Take A Deep Breath

It’s been a while since I posted.  I could use a few excuses, but guess that isn’t very productive so I’ll just take a deep breath and jump right back into the blogging pool.  When I am working myself into a lather my mother loves to tell me, “Now, Sheri, take a deep breath and count to ten.”  This is her way of settling me down, but usually it just serves to set my jaw and bow my back…HOWEVER, I will admit that I usually do realize that I am being ridiculous and need to cool my jets a little.  After all, contrary to my super-ego’s belief, I am not God and cannot control the world from on top of my high horse.  So, Mom, kudos.  I’ll let you be right and take a deep breath once in a while, swallow my pride and take a step towards the next step…which, in this case is getting blogging.

Lately life has been rolling at one pace…fast.  I hit the ground running and stop when I collapse on the couch, drooling and mumbling, “I didn’t get it all done…not all done…no, no, not all done.”  Then I drift off into oblivion with ESPN Classic Bull Riding on.  Usually about 9…usually about the 9th bull rider with Donnie Gay’s voice ringing in my head, “…needs to cowboy up.”  Then, I dream that I need to “cowboy up”…get tough, fix the world, clean the office, scrub the toilets, write a letter to Aunt Mable and…and…and…and take a deep breath…pick up one rock at time and move it.

I’m going to go “cowboy up” right now.  I’ve taken that deep breath and I’m ready to move the world one rock at a time.  Current rock:  Get back in the saddle writing my blogs again.  Check.  Call my parents. Check.  Spend 10 minutes working at cleaning the office.  Not check yet….Throw away 10 things in that office…not check yet.  Go do it…Check.  Bye, gotta go continue with this deep breath moment and set the timer.

It’s Thundering Again and the Repairman Just Left

Joe just left.  He replaced my router wireless thing and we chitchatted about when he was a kid and my son and he hung out and I caught up on his family and then he left with a cheery, “Call if you get hit again.”  It is thundering again.  He’s been gone for less than fifteen minutes.  The lightning seems to like my house.  Maybe it is God telling me I’m doing something wrong.  I don’t know.  Still, I welcome the sound.  Our drought is finally broken and after 8 years of praying for rain…we’re catching up.  It is so beautiful and green and the cows are standing in belly-deep grass for the first time in all those years.  So, I’ll put up with a bit of lightning.

I have learned to unplug before I go…but I forgot the router wireless thing the other day…poor little black box.  It paid dearly for my mistake.  I just have to be more diligent and save this one a little longer.  Hmm, it is thundering to the north and now I just heard thundering to the south.  I think I’m caught in some kind of a weird weather vortex and things are going to get interesting in a few minutes.  So, guess the God thing might  be true.  I don’t know for sure what I am doing wrong, but I’m sure there’s a long list somewhere of my sins…so, to avoid another one…I’m going to try to save a router’s life and go unplug.  I’m into the green thing as much as possible so if I can save a plastic box and its magic electronics board I’ll do it.  Still, it was nice to see Joe.  He’s a good guy and doesn’t mind the dogs licking him while he sits on the floor amongst my office clutter and works.  He also didn’t make any snide comments about the dust balls and dog hair built up in the corner behind the router and wireless connection place.  Yeah, he’s grown into a fine young man.  I’ll probably see him again before the summer’s over…the next time I forget.  

No Blog, No Internet, No Sanity

So, I’ve been doing a lot of Sudoku puzzles lately.  The lightning got my wireless.  I’ve been whining and waiting to get it up and running.  Still, I love Sudoku and have been neglecting that addiction for a while because I was so wrapped up in blogging and reading blogs and thinking about blogs and well, blogging out mentally and socially.  I think the Sudoku thing is good for my brain.  Keeps things lubed and arcing up there where the cobwebs grow.  And believe me…I need the cobweb cleaning in my brain and in my house.  

The thing about Sudoku is…well, you can do it about anywhere.  I have a book by my rocker, one on the dining room table, one by my computer area and one in each bathroom.  Each book has a pencil or pen attached and is turned to the current puzzle I am working on.  To be honest, Sudoku is stimulating…I can hit the bathroom find a few numbers and head out for my next project without hardly slowing down.  I find the puzzles relaxing and when I relax…well, things come out a lot quicker…and sometimes I’ll just sit there a little while extra to finish a puzzle.  Sick…I know…but I bet if I talk to about half the Sudoku nuts out there, they do the same thing.  Hey, whatever works.  I don’t care for prune juice.  I like Sudoku.  It’s my personal fiber.  Perhaps I should try eating the pages after I finish the puzzles…even more fiber.  

My other game addiction is Super Letter Linker.  I played the demo online and loved it so I actually purchased the game and it keeps me entertained for hours.  The only problem is I think about words all the time and what letters can work where and how they are connected and I have to shut it off in my head once in a while.  I rarely use the words H-E-X, or E-R-R or N-I-T in real life, but in Super Letter Linker, they’ve saved my B-U-T-T more than once.  Oh, and if you see B-U-T-T, you look for B-U-T and B-U-T-T-E.  And I love word games.  Still, Sudoku is better in the bathroom.  I have a hard time holding my laptop while on the toilet.  I know if my husband caught me in there with the laptop with the door closed with a bit of grunting and groaning going on, well, he would be concerned for more than one reason…and I wouldn’t blame him.

I must be getting old.  It seems like my blogs talk about toilet habits and fiber way too much.  Ah, life as we experience it.

 

 

 

 

Snakes Don’t Moan

I had a couple of choices last night.  I could clean the bathtub…Or, find something on television that would be enriching.  Let’s see, NatGeo, CNN, OOOH…This weekend was some kind of a free weekend on our satellite so why not watch something a little different…I found it…”Black Snake Moan”.  It is a kind of weird title and an even just as weird movie.  Still, if Samuel L. Jackson is in it, the movie has to have some redeeming qualities…let’s see, a man trying to save a young girl from her personal demons by chaining her to a radiator.  The movie not only had redeeming qualities it taught me a few things…for instance, never run full bore with a chain tied around your waist and connected on the other end to a radiator…seriously not smart…looks painful…hmmm, now how can I relate that to my everyday life?  Well, I guess that one is not a problem…as long as the girl in the movie’s chain was, I’d never be able to run full bore that far.  I don’t think I’ve been able to run full bore anywhere for a heck of a long time.  I guess it isn’t really the running part that is a problem, it’s more the stopping part…the stopping when you hit the end of the chain.  Not real painless…I’m not into pain.

Okay…oh, the music was great.  Blues at its best…gutsy, raw…guitar pickin’ and life through song.  Kind of like me…I’m gutsy…got a plump tummy…raw…well, I feel a little raw sometimes…like when I trip and fall on cement and skin my knee…guitar pickin’…I have stubby fingers…can’t reach around the neck of a guitar, but I can really play the imaginary drums on anything hollow and life through song…If I had a theme song it could be something bluesy like:  “Burned breakfast and dinner.  Boom, boom, ba-boom. It didn’t look good. Ba-boom, ba-boom.  My husband was whinin’.  Baaa-ba-boom.  He needed some food.  Baba-boom.  So I slapped down peanut butter…uh-huh, uh-huh, smeared over some bread…uh-huh,uh-huh…Said Honey I love you…now I’m goin’ to bed…”  You get the picture…daily life blues…blues everyone can relate to, not just people who have been wronged by life’s wrongdoers.

I was surprised to see Justin Timberlake in the movie.  He didn’t play no purty boy either.  He played a crazy, nut job who freaked out when things got a little intimidating.  Crazy, freaky nut job.  And he played it well…Okay, so he was a little purty…A purty, crazy, freaky nut job.  Maybe he needed a chain around his tummy, too.  Hey, maybe I should get one.  I might lose some weight.  I’d have to lug the weight of the chain around and lift it over things and I could make it short enough I couldn’t reach the refrigerator.  I could still mop the kitchen floor, but I don’t do that very often now…so why would I do it with the chain around my tummy?  I don’t know.  Maybe that Black Snake Moan movie messed with my head.  I thought snakes hissed.  

 

Mother, Me and the Poo Goo Jug

It is a cool jug. The handle is easy to grasp. It holds a full gallon of liquid…believe me, I know. It held the wonder liquid that kept me in the toilet for six hours before a scoping. A full gallon. The lid is secure, equipped with a child safety cap, yet not too difficult to open. And my mother wants it. Yes, she was concerned about the results of my scoping. Yes, she was worried when I told her I had a problem and thank goodness I went in when I did…but…she wants my jug. Oh, sure, she waited a discreet amount of time before saying, “I want your jug.” Discreet as in, less than 12 hours!

After pondering her timing, I really think she was trying to take advantage of me while I was still under the influence of anesthesia. She figured if she approached me soon enough, she could slip that cool jug right out from under my nose. When I left the recovery room one of the last things the nurse said was, “Don’t make any important decisions for at least 24 hours.” Okay, Mother, that includes deciding the fate of my cool poo goo jug. And so I had to defer to medical advice and put off the poo goo jug decision.

The next day when my senses were fully recovered and I had the faculties to assess the reality of the situation, I made the call. “Mom, I know you want that jug. I knew the minute I held its perfectly balanced, easily grippable form in my hand that you would want it…” She interrupted, “It is just so nice for storing water for my plants…” I cut her off. “Yes, I know it’s just right. I’m still a little upset that you tried to take advantage of me at my moment of weakness…”

“But…” She tried to jump in and persuade me to look at it her way…not having it, Lady.

“But nothing, look, it’s my decision to make. I”m the one who emptied it, but I can forgive your indiscretion and move on so this is what I’m going to do. I am going to keep the jug for our big camping vacation. It’s the perfect size for water on the trip…BUT…because you gave birth to me, screaming and in agony, as you pointed out when you asked for the jug…AND…because of the Bible thing…the honor thing…I am going to give you the jug when I get home from the vacation.”

I know she was deeply chagrined. I could hear it in her voice. “Thank you.” Chagrined and just a touch snippy. “That is real big of you.”

Yes, people, we know it is just a jug, but in our family it’s just like the perfect box. You know deep down in your soul, there will be a perfect need for it and it must stay until that need arises.

Using the Cleaning Dogs

My dogs are capable of producing enough hair to skip the carpet and go straight to real dog-hair flooring, soft, luxurious, plush. They usually cause me more work around the house than they help with…except in the kitchen.  There, amongst the ketchup stained linoleum and casually spilt milk, my two pups are in their “help the boss” element.  

Both dogs take their cleaning jobs seriously…just in different ways.  Take, for example, my breakfast.  I was happily smearing peanut butter on my half bagel and reaching for the honey, when I bumped the plate, flipping it through the air with the bagel to follow.  Both landed upside down on the floor.  No problem.  I called the dogs.  The Corgi, in a frantic full-bore run, came through the dog door first.  She slid to a stop in front of her food dish and gobbled…inhaled the three pieces of bagel I had cut and dropped into the dish. She would provide her true assistance in a moment.  

The Border Collie, being a Border, gracefully walked in and looked piercingly into my eyes.  I glanced at the muck on the floor.  She considered the mess.  “Ah, a job for me.  Yes, boss, I can handle this.” Then, she strode over and flicked the goo with her tongue.  She cleaned up the chunks and the top layer of peanut butter.  Her tongue never actually touched the floor, no, she measured each flick carefully.  Finished, she went back to the porch to rest in the sun.  Her job was done.

In swooped the Corgi, a true swiper of floors.  She began the process she delights in, lovingly wiping the sticky floor with her tongue, checking and rechecking to be sure she hadn’t missed the slightest amount of peanut butter.  She’s…oh…so…thorough.  I’m pretty sure she could work for the Mob…or the government as a “cleaner.”  There would be no evidence left over to give away a crime…as long as there was sticky food involved.  Let a hitman smear a victim with spray cheese…gone.  If the splatters on the wall are dried egg…whoosh…in comes the Corgi Cleaner and it is no longer there…never was…never could be.  She’s amazing…and a pig.  

Some might think I’m lazy, relying on the dogs for this little chore, but, hey, it works.  I raised a family…one kid a walking, talking, spilling mess producer…and rarely had to clean up piles of crud on the floor.  A quick swipe of the mop and tadah!…clean floor…thanks to a dog or two’s tongue.  Here’s to the cleaners…cheers to the doggie do it crew…thanks, girls. 

The Good Clean Genes Skipped Me

I love my mother.  Really.  She is a fine woman.  She is busy and intelligent and caring…and clean.  Yet, there are things about her that drive me nuts.  Seriously nuts.  Most of those things are the same things I do…thanks to her and her impressing traits and habits on me as a young child.  I hate the way she taps her foot.  I do it.  I hate the way she rearranges the food on her plate and clicks her spoon on her teeth.  I do it.  I hate the way she has to go OVERBOARD on things she gets involved in.  I do it.  I hate the way she obsesses about the little details of every little thing involving her family.  I do it.  

What I really wish is that instead of all these irritating little things, is that I would have inherited the organizational clean gene she has.  She can usually find things…or spends many hours looking for them in all the categories and files she has stashed in the basement closet.  She cleans things.  Yah, dusts, vacuums, scrubs…a trait I seem to have skipped in my learning process.  

So where is my organizing, clean gene?  Well, I like to blame her for that, too.  As a child I spent weekends helping clean house.  It wasn’t hard labor or anything, but I learned early the truth of the matter is–I really didn’t like it.  I would rather be outside helping on the ranch, working with the animals, even throwing bales or shoveling manure.  I really wasn’t just lazy.  I just didn’t care to worry about the dust building up on the very top ledge lining the kitchen cupboards or the fact the washing machine hadn’t been moved and vacuumed behind for the past three months.  I sure as heck didn’t care about the mysterious place beneath the couch…a space my mother tended to be obsessed with. 

Now the organizing thing…well, I get off on that…as long as it has to do with other people’s stuff…It is kind of like going to a motel…if it is the slightest bit dirty…YUCK!  Disgusting.  It is other people’s dirt.  I have to wipe the floor and make sure I don’t touch the carpet more than I need to, but my own floor…well, where it can be seen…it’s dirty.  The carpet probably has dog hair even if I just vacuumed.  So, I obsess about other people’s office and workspace and closets.  I’m really helpful…a true talent at organizing THEM…the poor disorganized things. My own house…still guess I don’t care all that much about the dirt…it sure would be nice to pretend the office was someone else’s and dive in with gusto to get it organized.  Maybe I’ll try imagining I’m working for ME.  I am a bit of a workaholic…that makes me a good employee for anyone and for ME…It just might work…since I can’t do anything about the missing gene thing.  Thanks a lot, Mom.

One Less Desk, Six more piles

My son needed a small desk for his office/laundry room. Since he has given me four beautiful grandchildren and a granddog I attempt to kiss his bottom and help out when it is feasible. I have two desks I really don’t use for anything except stashing and piling things on and with my great skills in both stashing and piling, I have decided I can get along without one of the desks in my office.

I was in my usual hurry this morning. I was supposed to be 90 miles away in two and a half hours. I like to be early…hate to be late and in this case refused to be late as I was going to babysit the grandkids…but I decided to measure the door of my car and see if the desk would fit in the back seat…an idea my husband had scoffed at on an earlier trip…Hey! Surprise! It was just tall enough to possibly squeeze in. I figured I had about 15 minutes to work with so being the amazing time manager I am, I grabbed a couple of boxes and started emptying drawers. I dumped and stacked the drawer…dumped and stacked the drawer…seven times. Then, I started dragging the desk around the table in the middle of the office toward the door. Oops, bumped my Mary Kay delivery bag box…they crashed on the floor. No time to pick them up. Crud, knocked off a box of catalogs and samples. No time to pick them up. Next, while wiggling the desk to get past something on the right, I nudged something on the left, tripped into one of the boxes I’d emptied drawers into and watched one pile of the to-be-filed sales slips slip to the floor. That must be why they are called slips. Okay, drag and pull, push and wedge…after one grand attempt, to re-thinks and a massive surge of strength, the desk was ensconced in the back seat of my car.

I felt a huge sense of satisfaction and a large amount of smugness at proving my husband wrong. Then I raced into the office to grab the last two drawers. Oh, shoot, what a mess. If I had found just a few minutes more, I could have stashed and piled my way to at least a little floor space, but the clock was ticking, the grandkids were waiting and I had to go. Tomorrow I’ll work miracles…Or they’ll work me…don’t know which. It’s just a few more piles.

One Less Pile, One Cat Watching

There it is, staring me in the face.  Reminds me of a cat I once knew.  He would sit in the window and stare at me.  He was a wild cat, lived outdoors all of his life, I didn’t even know where he came from.  He’d sit on the windowsill and stare in, observing my comings and goings, using my life as his entertainment, judging me.  He didn’t really like me.  He would disappear as soon as I opened the door to put out more food for him in the dish I obligingly filled every morning.  I was his necessary provider and something to occupy his time.

So why does the pile under the end table remind me of that cat?  Guess it’s because it makes me feel guilty.   I feel guilty the pile is still there waiting to be sorted through…the cat, well, maybe I should have invited him in.  That pile seems to be staring at me…taunting me…The cat did that too.  He stared and seemed to be laughing at my inability to live a real life.  He knew I’d never caught a mouse with my bare paws or fought for my life with the neighbor or sat on a fence post singing for my love.  Hah, Mr. Cat,  I might have done that last one.  Anyway, the pile is taunting me.  I’m not a psychologist so I can’t say where this weird thought association came from, but still, it’s there.

Difference is…I can get off my kazoo and go through the pile.  Toss most of it.  Save what I REALLY need and say goodbye to another guilt.  Then it will be gone.  And I am proud to say it won’t live on in my memory like the cat.  It will just be one more pile gone.  I’ll dust the end table and go on with my life just a little less cluttered.  I kind of miss that cat.  I’m pretty sure I behaved a little better when I knew he was watching…cats can be so judgmental. 

Duluthian Organizational Excitement

Man, I just took a hit.  Dude, it was soo good.  Mmmm.  Yeah, the best catalog ever..lots of organizational goodies to straighten out my life.  Cab organizers for the truck…on-the-go desks…briefcases for the real human being…the coolest tool belts and tool bags ever.  Gosh, I love Duluth Trading Post…and I’m not even a man…I can’t imagine how high I would get if I were a construction worker.  Well, not too high…I’m afraid of heights, but an organizational high.  Really, so blooming cool I want to order one of everything and then run around singing and giggling.  I wish instead of enjoying the gadgets and thoughts that go into organizing I could actually put the effort into doing it in my own home…but then that might take the excitement out of the entire process. I’m a better fantasy organizer.  

Oh, and let me tell you about the catalog.  For those of us with a weird sense of humor, the catalog is entertainment in itself.  A kind of cross between “Mad” and “Reader’s Digest Life in These United States.”  Very creative.  I’d imagine if you lived in the frigid cold of Duluth, Minnesota you’d be pretty excessively creative also…or pregnant all the time…what else is there to do during those long winters?  Clean house?  I think not.  Work overtime?  Excuse me.  Not enough hours in the day as it is.  Learn to snow sculpt?  Sure, if I can use some of the fascinating tools and clothes Duluth Trading Company hawks.  Oh, and how about one of those incredible luggage sets they have to haul all the the incredible clothes in and oh, I could use one of their mug organizers to put all my pens and pencils into when I’m not drawing the plans for the ice sculptures…oh, and what about the neat roll up tool bag that my carving tools would go in…Gee, I almost forgot…sorry.  And…well, I could wear the long-tail tee shirt so I wouldn’t have plumber’s crack when I’m working on the base of my sculpture…ooooh, I’m getting high again. Heart’s pounding.  Breathing rapid and erratic…pulse boom chickety boom…gotta go. I just got an e-mail from Duluth…their e-mail ads are awesome too.