this is 34

July 4, two days before my birthday
I wake up knowing that there is no coffee in the house and very little in the way of anything that might come close to constituting breakfast for me and my beloved BFF Nikki. Instead of showering or combing my hair or putting in my contacts or really trying in any way to look like a reasonable human being, I pull on loose sweat pants, a tshirt from staffing AthFest four years ago and flip-flops, grab my glasses and twist my hair up into a bed-head ponytail combination at best. Yesterday's mascara may or may not be speckled across my cheeks. And that's how I go to Kroger to grocery shop. Classy.

July 5, one day before my birthday
When I take a shower, the water backs up into the shower. After valiantly plunging and pulling out a gross conglomeration of human and cat hair and forcing the shower to belch up black sediment, I do what any single woman in my position does. I called Dad.

He plunged the shower with far more skill and vigor, and it in turn regurgitated more sooty black sediment onto the tile. And when we go to investigate the plumbing in the basement, we discover about a 1/2 inch of water spreading across the concrete floor from the wall to the staircase.

I depart and drive across town to pay my ad valorem tax (with one day to spare!), return in a torrential downpour and find that my toilet is now in my shower. Because it's leaking into the basement and the seal is broken. And Dad is in said basement, wailing on the outflow pipe cap, which is all tarnished and warped in its cast iron setting. He finally wrenches it out and water pours from the pipe into the floor.

While he threads the pipe in search of the problem, I go to Home Depot and Lowe's only to discover that the 2 1/2" brass cap isn't standard size any more. And that's how I end up with a Diet Mountain Dew bottle forced into the pipe's end and duct taped within an inch of its life.

July 6, my birthday
Dad goes out early to Luke Hardware where they have a single 2 1/2" brass cap in a box of old junk. Literally. In a box. Of junk. Dad installs the brass fitting, and despite his best efforts and threading tape, there's a slow drip out of the bottom end. We google for how to seal a brass cap in a cast iron pipe. And Mom and Dad take off for another trip to the hardware store to find some mysterious epoxy. While they're gone, Nikki and I use a push broom and a shovel to remove water from the basement. Later, the epoxy applied, the slow drip persists, but nothing a little bucket can't handle.

Nikki and I both shower. And I'm annoyed that the water is still backing up in the shower. And I hear a strange burbling coming from the toilet. And when she gets out of the shower, she says that the drain clogged in the guest bath, too. And then when we go to turn the light on to admire ourselves in the full-length mirror in the hall and the bulb blows and I tell her I'll go to the basement and get the step stool so we can change the bulb...well...that was 34. Thirty-four full on in my adult face and raining down in my basement from every pipe and joint I can see and dripping down the window and wetting the baseboards with insidious water from God-only-knows-where. So I swore roundly and yelled up the stairs for Nikki to bring the trash cans -all of them! - and like the poor man's bucket brigade, we positioned every can and bowl and pot I had to strategically capture a small percentage of the water bursting into my basement.

We finished getting ready and arrived at my birthday dinner nearly an hour late and sat outside before being chased inside by the never-ending series of cloudbursts that have marked the past few weeks. And then we walked in the rain to the bar to meet others for drinks. And all the while, I thought of the rain in my basement. And before we went home that night, we went to the bathroom at my office.

***

Today, the plumber came. Hours of threading the pipes and $300 later, the clog has been dislodged and the plumbing set to rights. And I put in a call to a guy to clean my gutters because if I don't they're going to fall off the house. And my dad mentioned that one of my basement windows might be rotting. And when I got home tonight, there was a snake in the carport. And so far, 34 is making me feel very much like perhaps I should go to bed and pull the covers up over my head. But that would likely be inviting a leak in the ceiling...

Overcoming My Slothly Ways

Lest you think that on every weekend, I'm as industrious as I was on this one, let me update you on today's productivity.

* Finished Ready Player One, a book that, if you grew up in the '80s and have any affinity for the video games of yore, you must read.

* Updated my GoodReads accordingly and demanded that my best friend and at least three others finish and or read it poste haste.

* Browsed the library book sale and scored 30-plus books and a few movies  for a mere $20.

* Successfully avoided gameday traffic.

* Added all new books - and there are quite a few from the recent carnage at Borders - to the shelves in the stubrary. Alphabetized and everything.

* In the process, identified at least four books that can be donated to next year's library sale. Including my copy of Sophie's Choice. The. worst. book. ever. (Okay, so maybe Heart of Darkness is the worst, but I've already gotten rid of that one.)

* Assembled my brand new vacuum cleaner, my very first non-hand-me-down model. And, yes, it's only been riding around in the back of the Rav for a week. Details, details.

* Used said vacuum cleaner to clear away the growing colony of dust bunnies in the corners of my room

* Also used vacuum with hose not properly attached, whirling aforementioned dust bunnies into the air.

* Cleaned both bathrooms, which I'm sorry to say, gave me great concern over the amount of hair I seem to shed.

* Emptied the dishwasher. Loaded the dishwasher. Emptied the dishwasher. I sense a theme here...

* Did four loads of laundry which equals no less than eight trips up and down the basement stairs

* Listened to newly procured Adele's 21 album. So late to the party on that one, but it's a masterpiece.

* Changed the sheets on both beds, meaning tonight's sleep will be Snuggle-rific.

* And speaking of sleep...

32

Photo: Leo Reynolds

According to Wikipedia, 32 is a happy number. It's also the number of pages in a standard comic book. And the Fahrenheit temperature at which water freezes. Today, it's also my age - a way of marking the passage of time. The last few years, that particular pastime has been full of frustrations at those things that weren't part of the equation. Those things that, in my own mind and heart or in the eye's of others were subtractions. But this year, I choose to look at the math a little differently. This year, I'm going to look at what adds up to 32 reasons to celebrate myself.

1. Daughter - Perhaps my first role in life...one I arrived almost a full month late for, but when I showed up, it was with a total devotion to my parents that I carry still.
2. Little sister - It came fast on the heels of daughter, being a sister, and the fierce loyalty and love for my older sister and brother with it.  
3. Friend - I'm still friends with some of my earliest friends - Sarah, who I've known since I was three; Niki, who's been one of my dearest friends since first grade.  That loyalty thing again.
4. Loyalty - So let's talk about that thing loyalty. Once I'm won, I'm hard to lose.
5. Smile - From the earliest pictures, I can see my smile. Even if the baby face doesn't look like me anymore, that smile - big, open, happy - is there.
6. Laugh - Loud, cackling and anything but ladylike, it's frequent and heartfelt. And contagious.
7. Writer - I found one of the great loves of my life early in words and stuck with it.
8. Pictures - My eyes see, and I can show what I see.
9. Honesty - I cannot tell a lie. Never could.
10. Hugs - Hugs are little bits of love passed on through a squeeze. I believe in 'em. And I give them out with reckless abandon.
11. Compassion - No one ever cries alone.
12. Left-handed - My wronghandedness has always been a badge of honor - especially when I have the telltale smear of pen ink on the outside of my hand.
13. Humor - I can laugh at me.  That's important.
14. Courage - When I got to a point in my life when I really needed help, I admitted my frailties and found the strength to ask for help.
15. Clumsiness - My bruises and scrapes (literal and figurative) have been the reason for many a side-splitting story.
16. Dandelions - I know they're weeds, but even weeds need love.
17. Hopeful - Despite the trials and tribulations, I never lose hope that better things await.
18. Creativity - The inner-workings of my brain are mysterious and magical.
19. Faith in mankind - While it gets me into trouble from time to time, I have an unfailing (some would say naive) faith in the goodness of man.
20. Aunt - A more recent addition to my list (four years and counting), I lavish love on my nieces and nephews.  And promise to teach the left-handed one to tie his shoes.
21. Volunteer - The notion of giving of one's self and one's time entirely for the benefit of someone else carries the power of change.
22. Adventure - Some would question my inclusion of this...not an innate quality of mine...but a learned one that has led me to push my boundaries and discover the world outside of my comfort zone.
23. Openness - No mystery here, which I often lament. But you can trust that what you see is what you get.
24. Simplicity - While I can get caught up in an overstimulated need/want frenzy with the best of them, in the end, I can enjoy the simplest of things: clouds, a particularly lovely tree, a drop of water on the edge of a petal, that you can buy something called Fluff in a jar.
25. House - The bane of my existence for some time, it's still something I accomplished. Like a grown-up or something.
26. Nostalgia - All that came before, hazy with hindsight, is precious.
27. Shoes - What, you say?  How can shoes be on this list?  Because they've evolved into some extension of all the facets of my personality.  A shoe for all seasons.
28. Grace in the profane - One of my grad school professors used this phrase all the time...and I like to think I've learned how to see the grace even in the dimmest of circumstances.
29.  Curiosity - Mostly this leads to the accumulation of more useless trivia knowledge, but occasionally, I find a way to turn it into something meaningful.
30.  Encourager - I will be your cheerleader and your champion.  Your triumph is mine; your failure is a reason for me to swoop in with hugs (see #10).
31.  Singing - It's a terrible racket. But I do it because it makes me happy - with the windows down and the radio up, and it's one thing that's taught me not to apologize for those things that bring me joy.
32. Love - In an ever-widening circle of people, from those who have known me for decades, to those who have come into my life in recent years and months, there is love.  I never run out of that.

So that's my list.  Happy birthday to me and all my 32 years.

Terra Cotta's Gotta Go from Walnut Grove

When I was looking at houses, I passed over the one I bought a couple dozen times because I hated the shutters.  I know what that anonymous eponymous they say about getting hung up on paint colors that can be changed.  But this paint color gave the house such a repugnant drab watery look that I couldn't get over it.  These terra cotta shutters destroyed the whole house for me - so much so that it took a little convincing from my real estate agent to include it on the caravan of listings we were scheduled to see in the neighborhood.  Once I saw the inside and - let's face it - the towering trees in the backyard, I was sold.  Suddenly the odious repulsive shutters seemed like a small obstacle standing between me and home sweet home.  (We need not return to the list of much larger obstacles that have presented themselves since then.)  But back to the vile shutters that looked like this:

There's something so...old about those boring brick-colored shutters that do absolutely nothing for the brick color of the house.  It all melted together in one awful conglomeration of blah.  And I may be many things, but blah is not one of them.  As such, I decided to leave Terra Cotta Town for the olive-toned territory of Walnut Grove.  Behold the great greenness:

It's like a new house.  Like I left behind moth balls and knitting nights for swinging 21st century living.  Or something like that.  Also, I clearly need to spend some time admiring my new shutters while raking. *Ahem*  And while I was at it, I had the deck stained to better match the house, too.

Perhaps part of the moving problem had to do with the atrocious exterior - the dated ill-chosen shutters that made me feel like I might be learning macrame and hanging velvet paint-by-numbers inside while wearing orthopedic shoes and sporting shapeless day dresses.  But now that we're in Walnut Grove, I think that I have found a befitting haven for my stilettos, pumps and flats that is retro chic instead of retro shack.

The Lawnmower (Wo)Man

Call me spoiled.  Or girly.  Or the baby of the family.  (All three would be apropos.)   But I have never mowed the lawn.  I do have a lawnmower - a housewarming gift from my parents - but heretofore the bright green self-propelled Lawnboy with the detachable clippings-catcher bag has been propelled by my dad.  But seeing as how the lawn looked like this:

The grass has reached new heights.

Crop circles are really just aliens' way of telling us we need to mow.

And because the overall curbview of my house was starting to look a little bit unkempt and had me worrying that the neighbors I don't know on the left side might start leaving nastygrams in my mailbox or spray-painting "Cut Me" on the front lawn because it looked like this:

What's up, ghetto lawn?

I decided that today might be the day that I learn to push the lawnmower.  I enlisted the instruction of the world's most experienced lawn mower who has been mowing lawns for eons and covered enough acreage on the Berry College campus (just ask him) to have dulled the blades of at least 87 farm implements: my dad.

We rolled the mower out of my basement and went over the basics.  The little lever you have to grab to crank it.  The best approach to pulling the start cord hard and fast enough to turn the engine over and the squeeze bar that controls the self-propellage.  Grabbing the lever as instructed, I pulled the cord through til I felt resistance and then gave it a yank.  Nothing.  Dad suggested I straighten my left arm out.  So I stood up and held my left arm out in front of me Macarena-style which caused Dad to double over in laughter.  "What?" I asked, perplexed.  He nudged me to the side, depressed the lever, and holding his left arm straight for leverage, gave the cord a mighty yank, immediately starting the mower.  "Oh."  After a few unsuccessful attempts, I was able to get it started.  "NOW WHAT?!" I yelled over the motor.  Dad gestured to the overgrown yard like the world was my oyster, looked at my determined face, thought better of the "have at it" approach and directed me toward a rather straight patch close to the house that would be hidden by bushes if I totally butchered it.  But I didn't! 

Obligatory action shot captured by Mom

Dad made me shut off the mower to give me a few tips, and then I had to start it again.  Uh-oh.  Seriously, you've got to yank that cord from here to Mississippi to get the dratted thing to work.  Hello, lower back pain.  Hello, totally out of shapeness.  Hello, I look really stupid trying to start a lawnmower.

Look at me with my straight left arm!

I learned a few things today while mowing.

•  That self-propelled thing is garbage.  There was pushing involved.
• However, if you squeeze the bar hard enough, it will propel, and you will find yourself racing along behind a totally out-of-control Lawnboy.
• Mom said I would learn to make the lawnmower work for me, but today, the lawnmower won.
• It is best to close your mouth when removing and dumping the clipping bag.
• I'm pretty sure that I have muscles in my butt that have never been used before today.  Let's hope that in addition to trimming the lawn, I can get some tush-toning out of this arrangement.



We're going to need some Rogaine for this bald patch stat.

• If you lose control of the mower when it's going over, say the edge of the drainage ditch, it is possible to scalp your grass.

• It is cruel, cruel fate when you choke the motor with your ridiculously long grass for the 57th time and remember that you requested a key-start mower to avoid the aggressive cord-yanking rigmarole.  And there, gleaming in the afternoon sun, after you've finished the back and front yard and pushed through to finish the side yard, is a key zip-tied to the handle.

With God as my witness, I will never go yanky again.

The shorn backyard in all its glory.

That, my friends, is a well cut lawn.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere are Signs

On my way home from work today, I stopped by the house I don't live in to pick up the mail.  As noted, I still have to pay the bills.  The yard needs mowing, and the area around the front walk and the flower beds in the sideyard need weeding.  There's a great burst of something unwanted coming through a crack in the driveway, thriving until I can get at it with some RoundUp. 

I unlocked the door and walked through the house, just to assure myself that everything was okay on the inside.  Other than smelling slightly shut up, all was well. 

I left feeling discouraged, thinking about this state of limbo in which I find myself.  I know I will get there, and in the long run, the six months that have passed will be inconsequential.  But in that moment, I pulled out of the driveway,wondering when I would get there.

I passed a Methodist church that always has a pithy saying on the sign out front, and I've made a habit of checking the message when I drive past - if for no other reason than I love a good pun.  Today, there was no wit, no wordplay.  Just "The Joy of the Lord is Your Strength.  Neh. 8:10."  I pondered it as I came to the yield sign, looked to the left and then pulled onto old 441.  When I looked back right, a smidgen of a rainbow was smeared across the clouds above the trees.

At home, I looked up Nehemiah 8:10.  And lo and behold, the words just before the part quoted on the sign are "do not grieve."  "Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength."   Couple that with a rainbow, the sign of God's covenant with the earth.  A symbol of peace and of hope.  A reminder of the very shortly passed storm, its turbulence and fury, and the beauty that emerges after.  A promise.


Rainbow photo via Life in the Bristolwood.

You Don't Live in Your House Yet? & Answers to Other Frequently Asked Questions

You don't live in your house yet?
No, I do not, in fact, live in the house yet.  No, nay, nope, nuh-uh.  Negatory, good buddy.  And even if you repeat the question in a different tone, the answer will still be the same.  Ditto if you add eyebrow raises and slack-jawed disbelief.

Why not?
Because I bought the house under the auspices that everything was hunky-dory when it was, in fact, not hunky-dory.  Just two weeks after signing my life away, my beloved Kudzu took ill.  And that lasted for four months before he passed away.  When he was sick, we couldn't move him.  After he died, we couldn't move me.

Wait.  You're saying you didn't move because of a cat?
Yes, yes, I am.  And if you so much as breathe the merest suggestion that this reason is not sufficient or reasonable or sane, we are no longer friends.

When did you buy the house?
 In February, the 26th of said month to be exact.  Before the whole world fell to pieces.

So how long has it been?
Six months and 6,574 questions

Where are you living?
I considered a number of options - there was the option to sleep under my desk since we do have a shower in the office (strange but true), but I discarded that idea, so I've remained in the household of my gracious, patient and very entertaining parents.

Are your parents upset?
Well, seeing as how they kept the autistic cat with no teeth who sometimes drools on the sofa and the feral cat that no one can touch who sometimes scratches the sofa, the fact that their youngest daughter who neither drools on nor shreds the sofa is still in residence is pretty much a-okay.

Isn't that expensive?
Why, yes, it is.  Especially when you discover that your toilet was left running, gushing up an $800 water bill.  Not to mention every month when I pay my mortgage, which, for the record, no anonymous benefactor has stepped forward to pay.  Interested parties should inquire within.

So is the house just empty?
No, actually, it's not.  It's a circa-1960 storage unit that now contains most of my cookware, two sofas, a television not hooked up to cable, and a stubrary full of books.

Do you have a target date in mind?
I, like the U.S. government, seem to be struggling a bit with my exit strategy.  I assure you that everything is going according to plan, and I see no reason that the operation cannot be completed within a reasonable time frame as soon an executable strategy is in place.  (So...no.)

What are you waiting for?
An Executive Order.  Divine intervention.  Planetary allignment.

Do you need help?
Psychiatric?  Yes.  What sort are you offering?