I want to live in a flat world that ends with an edge. With one push of a Swiffler, I want the dust, dirt, bug carcasses, pet hair and bunched up stiff tissues to swoosh over an edge and into another world.
This week, I am spring-cleaning. I've cleared out three closets, two bathrooms and half of a bedroom. I have a lot of house left to go. The right sides, left sides, front sides, back sides and bottoms of most of what fills my home no longer amuse me with cuteness, usefulness, whimsy or eclectic slant.
If I could find a white towel, I would raise it in surrender. If Big Guy journeys on a long trip, I will hire a bulldozer and shove the entire house with contents across the street into the yard of the house recently sold for taxes on the courthouse steps. My junk can join the junk that is already there.
Freed of the responsibility, I will start over with a very small tent. I have the summer to think through a better plan--one that springs me free of dust and clutter.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
The Guy Who Always Walked His Dog
The world fit Bob poorly. I knew him--everyone knew him--as the guy who always walked his dog. Bob didn't seem to do much else. A neatly dressed, tall and slender man, Bob 'talked dogs' to a few dog lovers. But most of us, including me, viewed him as a silent, predictable presence in our neighborhood.
Until today, I didn't know where Bob lived. But someone pointed me toward his house. As I drew closer, it was easy to spot. Two cuttings of fresh flowers and a stuffed dog toy were tied around the mailbox post.
One week ago, as I discovered today, Bob shot and killed himself. He left a note in the mailbox of a kind and gentle neighbor. It didn't take long for her to figure out what he'd done. He also left a five-page letter specifying where his things should go and naming whom he hoped would take in his dog Walter. And he washed the car in his driveway--one he bought five years ago, never registered and never drove.
With Bob gone, I know more about him. He was 59 years old. Five years ago, he lost his job with the water department. His house was in foreclosure and the electric power was turned off. No one in the neighborhood knew that Bob barely existed. And he wouldn't take help from his siblings. They weren't close, it is said.
The dog lover who told me about Bob grieves for him. She said she wished she'd known--she would have paid a bill for him. But Bob needed a job, one that would let him keep to himself and give him time to walk Walter. And he may have needed treatment for whatever about him made him keep his distance. But jobs, of any type, when you are 59 years old are difficult to come by. And health insurance, access to doctors or a willingness to even speak to one were probably well out of Bob's mental or financial reach.
Our loosely woven safety net of social services might have helped Bob. But in their kindness and efficiency, they would have wanted conversations with him. And Bob only talked about Walter.
Bob picked up a loaded gun, took aim and accomplished his goal. He kept his privacy and our neighborhood lost a good guy who walked his dog all the time.
And at www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: I stare at her intently, dreading the answer, yet compelled to ask, "Did you eat your babies?"
Until today, I didn't know where Bob lived. But someone pointed me toward his house. As I drew closer, it was easy to spot. Two cuttings of fresh flowers and a stuffed dog toy were tied around the mailbox post.
One week ago, as I discovered today, Bob shot and killed himself. He left a note in the mailbox of a kind and gentle neighbor. It didn't take long for her to figure out what he'd done. He also left a five-page letter specifying where his things should go and naming whom he hoped would take in his dog Walter. And he washed the car in his driveway--one he bought five years ago, never registered and never drove.
With Bob gone, I know more about him. He was 59 years old. Five years ago, he lost his job with the water department. His house was in foreclosure and the electric power was turned off. No one in the neighborhood knew that Bob barely existed. And he wouldn't take help from his siblings. They weren't close, it is said.
The dog lover who told me about Bob grieves for him. She said she wished she'd known--she would have paid a bill for him. But Bob needed a job, one that would let him keep to himself and give him time to walk Walter. And he may have needed treatment for whatever about him made him keep his distance. But jobs, of any type, when you are 59 years old are difficult to come by. And health insurance, access to doctors or a willingness to even speak to one were probably well out of Bob's mental or financial reach.
Our loosely woven safety net of social services might have helped Bob. But in their kindness and efficiency, they would have wanted conversations with him. And Bob only talked about Walter.
Bob picked up a loaded gun, took aim and accomplished his goal. He kept his privacy and our neighborhood lost a good guy who walked his dog all the time.
And at www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: I stare at her intently, dreading the answer, yet compelled to ask, "Did you eat your babies?"
Monday, April 7, 2014
Love Digs Deep
Big Guy's love for me runs deep. I have a hole in my front yard to prove it.
It all starts with mosquito-fish. Two of them, each no bigger than one-half inch in length, rode in a water-filled plastic bottle (aka a recyclable water bottle) for five days as I traveled from Phinizy Swamp in Georgia to St. Louis, Mo. From there, I moved the critters to a square jar on my bedroom nightstand.
However, much as we are promised a mansion in heaven, these fish are in line for better digs. And they don't have to die to get there. Big Guy has constructed a front yard pond. It's roughly the circumference of a kiddie pool, though oddly shaped, and about 16 inches deep. To pay their rent, I expect the mosquito-fish to eat lots of mosquito-larvae and birth lots of fish babies so there's even more fish to eat more mosquitoes.
As we (meaning Big Guy) prepared the pond, we unearthed tree roots, bathroom tile scraps, night-crawlers and the other mish-mash that makes yard soil so unique. I figured out why bad guys dig shallow graves--digging is hard work and they don't love whomever they are dumping. As the day slipped by, I realized that my mosquito-fish, content with 10 ounces of water in a water bottle, would do o.k. in a five-inch deep plastic bucket or even released into the larger, turtle filled pond a few streets away. But when I get fixated on an idea, no matter how odd, Big Guy does his level best to make my vision come true. He is a deep digger; he loves me, and that's why my fish are moving on up.
So back to that mansion in heaven, I hope I am charged with a task far finer than reproducing by the hundreds and eating mosquito larvae. What I'd really like, now and for infinity and for forever, is to spend my time taking care of Big Guy.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Angelina, I Heard You
I do small things to grab attention.
For example, at Girl Scout day camp I ripped off my t-shirt and threw it on the ground. Two factors in my defense--a wasp crept underneath my shirt and it was very hot.
Another example, also a Girl Scout one, I tried to squat and pee in a cup. Totally missed, drenching one jean leg and one boot with a fresh stream of urine. Again, two factors--I really had to go and the horse-riding facility only offered a stall, as its real stall wasn't working.
So I'm not one to judge. But, Angelina irradiated herself for FloNotes. I found out when Big Guy and I invited Brad and Angelina to come visit one evening. First, they said no. Then, they relented, explaining that Angelina was radioactive. So while they weren't willing to subject strangers to radiation, they would come to our house.
I said fine. After all, I wanted to see Angelina glow. Much to my disappointment, no visible glow. She had swallowed a tiny radioactive pill to kill a naughty thyroid (message to self, don't cross Angelina). The physicians cautioned her--you're hot, for about a week. That means that after 25 years of marriage, Brad had a hot woman, a really hot woman for one week, and he was sleeping in the guest room.
Angelina warned us to keep our distance as we drank wine, played Password and drank wine. Then we played cards and drank wine. We switched from wine to ice cream drumsticks--except for Brad who ate pistachios with their greenish hue, perhaps longing for untouchable Angelina. I clinched fourth place at cards, winkin,' blinkin' and nod figured into a Password victory while no one knew that an office casserole is a conglomeration.
Mostly I forgot about Angelina's radioactive glow. I remember she said--"now this is FloNotes-worthy." And we discussed, or rather I brought up, the amount of radioactive waste Angelina was shedding into her neighborhood's sewer system. Her neighborhood squabbles constantly. If it knew Angelina was glowing, someone would compel her to log each time she flushes and keep details on any clean-up. Her plea for FloNotes to return is the sort of news that grabs attention.
For example, at Girl Scout day camp I ripped off my t-shirt and threw it on the ground. Two factors in my defense--a wasp crept underneath my shirt and it was very hot.
Another example, also a Girl Scout one, I tried to squat and pee in a cup. Totally missed, drenching one jean leg and one boot with a fresh stream of urine. Again, two factors--I really had to go and the horse-riding facility only offered a stall, as its real stall wasn't working.
So I'm not one to judge. But, Angelina irradiated herself for FloNotes. I found out when Big Guy and I invited Brad and Angelina to come visit one evening. First, they said no. Then, they relented, explaining that Angelina was radioactive. So while they weren't willing to subject strangers to radiation, they would come to our house.
I said fine. After all, I wanted to see Angelina glow. Much to my disappointment, no visible glow. She had swallowed a tiny radioactive pill to kill a naughty thyroid (message to self, don't cross Angelina). The physicians cautioned her--you're hot, for about a week. That means that after 25 years of marriage, Brad had a hot woman, a really hot woman for one week, and he was sleeping in the guest room.
Angelina warned us to keep our distance as we drank wine, played Password and drank wine. Then we played cards and drank wine. We switched from wine to ice cream drumsticks--except for Brad who ate pistachios with their greenish hue, perhaps longing for untouchable Angelina. I clinched fourth place at cards, winkin,' blinkin' and nod figured into a Password victory while no one knew that an office casserole is a conglomeration.
Mostly I forgot about Angelina's radioactive glow. I remember she said--"now this is FloNotes-worthy." And we discussed, or rather I brought up, the amount of radioactive waste Angelina was shedding into her neighborhood's sewer system. Her neighborhood squabbles constantly. If it knew Angelina was glowing, someone would compel her to log each time she flushes and keep details on any clean-up. Her plea for FloNotes to return is the sort of news that grabs attention.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
FloNotes-Fine
Angelina irradiated herself. Sis is shedding a straying spouse. Birdie treated herself to Taylor Swift bangs. Big Guy baby-talked Tequila (the dog). Daisy crashed her car. The neighbors had their house sold on the courthouse steps. And Cracker, the cat, kept right on butt-scooting across the carpet. It's unanimous, FloNotes needs a comeback!
For more than six months, I've worried that my friends, family and I are dull. I haven't had a steady stream of words to fill up the FloNotes. And so I let it die in favor of sewing, reading and napping.
Little things told me I was off track--like the weekend that I stitched my finger with the sewing machine needle and Big Guy caught himself on fire--right after I said, "I wouldn't do that." I can find exciting to write about among my friends and family or I can injure those around me, if needed.
I won't give up the sewing, reading or napping. But the grocery store is out. I will write until I have only my words to eat.
It feels good to be FloNotes-fine again. And here's a teaser for my new blog MosquitoNotes. www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com
MosquitoNotes: For nearly a week, across 700 miles, Gambusia affinis rode cocooned in a water bottle, squeezed tight into my Ford Escape's cup-holder. I'd stumbled on a strategy to kill, provided no one got thirsty.
Don't call Homeland Security yet. I'm only partway on my journey to crazy. It's going to be a great ride.
For more than six months, I've worried that my friends, family and I are dull. I haven't had a steady stream of words to fill up the FloNotes. And so I let it die in favor of sewing, reading and napping.
Little things told me I was off track--like the weekend that I stitched my finger with the sewing machine needle and Big Guy caught himself on fire--right after I said, "I wouldn't do that." I can find exciting to write about among my friends and family or I can injure those around me, if needed.
I won't give up the sewing, reading or napping. But the grocery store is out. I will write until I have only my words to eat.
It feels good to be FloNotes-fine again. And here's a teaser for my new blog MosquitoNotes. www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com
MosquitoNotes: For nearly a week, across 700 miles, Gambusia affinis rode cocooned in a water bottle, squeezed tight into my Ford Escape's cup-holder. I'd stumbled on a strategy to kill, provided no one got thirsty.
Don't call Homeland Security yet. I'm only partway on my journey to crazy. It's going to be a great ride.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Long Island Bucket List
Exactly 13 days into 2014, I kicked my "be more tolerant to others" New Year's resolution straight to the curb. Someone cocooned in an office 1,000 miles away scratched through my line of copy "Suffolk County covers the eastern two-thirds of Long Island." Until it was gone, I hadn't known I cared about Suffolk County or Long Island or how much of Long Island is covered by Suffolk County. Now a visit to Long Island, specifically the eastern two-thirds, is on my bucket list.
On a good day, a penciled out line doesn't send me into an emotional tailspin. Freely, I scratch through the words of other writers, and I expect others will scratch through mine. I recognize that a good editor improves the words crafted by a good writer. Most often, a trimmed word or a crossed line rightfully removes an impediment. But on that day, on the subject of Long Island, I couldn't see it.
Three days after my tirade, I feel better. I look forward to sightseeing Long Island. I will stand with one foot in Suffolk County and my other foot in whatever county accounts for its remainder. I will say, "Wow! Who knew how big Long Island could be? It takes more than one county to cover this much turf!" At that moment, I will be awed and amazed. I just know it.
Missing on Monday was a "thank you." The Long Island edit came from someone who can't say thank you. And it was made at the close of a really long day that capped off a whole series of long days.
I have recovered my inner zen. I also named my no-thank-you guy "Toad," unfair to toads everywhere (sorry) but it feels really good. And I have the joy of Long Island penciled in on my bucket list. Next time I write, I plan to squeeze a totally off-topic Jamaica into my story. As soon as Toad deletes that island paradise, it'll go right on the bucket list. And I will remember to thank myself.
On a good day, a penciled out line doesn't send me into an emotional tailspin. Freely, I scratch through the words of other writers, and I expect others will scratch through mine. I recognize that a good editor improves the words crafted by a good writer. Most often, a trimmed word or a crossed line rightfully removes an impediment. But on that day, on the subject of Long Island, I couldn't see it.
Three days after my tirade, I feel better. I look forward to sightseeing Long Island. I will stand with one foot in Suffolk County and my other foot in whatever county accounts for its remainder. I will say, "Wow! Who knew how big Long Island could be? It takes more than one county to cover this much turf!" At that moment, I will be awed and amazed. I just know it.
Missing on Monday was a "thank you." The Long Island edit came from someone who can't say thank you. And it was made at the close of a really long day that capped off a whole series of long days.
I have recovered my inner zen. I also named my no-thank-you guy "Toad," unfair to toads everywhere (sorry) but it feels really good. And I have the joy of Long Island penciled in on my bucket list. Next time I write, I plan to squeeze a totally off-topic Jamaica into my story. As soon as Toad deletes that island paradise, it'll go right on the bucket list. And I will remember to thank myself.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Advice for Penpal's Goldilocks
Christmas Penpal sent the family a Christmas card. It arrived in an envelope marked "K***" on the front as this penpal truly doesn't know exactly to whom she writes. I plan to send a card back. I know, it's January, but I still plan to send a card back. I asked Birdie and Daisy for advice they might share with Penpal's adorable three-year-old Goldilocks. Birdie, having noticed the Penpal Family relocation to one of those big mountain, lots of trees outdoor states--suggested that Goldilocks ask for a pony for Christmas. Then Birdie amended that advice, "ask for ponies." Ironic, as Birdie doesn't care for ponies, having discovered that you can ask your horse to trot through the ocean surf, but that doesn't mean it will do so in a way that is pleasing to the rider.
Daisy claimed to have no advice for Goldilocks. I suspect she wanted to tell her to grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Should a sibling arrive one day, life will change as Goldilocks knows it. She will gain a playmate--and that playmate will want every single toy. That playmate will also, even at 20 years old, need written proof that it is not her turn to put the ornament Marshmallow Angel on the top of the tree.
That usurper playmate (Birdie) also this year suggest a sisters-only post-Christmas weekend trip by train to Chicago. The trip makes up for a lot of unhappily shared stuff over the years. And with written proof of whose turn it really was to plant Marshmallow Angel on top--Goldilocks, like Daisy, will survive whatever sibling may or may not appear. But still, as Daisy would note, grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Leave the pony wish for someone else.
Daisy claimed to have no advice for Goldilocks. I suspect she wanted to tell her to grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Should a sibling arrive one day, life will change as Goldilocks knows it. She will gain a playmate--and that playmate will want every single toy. That playmate will also, even at 20 years old, need written proof that it is not her turn to put the ornament Marshmallow Angel on the top of the tree.
That usurper playmate (Birdie) also this year suggest a sisters-only post-Christmas weekend trip by train to Chicago. The trip makes up for a lot of unhappily shared stuff over the years. And with written proof of whose turn it really was to plant Marshmallow Angel on top--Goldilocks, like Daisy, will survive whatever sibling may or may not appear. But still, as Daisy would note, grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Leave the pony wish for someone else.
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