Bring out your dead

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I've heard of Rat Week. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound like anything I'd willingly take part in. It is, apparently, a college thing, but it's something I missed during my days of big hair and scrunched socks. I was busy studying alone in my dorm room and volunteering for various church-related charities.

This week, however, has given me a taste. Okay, perhaps that's not the phrase I want to use here because this hasn't been Rat Week. It's been Mouse Week.

It started over the weekend when I finally gave up waiting for MathMan to put out the mouse bait and did it myself. Hey - you over there wondering why I was waiting for the big, strong man to poison the itty bitty mice - I was waiting for him to do it because when I bought the stuff, he said he would take care of it. Then the waiting began. He's a busy man. This is our system. If I mention it, he gets huffy and if I jump in and do it myself, he gets huffy. Meanwhile, I continue to get a fright whenever I go into the garage because a bunch of  mice are holding a key party in the trashcan next to the door.

After what seemed like an acceptable amount of time in marital gridlock, I chose action. I put the bait out knowing that if I had to, I could apologize later. The fact that I was stepping out of the shower when I mentioned my betrayal probably had nothing to do with MathMan's insouciant response. He didn't even blink as he said, "That's fine.........."

I warned the cats to stay away from any mice who migrated into the house because they could be snacks bearing a deadly dose of poison.

The cats, being cats, didn't listen. Tuesday I traipsed through a darkened hallway in my barefeet and stepped on a dead mouse. After I finished screaming, I scooped up the carcass bearing a few bite marks and disposed of it. I congratulated the cats en masse then retired to my bedroom where I showered and had a lie down.

On Wednesday, it was brought to my attention that "we" had a dead mouse in the garage. Funnily enough, none of those assholes I live with picked up said mouse and disposed of it. So last night, I gathered up my courage, donned some thick gardening gloves and a pair of safety goggles and descended the garage steps.

I'm not sure why I thought the safety goggles were necessary, but it turns out I could have used one of those white masks to keep the germs out.

There wasn't one mouse. There were five. I swept the first one into the dustpan while trying to look away. I apologized to the poor mouse and with a little salute slid him into the plastic bag I had with me. The next mouse; the same thing.

Then I eyeballed the third mouse. It was by far the largest. It was going to take me a minute to recover and carry on with this clean up so while I tried to clear my head, I swept the garage floor. I swept out the corners near the outside doors, under the lawnmower and behind the bicycles. I moved the trash and recycling and swept out from behind them.

Let me just say that that garage floor is clean.

Finally, I forced myself to get back to the task. On my approach to the big, quite grizzled looking mouse carcass, I noticed another, much smaller body by the workbench.

A baby mouse. I'd killed a baby mouse.

I went to it and apologized in my high squeaky voice, the voice normally reserved for cats, puppies, and deer on the side of the road.

I am so so sorry.

Well, what did I think was going to happen when I put out the poison? Poison doesn't discriminate, you murderer.

I took the broom and began to sweep the poor little thing into the Dustpan of Doom. The mouse had other ideas.

While I leaped back and screamed, it started to flop around with its lower body inert. It made a valiant effort and turned itself over. Once it got its momentum, it rolled some more. That mouse was doing sideways somersaults in my direction!

I clutched the broom and dustpan like talismans and stepped back, just barely avoiding the big, dead mouse.

My shoulders slumped as I considered what to do next. The baby mouse stopped flopping around and stretched out one tiny, fingered paw in my direction as if to say "I hope you're happy now, Lady! May you never forget this moment."

Yeah, I'm going to be seeing that in my dreams for a long, long time.

I asked the garage what Karma would deliver to me in retribution.

Karma, that wretch, didn't wait long to answer.

I took a deep breath and braced to clean up what had grown into a rat in my mind. As I swept it into the pan, it turned over. Maggots cascaded from its head. I choked back the... well, you can imagine.

The rat dispatched to the garbage bag, I decided to give the baby mouse a little reprieve while I collected the mouse I noticed next to the furnace. That went well enough if you don't mind the smell of death. Me? I'm not a fan.

Finally I had to put the baby out of its misery. By which I mean I swept him into the pan and slid him as gently as possible into the plastic bag and then put that bag into the garbage bag and tied it up and tried not to think of anything especiallythemovementsandtinysoundscomingfromthebag.

A green ribbon hung perversely from a small opening in the top of the garbage bag. I left it there.

Feeling silly for putting them on in the first place, I stashed the safety goggles in their drawer.  Then, while I tugged off the gloves, I took one last glance around the garage and shivered.

So this is death. Time for another shower and a lie down.

30 Day Photography Challenge: From a low angle

I interpreted low to mean physically close to the ground rather than the emotional low. Who wants to see photos of me lying slack-jawed and staring into the distance in my disheveled bed? Fully clothed. In yesterday's clothes.

Instead, I took up my trusty point and shoot (the only camera I own) and got things like this.

I lay on the ground for this one and after taking a couple of shots, rolled onto my back and looked up at the trees from below. A green canopy filtered the light from the rising sun.

How nice it would be to just stay there enjoying the cool breezes.

Then a neighbor drove by and stared at me.

What?

Getting up from that position required some serious negotiation with my knees.

I am reminded of the noises my mother makes upon standing.

Oy vey.

 These guys are waiting to be pressed into service. Lots of trees and all that.

I don't really share their enthusiasm.

 Of course cats would enter into this. I can't believe it took six days before this happened.

I realize looking at these photos that living in a split level means lots of stairs. I should be less curvy as a result which means only one thing. I'm going to have to lay off the salads.

Randal gives me a wee bit of vertigo and then redeems himself with a tender gesture.

Geoffrey explores point of view with some leaping results.

Summer gives us grief. And it's brilliant and beautiful and heartbreaking.

Take a good look around

Photos from my hometown.

Home 1965 - 1984.

(It didn't have the swing with the pool in front and the garage door was a garage door)

Sometimes I shared a room with my sister. That's it - the window on the far left.

A visit home with MathMan. My brother lays across the porch.
It's hard to remember him with hair.

circa 1990

I loved that front porch.
Except for that idiotic goose and its ribbon around its neck.
My mother got eyebrow deep into that horrid faux country look.
First it was faux colonial with cheap bedwarmers hung on the wall and eagles.
And there was the Dutch Modern Incident.
My father never bought furniture again without consulting Mother.
And then came the mid 80s with its geese and pineapples in wishy washy peaches, mauve and dusty blue.
 Thank god for Martha Steward who pulled middle America out of that home decor nightmare.
Faux country decor made me long for the avocado green and gold appliances of the 1970s.
Celadon green was the cure.

When I lived there it was called Pavy's Hardware. 

Mr. Pavy's wife and daughter never drove.

They rode their bikes with baskets on front all through the town.

Mrs. Pavy wore cat eye glasses and the daughter had long dark hair.

 Today the building houses an arts center.

That seems right to me.

My friend Craig, who later became a great photographer in his own right, 

took a photo of me standing against that wall.

That was 1985. Long before digital photography.

It was my first introduction to what one could do with black and white.

 

The streets where we ran wild and free down by the river. 

This was in the dark ages before helicopter parents and

P.R. campaigns about stranger danger.

If anyone was buggering you, you were probably related to them

or knew them.

Sadly, nothing has changed, just the displaced fear of people we don't know.

The library where I checked out my very first book I Want to Be A Beauty Operator.

And lots of Bobsey Twins, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys and also discovered the magic of Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steele.

Thank you, Andrew Carnegie, for giving even those of us in tiny towns the gift of the public library.

MathMan and I tried moving to Rising Sun once, but it didn't work out.

This would have been our house if we'd stayed and our place in Illinois had sold.

This house was once a girls' school dormitory.

The attic rooms on the 3rd floor still showed signs of a fire that happened around the turn of the century.

Mark this as regret #4,678 - the expired real estate contract.

Down below town. The bridge I jumped from.

That is not a metaphor. I really was that stupid.

When I say the word home, it's hard to know what I mean. It might mean Rising Sun, Indiana. It might mean Chicago and its suburbs. It might mean the middle of nowhere, Georgia. It might mean my family.


What feels like home to you?

You talk about the junk you did

I've been digging around in the archives here and from the old blogs looking for posts as I work on a project. It's slow going, but hopefully worth it.

So here's a question I have for you. Especially those of you who've been around for a long time and have strong retention skills. Sadly, I don't which is why this project is going slower than it should. Anyway, if you can remember anything from a post that stood out for you, please leave a comment. Anything. The kernel of an idea you remember. A line that stood out. A title. The accompanying picture. The general topic. Anything. But there are two caveats for this project:

1. It has to be a post about relationships.
2. I'm looking for funny, humorous, wryly presented. I don't really do wry, do I? You know what I mean though.

This is awkward to ask. It feels so - - gross. As if you guys don't have anything better to do than remember posts from my goofy blogs. But before I hit the submit button, I want to make sure I've collected my best work.

Meanwhile, I'm working on something else and just as I prepared to sluice down the memory hole, this newish song by Lucinda Williams came on and I was all How perfect! I'm adding to my playlist for writing, for life. For drinking beer and lighting matches for the sulphur sting because that reminds me of something, too.

Thanks, gang, for indulging me. Enjoy the song, the rest of your weekend and your buttercup...

Just See a Thing or Two in Me

As part of the series where I introduce or reintroduce the members of my family, I'd like to give you MathMan.  Not literally, of course.  He's the glue that holds the rest of together.  I'd say he's the most important piece of the puzzle because without him, there would be no us.

But what can I say about the person who has shared over half my life, alternately loving me and wishing a painful death upon my sorry ass?  Okay, here's a perfect example of a MathManism. Just now he wanted to know why I was snickering as I typed (lord, I snicker at my own writing, how embarrassing) so I read him the line.  His response?  "That's passion, honey.  You may not think we're passionate about each other, but you'd be wrong."

Over the years, I've written many posts either about or including MathMan.  He's a gift, a source of material both poignant and humorous.  I'm sorry I can't link to the old Unglued blog because those were times to try this couple's soul and MathMan's light really shined that summer of 2008.  Lately, we get along so well, it seems almost like the calm before a storm, but the truth is, we're in the eye of the storm.  Thankfully, we've learned to use the other as both anchor and launch.  It's a lot easier to take risks when you've got a safe place to return to.

I did a little research into my own scholarly writings on love, marriage, and friendship and found a few posts that would best illustrate this man I met in August 1987, hooked up with on October 1, 1987, began cohabiting with in November 1987, married in August 1988, lived apart from August 1997 - November 1997, separated from in October 2000, was served divorce papers by in December 2000, reconciled with in February 2001, treated badly January 2008 - May 2008, ran away from for a day May 19, 2008 and returned to bruised and broken, but smarter May 20, 2008.

The rest has been smooth sailing ... if you like a wild ride, that is.  Why he puts up with the drama will probably always be a mystery to me, but I'm fortunate that he does.

I've thought a lot about what it means to love and be loved.  The main male character in my first manuscript is based on MathMan.  While working on that book, I've had a chance to really dissect what it is that I like about him, what I love, what I find perplexing and what I wish were different.  In so many ways, that piece of writing has been a labor of love.

There's so much I want to say, but then so much has already been said.  So let's take a look...

The Many Faces of MathMan, not a poem
He's the man who pulled the poo cork.
Who texts me from the bathroom to let me know he's peeing. (True story)
He's the driver for the Commute Chat video series
He's a math guy and so much more.
The father of my children, Big Daddy to the cats.
He's my muse, my erotic inspiration, the person who tells me to get my butt in the chair and write and stop whining about it.
He makes me laugh. And laugh some more.

One of his hallmarks is the ability to say a lot using a minimum of words.  This morning I sat in bed reading Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees and read the following to MathMan:

"Most writers appear neurotic; the truth is, we don't know the half of it.....What's useful about neurotic behavior is that they lend a shapeless day structure.  If you must use yellow paper, if you must drink a double espresso before starting, if you can only write for three hours in the morning, then at least you have parameters...."

MathMan rolled his eyes.  "That's because you're all Special Ed."

He went on to say that he'd learned a few years ago in a training that if someone said the characters moved on the paper, try giving them colored paper to use.  He has a whole bag of tricks for helping learners cope with their unique styles.

He also noted that he's always known that I'm a little crazy.  This was said without apology or derision, a statement of fact like 2 + 2 = 4.

I'd be a liar if I tried to contradict him.

Circa 1988. A great year for love, for hair? Not so much.

Rewinding Part 2 It's a Trip

A thrilling story of exotic travel on a budget, family bliss and regional food.....

We got on the road yesterday at about 7:20pm. We endured/enjoyed the typical travel drama. Garbo issues the warning that she's "not feeling well." Mama (that's still me, dang it) manages to handle the news with her usual lack of grace.

"This is why I wanted to travel alone." The words just hang in the air. MathMan, who had balked at my idea of going by myself when I initially announced that idea, played peacemaker by suggesting a stop at the CVS for chewable Dramamine for Garbo, beef jerky for The Actor/Ninja and chocolate for me.

MathMan is wise.

Fueled by Chic Fil-A because we had a gift card and a coupon for a free kids meal that Garbo and I could split (we are, after all, frugal travelers), we navigated our way through Cartersville and onto I75 North, pointed towards our destination of Rising Sun, Indiana.

At about the fiftieth mile, Mathman was tossing Rolos into my mouth. By mile sixty, I was asking if we were there yet. Around about mile seventy-two, we'd already heard the Miley Cyrus song The Climb twice. By mile ninety, the Actor/Ninja had announced, yet again, that the Jonas Brothers are talentless goombahs invented by Disney, except he didn't use those tidy terms.

By mile one-hundred, MathMan and I had re-asserted our dominance over the radio and were dancing and singing and moving to the groove when somebody turned around.......

Finally, before we become totally weary travelers, we pulled off in Clinton, Tennessee, not quite half-way, but north of Knoxville. We bypassed the Holiday Inn properties and chose the Country Inn and Suites instead. I can't leave the Toyota by the roadside, but I can choose not to patronize a hotel. (boycott reference)

I'll let you know how the free breakfast is. So far the place is clean, pleasant and a good space for us. The bed gets a thumbs down for being too firm. And I discovered that The Actor/Ninja who slept in the double bed opposite the one I shared with MathMan (Garbo slept on the foldout sofa in the living room area) talks in his sleep. And his sleeping patterns mirror mine. MathMan, as he tells it, fell asleep during the first episode on the Rosemary & Thyme dvd we brought along. He also fell asleep during the second and third. The Actor and I were still wide awake until somewhere in the third when we conked out around 2am. Ah, the joys of being hyper.

This morning we make the second half of our journey to the place of my beginnings. We'll stop in Lawrenceburg for food (I've already declared that we should stop for lunch before we make our presence known so that no family member feels compelled to offer "lunchmeat" at their house.) We may be traveling on a budget, but I don't go to the place of my birth for boiled ham on white bread with Miracle Whip. Oh,no.

We'll have Frish's Big Boy or Skyline Chili or we'll have nothing at all.

Tonight is the reunion. I really am looking forward to it. I know that some of you would rather chew glass than revisit your past, but for me, this is going home and that's not so bad in small doses. I'm rather happy to re-connect with the people with whom I shared my youth. Maybe it's because it was such a small school or maybe it's precisely because I don't get back there very often, but every once in a while, it's good for me to know that as rootless as I am now, there was once a place that I really called home*.

Oh, yes, the Royal Pains love to see their parents sing this and seat-dance. The shame and horror made them go all quiet.

*Let's see what I'm saying on the way back. Heh.

Sunburned in All the Wrong Places

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What Should I Put Cream Cheese Frosting on Next?

I think my last post may have been more gloomy than my newer readers are used to. Dude. If you knew me in my political blogging days, you would have been all "what they hell?" and "who needs this angst?" Yeah - those were the days.

So tonight, after he started speaking to me again because I was such a sourpuss on the drive home (What? no video of that?), MathMan asked me if I'd really told The Actor that we only have sex on Wednesdays. I stared at him for a moment before putting my head down on my keyboard to think. Did I?

"Why would you ask me that?" I mumbled into the desk.

"And did you say that sometimes we play naked flashlight tag?" he continued the interrogation.

I whimpered.

There was more to come. I continued to wince and whimper in recognition of my housecat-like mothering skills. "Because it sounds like something you would say. We discussed it on the way home from baseball practice. The Actor, me and his friend." Oh. No.

You see, it's one thing to tell on myself, to show off for you guys and be all la, la, la, look at my whipped up naughtiness and Parenting by Benign Neglect, but when I learn that the crazy stuff I tell my kids spills over to their friends, I get a little embarrassed because some of these kids don't have the sense to not tell their Proper Mamas. And Proper Mamas do not find my loopy brand of humor amusing. At all.

So yes, I'm sure, too, that I said that crazy stuff. What of it now? Well, perhaps we'll see the number of sleepovers slow down as word gets out that I'm foul-mouthed and filthy-minded.

Anyway, I spent the first twenty minutes of our afternoon commute with my eyes pinched shut or by staring moodily out the passenger side window. MathMan was having none of it and without the the benefit of having read my blogpost where I described my testiness and likely blood sugar issues, pressed, pushed and prodded until the dam broke, the words came spilling out and I shared with him my worries about work. (long, boring story) I hate boring him with tales from the workfront, but he seemed not to mind. Just venting helped me. (Thanks, Honey!)

And now the rush of baseball season is upon us. MathMan and The Actor will be gone a lot of the time. This is the time of year when I am left to my own devices too much of the time. When I'm not cleaning the sparkle off things, I'm looking for trouble and indulging in all manner of ill-advised pursuits that end in near-disaster, broken hearts, bad haircuts and unfinished projects in the garden. And that's the good stuff. (Do you ever wonder about the stuff I don't tell you about? Well, if you do, stop that. You'd never sleep again.)

However, with our new situation, Garbo seemed intent on shaking up the dynamic. She only had to ask me once to go to the park with her. I was amazed when I reminded her that we'd have to - gasp! - walk because I don't have a car anymore and she just shrugged and asked if she could ride her bicycle while I walked. No problem.

An hour later, we'd hiked the trail through the woods and along the creek, crossed the covered bridge, gone on the swings, and sauntered home again to spend another hour outside arranging pots and garden stuff and making a home for worms in a little pot. People of the Internets, if you could see the butt-groove in my cheapo, black swivel office chair, you'd realize what a huge deal this was.

Getting out in the fresh air, staring up at those clouds that look like a couple of merpeople about to kiss, listening to the bird who says "Drink your tea" over and over, noticing the smell of wood smoke in the air from the barbecue place down the road, feeling the breeze, enjoying the heft of pots just waiting to be filled with veggie seeds and colorful annuals, noticing the neighbors' houses - the dark wood sided one with the shady woodland garden and ivy-covered trees, and the other one with the lush green lawn and hydrangeas bursting out in pom poms of white? You must be wondering "What is the big deal?"

Plenty. It's been a long couple of years. It's good to be getting back to something closer to normal (for me, that is). I strolled along, watching Garbo on her bicycle, shrinking into the distance as she rode further ahead. I realized I wasn't holding my breath or about to let loose with a tirade of invectives and I didn't feel angry about anything.

I was just taking it all in. Later, I realized that I'd concluded something that had long needed concluding. Sorry to sound so cryptic, but I decided that the best thing to do sometimes is just pretend that a death has occurred. It's irrevocable. Done. Final. And sometimes, it's the inability to retrieve, the lack of hope that allows us to accept something. Finally.

I breathed. In and out. In and out. I didn't count my steps. I wasn't biting on the side of my tongue or furrowing my brow. I don't think I was even pursing my lips.....

*********************************************
Thank you, Fantastic Forrest, for pointing me toward your post tonight. I love the movie Garden State and I adore Zach Braff. I've had the Garden State soundtrack for some time now and there are a couple of songs on it that have been my off and on favorites. One is the one you posted (imagine that!) the other is an utter wallow-tune. And I'm just going to let that song go unplayed tonight for the reasons I mentioned above.

I do want to share with you a video I found that combines the artist who sings the song on the Garden State soundtrack that I love to wallow to and Scrubs, the show which brought Braff his popular fame.

I love the richness of Colin Hay's voice. And his hospital gown is pretty cute, too.

Thanks, MathMan, for the title of this post. Those pretzels dipped in cream cheese frosting were delish!

She Laughs As She Runs

My little grey cells are brimming over with things I want to blog about. And here I am still repeating "I have to get this video editing done" and fretting about a conference brochure that has to be in a draft form, ready for J's okay tomorrow.

Yesterday was filled with those little necessities in life like grocery shopping purchasing toilet paper. And then there were the kids' things that suck up a weekend, but good. Garbo's school chorus performed in the park down the road from us. It was so nice to get out and walk and just hang out for a little while, catching up with friends and eating (more) junk food.

Later, MathMan, The Dancer and I drove over to Gainesville to one of the schools being considered by The Dancer. We were there to attend a dance performance of original pieces choreographed by the school's seniors. I hope the additional visit helped The Dance with her decision because if she doesn't decide soon, she's going to see just what a control freak I really am.

For the record, MathMan has already decided for her. I'm still just playing the psychological game of having The Dancer think that this is her decision and hers alone. Maybe that's a Mom Thing?

The Actor has really taken to this new location. Not only does he have friends to hang out with, he's also discovered our local history museum. See, we've moved into a town that has preserved its old "downtown" or main commercial area. And by that, I mean, the old Commissaries built in 1860, the 1850 general store (still in operation), a 1900 blacksmith shop, the 1830s district courthouse, the calaboose (jail), and the grist mill ruins next to the community's crown jewel, the covered bridge. Beyond that, there's not much else. Oh, there is a fabulous barbecue place and a couple of churches, a nice park. I don't want to slight anyone.

The Actor, one of his friends and Garbo have been going to a small tributary creek that runs behind the history museum and into the larger Euharlee Creek. They're excavating pieces of a drag harrow that's buried in the creek bank. It's just the kind of thing I loved doing when I was a kid.

So that pretty much catches you up with the new place. Although I'm still concerned about how to redirect the birds from the old place to here, I'm happy to note that we've got a bunch of American Goldfinches, a nest of baby robins in one of our holly bushes, more mockingbirds than I care for and a fair amount of cardinals filling the trees around the New Golden Manor.

We've also got new birds that bring out my bird watching tendencies. We've had visits from eastern towhees (who have a funny habit of hopping from one branch to the next as the travel up a tree) and cedar waxwings, whom I just adore with their taupe bodies and masks of mysterious black.
Now I'm trying to learn their calls. The other evening, right before dusk, I was in our bedroom which faces the back yard, and the window were open. I could here all kinds of songs and non-computer-related tweets and twitters and calls. I looked out and realized that another good name for this location would be Tall Pines. When the developers built this subdivision, they did a good job of leaving a lot of the natural growth and existing trees. We have a stand of tall pines right behind us and they are just alive with bird sounds. It's amazing.

Oh, speaking of songs, at last night's performance, I heard music by the Vitamin String Quartet for the first time. (Well, The Dancer tells me that she did a piece to some of their music a couple of years ago, but whatever). I don't know if I've ever shared with you my love of the violin, but when I heard this music, I was blown away. They take popular music and adapt it for the Quartet. For example:

Old classics like Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven, AC/DC's Back in Black, and Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Newer classics like Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit and R.E.M.'s Shiny Happy People. The Smith's There Is a Light That Never Goes Out. Other newish music like Foo Fighter's Everlong, Red Hot Chili Peppers' Snow (Hey oh), Muse's Supermassive Black Hole, and 3 Doors Down Here Without You.

Their complete library is here. Call me dork, but I love this. Love it.

I have a prize for the first person who emails me at lisahgolden at blogspot dot com and tells me what the title of this post means. No answers in comments, please. Understand though, if you win and the prize arrives and demands food, directions to the nearest XBox360 and grumbles that it didn't think "Mom would really follow through on her threat," I'm absolved of all resopnsibility. You win it, you keep it.

Okay - now I have to get that conference brochure done or I'm going to be up all night. Ah, who am I kidding? I'm going to be up all night anyway......