroke of genius, I decided last fall during the Ceremonial Taking Back of the Blower to leave it on the patio to see if it could survive the torrents of a Seattle winter. And alas, it did. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My blower has been sitting on the patio all winter and every time I looked out upon it, I would wonder with great concern if it had the strength to make it through the Rain Festival called Winter without rusting or blowing a gasket. And like I said, it did. I will insert a picture here __________ when I find my digital camera which is also hiding somewhere beneath something. It is a little dirty (the blower that is). The front blower thingie did fall off when I began my blow, but it snapped back on real nicely. And away I went. (Since blogspot won't let me add paragraphs today for some dumb reason, you're going to have to read all of this in block form. Sorry.) Anyway, I began my seasonal blowing to rid my patio or every dead maple leaf and every piece of dirt that has fallen or blown in since September. It was exhilarating, really. That was amplified only by the fact that today is my last day of work for a while and although I am not allowed to wear shoes without socks, I'm living dangerously today and going for sockless sandals. It's amazing how empowering a blower can be, but now that my patio is clean and my life is on track, I'm feeling very exhilarated. Next I'm going to clean out the hall closet. Stay tuned.

Let it Snow!

It look like I'm going to have to keep my husband. The bids were pitiful. I got one for $150 from a single woman in Texas. She sounded desperate and I'm not letting him go to some panting babe in the south. Then I got another bid for some seventy dollars and change, but that one wanted to know if he came with a car, a bed, and a salary. I nearly choked. What do you want him for? His money? The third bid was equally pitiful. Thirty-five cents. This from a woman in the northeast who probably needs a remodel but has no money. I am rejecting all bids and going back to zero.

I expected better. But first let me clear up some misunderstandings about this wonderful man.

First, he is NOT a contractor. He did not do any of this work himself. He's construction illiterate and he only uses licensed contractors to do all this work on our houses. Think of him as a general contractor who hires subs.

Why you ask? That's because he's more likely to break something than fix it. We learned that when he tried to fix the oven element and ended up burning out the thermostat. Must I go on?

Second, I don't HAVE to get rid of him. He's been a great husband and father. I was just trying to teach him a lesson. The remodels have to stop. But as I write, he has come up with yet another remodel idea.

"Let's do our bedroom next. We'll paint it and put molding around the window. White molding."

"More white molding?" I ask.

"Yeah, it's great stuff. Comes pre-painted. All you have to do is hammer it on and fill the nail holes."

"What if I don't want white?"

"You don't want white?" (Horror fills his face.) "What is WRONG with you?"

"It's the cleaning," I say. "If you put in white, I have to clean more than twice a year. You know how I hate to clean."

I do hate to clean. It's against my religion. First off, it's such a regular thing. I mean you do it one week and then you have to repeat it the next. After twenty years of cleaning my house, I've had it.

That's why I got a full time job. Who could expect me to clean if I work? Or cook? That's the best part about working. Now the after work conversation goes like this:

"What's for dinner, honey?"

"Good question. What you going to cook, Babe?"

Me? Cook? I worked all day. I had customer problems. I commuted in horrible traffic. It's not the man's job to cook. It's our job to bring home the bacon."

"Ok, call Dominos. They deliver."

This was part of the reason I wanted to get rid of him. He expects me to cook and clean. The next thing, he'll expect me to do his laundry. What kind of marriage is this?

And so, the battle for survival goes on. I may rethink the auctioning of my husband. Maybe I'll lower the price. Or maybe if he insists on putting in that white molding, I'll just give him away.

WHO'D A GUESSED?

Would someone please tell me why it is so danged hard to get rid of my husband (see next blog post). I would think that with all his good qualities (see next blog post) that someone would have snapped him up like a piece of good real estate. Or a really fine pre-owned convertible. In yellow maybe. But, no, it's not to be. Here are the reasons I've been given for a lack of bids: 1. I have my own. 2. Mine is handier than yours. 3. He sounds smelly. 4. He is smelly. 5. Your children will miss him. 6. I can't take contractors in my house. 7. I don't want to break your heart by taking the best thing you ever had. (I'm sure that comment was from my husband.) But the bidding continues.