diary of a mad handyma'am

Yippee! I feel better! No more laryngitis. No more burning throat. No more fever. I spent friday unusually pasted to the couch. I don't think I even bothered to check my e-mail... so, that is proof enough. Generally speaking, I do not succomb well to being the least bit sick. Rarely do I allow myself the downtime to rest. I keep pushing myself. For the most part, being sick pisses me off. It doesn't fit into my schedule...

Today we helped Mom and Dave move some belongings over to the new house. Mom doesn't feel comfortable asking for help - not even from her able-bodied kids! In situations like this, you simply tell her you're coming over. You don't ask. She's fiercely independent, and, the siblings appear to have the same affliction. None of us like to ask anyone for help... it seems we'd rather burden ourselves and do everything the hard way. I don't get it... but, I got it. I got it bad.

We saw the new house for the first time and, it's lovely. Very spacious. Mom was out in the backyard of the house nearly freaking out because she has a redbud tree. Suddenly, I hear this voice about 3 octaves higher than normal, hollering "Dave, Dave, DAVE!" "Look I have my tree!" Right as I step outside, I see her dragging him by the hand over to the tree with an enormous smile on her face. I couldn't help but smile when I saw them looking at the tree...

She is happier than I've seen her in a long, long time. It's written on her face, and it's in her voice. She's alive again...

Life has changed so much for Mom since Dad died. She lived with us for several months after Dad's suicide in February of 1997. I remember hearing her sobbing uncontrollably after she awoke the first morning. I stayed awake that entire night. My body felt like it was literally purring with numbness. Hearing her crying downstairs that morning was anguish personified. She was calling out his name and there was nothing I could do to ease her sorrow.

She's surely come a long way, baby. She's golfing with Dave now, too. Something I would have never in a million years guessed she'd even try. The word from Dave is that she's pretty darn good. Maybe we'll follow them while they golf sometime this summer so I can seen her in action. She demonstrated her swing in my living room last fall with one of several walking sticks I own, and she came very close to hitting me in the cranium... but, she swung that baby like a pro.

HAIR NEWS: Laura is letting her hair grow out again. For awhile, she sported a Dorothy Hamill type do. When I met her, her hair was long, down to the middle of her back. It took me quite awhile to get used to it short, it was startling at first glance. Not that it looked especially bad, because it didn't. She just looked sort of bald at first. To me anyway... but still, don't you dare laugh at a woman's hair. Especially after any drastic change.

Today, she's home free with her hair. She's well past the annoying "wing" stage, the subsequent Dutch-boy phase, and has now reclaimed the shoulder length interval. Now, she can put it in a ponytail again without looking like a kewpie doll.

My hair looks like it belongs to the inhabitants of a small block party. I've got lots of it. If I used a blow dryer I could transform into a longer haired version of Roseanne Roseannadana without too much trouble. It's getting scary... I'm becoming a hairdresser's nightmare.

CHICKEN UPDATE: Pin feathers are popping out all over the chicks. So, they look like they are going through "do transition," too. My 4 year old nephew said, "the shhickens are really neat - I like ‘em." We like ‘em, too.

When you pick up Chicken Noodle, you feel an odd buzzing sensation in your hand - her entire body resonates. Brewster the Rooster doesn't share the attribute. Is it normal? I dunno... you tell me. I never had shhickens before... but, Chicken Noodle makes me wonder if they can have Parkinson's disease like my Grandpa did. Even though, it's unknown whether or not Grandpa felt like he was whirring internally when you held him. He was much too big of a man to hold...

Yesterday, it was back to the office after 10 days off. As you know, there's nothing worse than trying to get back into the usual grind after a vacation. And, to make matters worse, I received 2 bad-news phone calls.

The first one came at noon. I had just returned from getting a 20 minute oil change at a 10 minute while-you-wait lube center. It was Laura. She had taken our big, sad-eyed, black lab to the vet. He's had a chronic ear infection and nothing we've gotten from the vet seems to keep it away. He's been distressed and crying over it. Something has to be done.

The plan the vet had was to knock him out with anesthesia and deep clean the ear. They ran a routine blood test on him and discovered that he has heartworms, so they can't give him anesthesia. It's transmitted via mosquitos and the reality of it is very gross indeed.

Shit. He's such a nice, gentle animal - his name should be Mr. Mellow, but it isn't. His name is "Crash," a name I gave him after hearing him hit the oak floor to lay down. Just like a big sack of potatoes, he puts his paws off to one side, and abnormally - falls over to lay down. He always lays in a weird dog hurdler position, with that right rear leg of his pointed straight back. I inherited him from people who used to run a (now defunct) little corner store in the neighborhood. He outgrew his puppiness and they outgrew him. I've had him for about 8 years. He lives in a 2 room "doggie condo," complete with a skylight. The lucky dog is never chained or tied up. And, he runs to the neighbors to greets them with the same enthusiasm he greets me with.

He adores children. Especially the neighbor's grandchildren because they are easy to steal food from, particularly - candy. He likes adults when they are outside in the summer, sitting around the campfire at night, talking, drinking beer and using the outhouse. It's easy to knock their beer over and lap it up when they aren't looking...

It's gonna cost big bucks to treat him for heartworms - with no guarantee he'll survive the arsenic compound treatment. I blame myself for this because last year he wasn't on a preventative - something I decided wasn't necessary (because the incidence was very low in my area according to the vet who answered my questions). Then, I wanted to cut some expenses. Today, I want to kick myself in the ass.

It reminds me of an incident from about a year ago. My favorite outdoor manly-cat named "BOMBER" who wasn't yet fully grown, died unexpectedly. The cat was extra special to me because he was one of my Dad's cats. I arrived home from work to dig a grave for him in the rain. I couldn't justify his life by throwing him in a garbage bag and setting him out by the side of the road.

A short time later, I remembered that I had flushed my radiator in the driveway about a week prior to his death. Afterwards, It seemed like whenever I turned on the TV there was a commercial for "pet safe' anti-freeze. That did it for me. I've blamed myself ever since. Even though I hosed the driveway and never saw Bomber hanging around the vehicle, I was convinced I somehow did it. I was responsible. I was to blame. It's all my fault...

...so now you know that the mad handyma'am unwittingly tortures animals and herself with guilt on occasion.

The second phone call I got was about 2 in the afternoon from Mom. Another bomb. Dave's father has been diagnosed with cancer... how I hate that fucking word. At least, I'm not blaming myself for that.

Onward to Wednesday, a very productive day. It's always surprising to me how you can have a very shitty day and turn it around in 24 hours or less. I worked my usual 10 hour day with things unusually falling right into place. It was downright fruitful.

Even though I didn't get enough sleep last night, I awoke feeling great. I didn't even get pissed off because I couldn't find something to wear. Amazing since almost everything I own is in the dirty clothes heap. And WHY IS THAT you wonder? Well, that's because the MUD ROOM hasn't been built yet. There's no hook-up for a washer and dryer here yet. I will rejoice the day I can hear an unbalanced load banging around...

I hate dragging dirty clothes out and going to the laundromat. Practically everyone in the place is wearing things they wouldn't normally wear in public. Stuff that's dingy and holey. Maybe that's the unspoken dress code. It's not even a requirement that you comb you hair, let alone wash it. Every time I have gone, there's at least one machine that has a makeshift "out of order" sign taped to it. A few fabric softener sheets litter the floor near the dryers. Stacks of old tattered magazines near plastic chairs. And invariably, there's at least one dirty faced kid running pushing a clothes transfer cart around like a hellion. A cart that will soon crash into another patron. Maybe you...

Add the visual to the smell of the place. The smell of dirty clothes overpowers most of the refreshing clean odors. Then there are the other aromas. Soap scum. The lingering scent of cheap bathroom deodorizer. The smell of heat from the portholed dryers. The tuna cans full of ashes and butts enhanced only by the bent tin side to accomodate a burning cigarette. The stench of dirty socks. Imagine all of these aromas nestled in between the clean fresh scents that are invisibly wandering about...

Fortunately, my girlfriend has been a world of support when it comes to laundry. I can't thank her enough. Thank you! Thank you! And today, I came home to the sight of a freshly cut lawn - compliments of her! And oh, how I wish she was here to greet me. Some days I really hate this opposing shift crap... and tonight after she gets home, she's the nurse on-call overnight. I pray the phone doesn't ring... I have enough trouble getting to sleep as it is... and, oh yeah... I have been known to HATE the phone...

...if it wasn't for my net connection, I might have ripped it out by now. Technology is amazing...

WELLOKTHEN you lucky voyeurs... Now it's time for the Sally & Ricardo update.

YUP. YUP. YUP. Sally moved in with Ricardo...

...left her husband.
Left her kids.

L O S T H E R M I N D .

I arrive home after another 10 hour day at the office. Immediately, I change my clothes. The garage is calling me. This is the 4th day of an old door stripping project. Visual progress is underway. One side had 4 coats of paint. A not-too-shocking pink, pale mint green, soft yellow and off white. The other side had 3 coats; gray, almond and white. It's a nine light french door. The four glass panes at the top and bottom corners are square, the remainder are rectangular.

Before I could even get outside, a car pulls into the driveway. I could hear the gravel crunching right before the dogs began barking like crazy. The mail in my hand drops to the table. I walk out the back door to see who the dogs are greeting. A woman sits in the car. "Hi there - don't worry, they won't hurt ya," I holler above barks. The door opens on the dusty old mid-size sedan and she emerges with a smile... evidently, she heard me above them. Before that first sensible shoe hit the edge of the driveway, I manage to fit in a quick but terse, "shut up" command to the dogs.

"Hi, my name is Karen and I'm from the First Baptist Church," her eyes riveted on mine, "we're having an open house at our church and we'd like to invite you to come..." She handed me a lilac flyer and a pamphlet, and shook my hand still staring without a waver.

I glance down at the materials in my hand and she reminds me that, we are all sinners. Instantaneously, a musical breaks out in my head. "I'm a sinner, you're a sinner, he's a sinner, she's a sinner - wouldn't you like to be a sinner, too..." a new twist on the Dr. Pepper advertising theme. Caught off guard, I smile and say, "yeah."

I notice the prim cotton dress she's wearing. Small gray pattern, mid-length. The kind that looks like it has a bib sewn into it. A bib with a vertical line of 6 unnecessary, debatably decorative buttons attached. And, let me not forget the matching fabric belt and hair held in perfect place. Palm sized bible in one hand, other hand holding her wrist as if the book might want to jump away.

I felt like more of a sinner than usual looking back at her. "Can I read from the bible for you? It'll only take a few minutes..."

"Sure. Go ahead..." it's only a few minutes anyway, no big deal. Besides, what am I gonna do? Tell her to get the hell outta here?! Sic the dogs on her? Pretend I'm having a seizure?

She opens pages of the little annotated bible and tells me if I accept Jesus Christ as my savior, that I will be saved. That it's a gift from God. A gift is something that is given to you. It's yours. It's not about being good. It's not about anything like that.

We were on equal sinning ground. What a relief. I nodded and smiled and looked at the flyer in my hand again.

"So, there's going to be a Christian illusionist there? And, a ventriloquist, too? Horse rides, refreshments, a moonwalk and more?"

"Yes, and it will be fun, please tell me you'll come," she pleaded, "maybe your husband..."

...I cut in, "No, but maybe my girlfriend who's at work now, ... maybe we will. We've talked about going to some different churches in the area, just to check ‘em out, you know... so, maybe we will," I said. "If we don't show up this time, we will show up some other time..."

She headed to the car. "Call me if you need anything. My number is on the phamplet..." much like the Avon lady.

I return to the house without stepping into the garage. The material she gave me rests on the table. The idea of a "Christian Illusionist" seems so bizarre! I'm smirking as I walk back out the door and head for the garage...

...I wonder what type of illusions will be performed in the name of God. I wonder if God truly sanctions a tumble in the moonwalk holier in the churchyard than at a county fair. Can a ventriloquist and his dummy save souls in Jesus name? Will people be falling over backward? Twitching in the grass? Speaking in tongues? Taking up serpents? Is this a cover for a new cult?

So, If you're looking for potential blame, I assume God made me exactly as I am. It isn't Mom or Dad's fault. There isn't anything wrong with me that isn't already wrong with you. So there.

If I did go to a church more than once, it would be because I felt better when I walked out.

Maybe that "Christian Illusionist" is going to be there to help those of us SINNERS who have been disillusioned in the name of organized religion.

Wow. I had planned to tell you about the door refinishing thing, but I guess Karen's surprise appearance threw me for a loop. My entry was somewhat babbling because I was soooo tired. Yet, I am perfectly capable of babbling when I am fully rested. It's very easy for me to get completely off track - can you tell?

Clearly, I have major FOCUS issues. If I were in elementary school, I'd probably be on Ritalin.

I also wanted to tell you about the weekend. Mom and Dave are all moved in to the new house. The last rental truckload was delivered mid-afternoon on Mother's Day. Happy belated Mother's Day!! Mom was extremely tired. My sister and I managed to drag her out to the local garden center to pick out Mother's Day plants for the new place. We gave her cards and she cried. She always does. Sensitivity is seemingly embedded in my genetic material...

...I did go to the old house one last time on Sunday morning - the old farmhouse that Dad rebuilt. When we pulled into the driveway, what I noticed most, was how much all the trees have grown. It was as if they weren't there on Saturday at all. In just over a decade, we had planted quite a few trees in that yard, mostly, the ones we bought as gifts for them. There were blossoms all over the place. They littered the ground like confetti.

It's amazing, but I didn't cry when I left that day. I had cried the day before when Laura and I had gone there alone. I guess you could say that I felt emotionally wrung out. Almost empty in fact. I had so much anxiety about saying goodbye again, that the very last time I left on Sunday - I didn't even utter the words. Nor did I look back at the house. But, when we we're driving down the road, I did wonder how Mom would feel driving away from it for the last time...

...my best guess is some mixed emotions. On one hand, she's got a new life - husband - house; but still, she and Dad were together - for better and worse - for several decades. That's a long time. Knowing how sensitive she is, I can't imagine she didn't feel anything at all...

Saturday was my tough day. It probably explains why Sunday wasn't. I hadn't planned on going back there after Saturday, but we forgot to get the door frame from the garage. And, other stuff that I thought was my brothers. Laura and I hauled two truckloads of stuff back to our house. Dusty stuff that is in now in a pile in the garage waiting for me to sift through it. My Dad's stuff. Things like his old battered Craftsman toolbox on rollers, a hav-a-hart trap, shelving material, a 94 pound bag of portland cement, a partial roll of insulation, a few wood planks, fruit jars, tools, etc.

More stuff. More stuff. Like I need more stuff. Like I need more room to stuff this stuff... like I'll have to get rid of more stuff. Other stuff.

And then the trouble begins: I got to thinking. WHAT IF, there was a sudden climactic shift and my stuff was preserved in, lets say - a peat bog. Or, in an iceberg. I WONDER IF a future civilization would happen across this site, excavate it carefully and decide that it was a religious shrine or something...

Hey, it could happen. It seems like everything archaeologists find nowadays holds some important religious, ritualistic significance. If that's true, we are modern day heathens. Every one of us...

I've been meaning to write - but, you know how that goes. There isn't enough time in the day. Yet, it's funny how it always seems like there's enough time to think about it 50 times or so. Not "ha ha" funny of course, but - totally ironic. Thinking about it might have burned just as many calories as if I did.

Last Thursday evening, I arrive home to see Laura sitting on the back stoop holding the lower part of her right leg. She had a weird look on her face and, before I could say, "sowhatsamattawithu," she said, "something's in my leg," with a grimace. WHAT? What is in your leg? "I don't know but I can feel it. I was pushing the lawnmower behind the Outback and something flew into my leg."

Flew into your leg? "Feel it, right here" she said as she guided my finger to the end of what looked like a slight scratch. But, I didn't feel anything. "What should I do?" she asked me. "Hey, you're asking the wrong person - you're the nurse!" I didn't know what to do. It didn't look bad. It looked like a scratch with a needle sized hole oozing what looked like watery blood.

She walked around for awhile outside. I went into the house to put down my things and it wasn't long when she started screaming out to me. "Here it is! Here it comes!" I ran to the back door to stand there with my mouth open while this black thing that looked like a wood pencil lead, began to emerge. By the time it got 1/4" out, she grabbed it and pulled it out of her calve. It was a 1 1/4 inch long piece of wire.

I could tell, it hurt like hell. But, there were worse places that wire could have went. Shit. Lawnmowers are dangerous things. I can only imagine how many people are injured every year from flying objects alone.

Subsequently, Laura was in pain all last weekend. She was crabby because she didn't feel good. And me, I had PMS. Need I say more? All was not quiet on any front. Delightful would not be a word used to describe the weekend. Lets just say that Gimpy and I got through it...

Suddenly, it was Monday. The phone rang. This time I was outside. I didn't feel the muscles on the back of my neck tighten from the audible irritation. The phone constantly ringing has been bugging me very VERY much...

It was the owner of a Ford dealership calling. The guys that Laura had bought her truck from. The one I hooked her up with via auto-by-tel. Through the magic of the Internet, she saved thousands off the sticker price buying this way. If you know what you're looking for, it's the only way to buy. You'd never get the same price walking onto a new car lot. At least, none around where we live. There aren't any dealers locally who are members. But, I'm sure this whole Internet concept has some car salesmen pissed off and feeling a little threatened. The price they pay for the vehicles isn't a secret anymore. Consumers are much more informed when it comes to automobiles. The information age is too cool...

So anyway, back to the track. The guy on the phone is begging Laura to come there the following morning. Be there by 9 in the morning the next day. THAT means leaving by 7 and driving nearly 2 hours. Limpy Laura did not know what to do. Should she? Should she not?

WHAT? Should she what? I knew something was up because practically all of her teeth were showing. What is it?

She didn't know who they were. YOU HAVE TO GO! YOU HAVE TO! It's the British Broadcasting Corporation! The BBC!! The Queen Mothers news source!

Damn. I had to go to the office the following day. There was no way I could escape it.

Laura limped to the truck Tuesday morning about 6:45 and departed solo. She seemed to limp less after she slammed down that cup of fresh ground coffee...

...I left and wondered all morning if the coffeepot was still on. I tried hard not to imagine the dwelling ablaze in my absence.

Now here's the part - tada - where Laura tells you about the BBC experience in her own words:

I got to the place a little after 9 a.m. after hitting two traffic jams - people were driving like assholes. I met with the guy that I talked to and asked him if he would wash my truck for me. I wanted to do it myself but my puncture wound kept me from doing it. He said no problem and it was washed within that hour.

Meanwhile, two other local reporters talked/interviewed me and took pictures of my truck, with the sales guy and me standing by it. I was trying not to laugh - this was all too funny. Then, almost two hours later, the British people finally showed.

Franz, Jules and Vaughn introduced themselves and decided to interview me first. I was glad to hear I would be first. They asked me if it would be okay to do the interview while I was driving my truck around. I didn't care - They right away started ordering me around and trying to decide what to do, back and forth with ideas - they seemed as though they didn't know what they wanted. They saw themselves not as mere newscasters, but as filmmakers.

Jules, the camera operator, kept changing her mind and at one point while sitting in the back of my truck said, "just keep driving, I'll tap on the roof if I want you to turn". All I could do is laugh. Franz, the head cheese, who barely said a word, was a real cornball. They ordered me to stop so they could film me driving up and down the street. Franz, who had a smirk on his face the whole time, laid down in the back of my truck, as I drove back and forth while they filmed. I couldn't believe it all. It was very comical.

Vaughn was the guy who did the actual interview. Jules ordered me to pull over in this person's driveway to do the actual interview itself. Vaughn stood outside while I sat in the truck with the door open and the interview began. He asked me things about the internet and how I found out about Auto-by-tel. I bluffed my way through thinking in the back of my mind that I don't know shit really about the internet and that they should be asking questions like this to my handyma'am - girlfriend. But, I managed. As the interviewed continued and the sun kept beating down on me, I started to feel sweat beads appearing on my face. I really wasn't that nervous, it was the heat.

The interview ended and they said it went well. I thought we were done but Jules then said, "oh, let's get another view of you driving down some other road". I said, "okay, whatever. Where to?" She pointed South and off we drove. Jules was sitting in the truck with me trying to capture me driving and shifting my gears - the camera was way too big - she kept complaining with that British accent of hers - "This camera is too large and the roads are too leefy!". Leefy? what does she mean by that? Oh, I got it - too bumpy. The roads were in need of repair. Finally, the interviewed ended and they thanked me several times over. As did the dealership.

============== > > > So there you have it... the story straight from the horse's mouth.

Whew! Sounds like Laura nearly needed a stunt double. It also sounds like Jules is in some sort of dominatrix transistion. Just kidding Jules! Mostly, it sounded like fun! Fun that I had to miss... :^( ... but still, I'm glad that she experienced it.

now in OTHER NEWS: the BIG D update: My guess is that it's still only a matter of when. Neither of them look happy. Not even when they try. I'd simply like to see my sister happy. Isn't that what most of us want? Isn't that what we chase throughout our lives? Most of us anyway? I don't care who she's with, I only want her to be happy. If she and her husband could somehow drastically improve the quality of their relationship, I'd be happy for them. Despite the shit...

I don't hate the man at all. Surprised? When he's in certain moods, he's been known to be fun. Easy going means easy to be around. What I do hate is the things my sister tells me. Things that certainly shed no golden light on him. In the back of my mind though, I know that he probably feels as if he puts up with shit from her, too. He probably does. Only because I know her! Little sister is a size six fireball in her own right. And, nearly as sassy as myself...

Life is so fleeting. It's such a transitory experience. Why deal with unnecessary shit? Why put yourself through such crap? There comes a point when you have to see that life more than what you make - it's what you take and what you forsake, too. A measure of balance is important. Why accept crap and continue to scream about it? Isn't that utterly ridiculous?

If we're lucky, we end up with many happy moments woven throughout our lives. We can't be happy all of the time. It's impossible. If we were happy all of the time, how would we even know what it was. We'd be used to it. Happiness is not something I've ever had to get used to. The scattered moments I've experienced joy were practically indescribable. It was like an implosion and an explosion of my midsection, a surreal moment where I am a spectator. Yet I am explicitly intact, despite my change. Stoned on my own drug factory - brain hormones released result in a rush up my spine. And YES - it's legal. So, I guess that makes JOY a drug. Great name for a drug, isn't it? And you don't have to sweat the random drug test either. And there'll be no more coercing grandma to piss in that bottle for ya either...

& OHMYGOD! My girlfriend had to call Sally at home regarding work and her husband answered the phone. He is totally bummed out. He wanted to talk. Right away he launched into, "I don't know if Sally told you, but..." and relayed the Ricardo story. Laura admitted she knew and said she was sorry. The poor guy practically broke down. He told her that the youngest kids just don't understand why their mother isn't coming home at night. The oldest is simply furious. He's doing his best to help them cope but it doesn't sound like he's doing well himself.

If Sally's lucky charms are still working, lets hope that nobody else from work calls her home number. Her husband is talking to everyone. His reaching out for understanding may be an obstacle for Sally's continuing employment with the organization. If this gets out the shit will hit the proverbial fan...

Hooray!! I'm outta da office fer dah necks tree dayahhhs... YIPPEE! By the way, HOW do you like the redneck accent? Thought I'd add it because I saw lots of trucks on the way home. But, it wasn't just the trucks. 90 percent of them were driven by white guys wearing hats and, there were coolers full of beer involved. Memorial weekend is upon us. Time for a good percentage of the population to party... (like me, for instance.) I'm still trying to figure out if memorial day is the excuse or, the reason for partying.

YUP, Memorial weekend is finally here..."Wee gonna crank up does grills ann burn us sum dee-nure. Yesh wee iz... yesh indeedy baybeeee. Habby, habby, habby - HABBY Mum-oriole wee conned Mawn!"

Yes, I have verified that fact. And YES, I do know that I'm acting a wee bit strange on this Friday evening... but, I slowed you down long enough to ask you WHY in the hell haven't YOU written back when I've written to you so many times now?

And - then I wonder if I should feel guilt for the Jamaican accent. Maybe that's why you'll never write, miffed over a lousy accent, ...why it's not fair

Actually, my initial aim here in writing was to tell you how pissed off I was when I just found out that XOOM.COM - the server that is serving up this very page - has a policy against - now, get this: swearing! This site could get yanked without warning... all because of a few swear words here and there. And oh, probably the word "sex" would set ‘em off, too.

I'm open to suggestions on finding another place to post this site before it does disappear so, if you have any ideas, please pass them along to me.

What in the world is happening to free speech? I'm not hurting anyone - not threatening anyone - I don't get it...

Your right = mine. Your right + my right make it OUR rights.

Surprise !
. . . i t i s shit.

There you have it. My first show of web rage. What will I do next?

Swearing TOO much is basically ineffective, isn't it? I swear for descriptive purposes. And of course, to express whatever the minor annoyance, or outrage I feel at any particular moment.

Much like yourself, I get pissed off and I swear. I did notice the fact that I have used the "p" word more than any other swear word here! In the speaking side of life, this is NOT the case. Feel free to guess which swear word I utter the most...

We spent last Saturday morning trolling for junk with our treasure hunting friend. We were crammed in an old truck, meandering along country roads. I felt like a piece of luggage sitting in the extended cab area behind Laura in a little jump seat. We were on a junking mission, the adventure kept my mind off the fact that I was perched on a seat that might have been smaller than a phone book, and equal in comfort.

Our rummaging pal had come across quite a find in the last few weeks. She'd been talking about it ever since she found it. She told me I'd flip out when I saw the place.

Well, it wasn't long and we were pulling into an unfamiliar residential country driveway off the beaten path. I couldn't wait to escape the truck and the fetal position I was in.

A makeshift "blow your horn" sign sat in the drive. The honk was to get Jewel outside and let her know you were there. "OK - OK, I hear ya, I'm on my way...." The voice coming from the side screen door before her emergence.

She limped her bulk out through the doorway, clad entirely in polyester. The cheap metal screen door closed with a brisk crack. The leathery skin on her second chin jiggled and danced around like jello when she spoke, pointing out the various barns overflowing with things someone bought new once. The driveway was lined with things mainly plastic, mostly kid stuff. Things like mini-kitchen stoves and refrigerators. Plastic rocking horses, hose reels, swing set seats and many other plastic molded items; some in pieces, some unidentifiable.

Anyway - TRUST ME. If you could see this place - you'd be as shocked and flipped out as I, so predictably, was.

Jewel has been collecting junk for over 25 years, and there's got to be at least 10 years of goods on the premises. She buys the leftovers from garage sales, and estate sales, too. While it looked like total trash upon seeing it, there were some little treasures hidden in the folds.

She had several barns full of stuff, a basement full, along with separate outbuildings. The aisles within the structures, if you want to call them aisles - were actually maze-like, and some were just big enough to squeeze through. Some were blocked by stuff that I climbed over. It's dimly lit, musty-dusty mess. Imagine anything you'd see at a typical garage sale, add that and then some and multiply that several times over. It was massive optic overload.

There were a couple of older guys there working for her. I didn't notice them until she started ordering them around. They were building a lean-to addition on the front of the garage. The add-on looked more like a fort built by kids using scraps. She even offered us jobs there, or, to anyone we knew - 2 hours a day, 5 bucks an hour - the cash in your hands when you're through... Maybe that's the type of carpentry 5 bucks an hour gets you... the handyma'am tried hard not to look. She thinks bad carpentry is evil.

After what seemed like several hours of sifting, we pay for our purchases, stuff them in the back of the truck and clamber back into driving position. We were all laughing as we drove away, and Laura was notably excited about the adventure. A big surprise since she's never been into the junking scene hated it and I had begged her to go with us. I thought she agreed only to control what I might bring home... ha! Initially, that may have been the case. I actually think she was surprised she had so much fun...

So what on earth DID we take back home after hitting a few more sales heading back? More stuff of course! Things like what? a glass pitcher, a gadget to swiftly remove corn from the cob, a 1950's Pictorial Medical Reference book (hilarious! I'll post a few entries when I can!), grass clippers, a galvanized chicken feeder, some sweatshirts and T-shirts, a popcorn popper for the woodstove, a colander, a Colt 45 beer sign (for the Outback Inn of course), a humidity gauge, metal snips, and - get this one - an antique folding wheelchair with a canvas seat! It's wood with wheels that are all the same size. We aren't certain of its age, but, I'd guess 30's vintage. It would make for a decent, albeit somewhat bizarre, office chair. Or, a valuable addition to that medical collection somebody has.

I am becoming quite the scavenger... but, I've got a long, long way to go to reach the ranks of Jewel, residential junk queen extraordinaire. I NEVER want to have that much stuff. Never...

Yet, I do like old things very much. I appreciate them. They have history. They have meaning. They have survived. Like several old mirrors I have in the house, I wonder what other people saw reflected in them. I wonder who bought them new. I wonder where they were hung. I wonder how many places they've been. How many owners they had. In fact sometimes, I think I think too much...

...but, if I didn't think too much; then who in the hell would I be? Would my mind be in a state of limbo from not thinking? And, what would it be like not to think? Would my brain be like a new pair of shoes with paper stuffed inside, like a poor substitute for actual feet? No. I don't know what it would be like to think less than I do. It's only when I am a raving insominiac do I wish for that catatonic condition...

...and sometimes, right before winter I think a winter coma might do me some good. Providing I can awaken in the spring of course. Although, I guess HIBERNATION would be a better term...

I called a local guy who didn't return my call. Of course, that means he will not even be considered for the job should he bother now. Whatsa matta wit you people??!! If you're running a business without business sense - which includes common courtesy, like a fricking phone call; how do you expect to stay in business? I refuse to give one cent to someone with those ethics.

I did find someone else, not quite as close in proximity which I thought would be an advantage, someone who called back immediately. I had him send someone out to dig 3 four foot holes for the perc test. Now it's a matter of getting the county health department out to do the test and give it the OK. Should be soon...

Unless his bid turns out to be unusually high, as far as I am concerned, he's already got the job. The guy answered all of my questions, he was easy to talk to and said he'd prepare a bid without any obligation on my part. He wasn't taking the hard sell "look, I know what I'm talking about lady" attitude. I hate that crap. People like that don't get my money either...

According to my girlfriend's pal and secretary at work, Sally is filing for divorce tomorrow. I asked if her husband knows and Laura figured that he probably did. Well, that is very doubtful. Why? Because Sally's husband made a surprise appearance at the office last night, with a dozen long-stemmed roses. The secretary called the house (salivating) to tell Laura what a "good-looking hunk of a man" he was! Laura and she are the only ones who know about the scandal (so far anyway) at work. The secretary is totally tripped out about the whole thing, she can't fathom any of it. She thinks the bitch is nuts. Especially the 3 kids that Sally is now neglecting for Ricardo. Taking care of him is a full time job. 3 kids don't fit into the picture under the circumstances. Plus, OHMYGOD the hunky hubby she's tossing out! The husband who is and has been taking care of all 3 children. And, the oldest one isn't even his! Doesn't this guy deserve a set of wings and a complimentary halo??

The scenario, oddly reminds me of Susan Smith who killed her two little boys, all for the love of a man. Although Sally hasn't murdered her kids, she's apparently willing to sacrifice them. Therein lies the parallel.

The entire Sally-wench-thing makes me realize how fortunate I am to have had a wonderful mother. I think I'll call her up and tell her how much I love and appreciate her... then and now. Just because...


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