Some Assembly Required

Since I have three houses to look after now (The Good House, The Old House and The Parents' House), and two of the three have five or six massive, deciduous trees, I have a bazillion leaves to deal with.  Since I'm trying to rent the latter two houses, it would be nice if potential tenants could actually find the back doors.

Soooo, I decided to look for a lawn vacuum.  I found a great three-way (blower/vacuum/mulcher) on Amazon.  It was $510 at Lowes and $278 at Amazon.  Plus no shipping or sales tax!  Yesterday was nice and sunny, so I decided to tackle the leaves.  It took me an hour and a half to decipher the instructions to assemble my cool new tool.  That's after three or four hours the week before, just to attach the wheels and handles.  I swear, the Shop-Vac technical writers have an economy of words.  And piss-poor pictures.  They must've borrowed their bank's video surveillance camera.

Here's an exerpt:  Take one hose end with TAB.  Position hose end over retainer (installed on hose) with larger opening closest to retainer.  The side of the hose with tab must be aligned with the open side of retainer.  Align the holes on the sides of the hose end with the tabs on the hose retainer.

I might as well have read the French version:  Saisissez un embout de tuya flexible a languette.  Les bon temps roule.  That reminds me.  It's almost time for Mardi Gras.

Every two or three minutes during my assembly attempt, The Daddler would get up from his recliner, pace around, pick up random parts, snatch the instruction booklet from me, try to grab the hose assembly, and look at me like I was a total idiot.  Which I am.  At least in this context.  He'd shake his head, just like when I crunched my fender by backing into the house.

Finally, I finished.  Found the heavy duty trash bags I'd bought weeks earlier.  After 10 minutes of stretching and wrestling, I gave up on making the 39 gallon bags fit onto the 32 gallon  large capacity tank.  Then I happened to see this in the manual:  If using a bag with a smaller than 3 foot wide opening, it will need to be installed between the head assembly and tank adapter.

Ohhhh.  I was happy to see that, especially since this bad boy is supposed to reduce 123 normal bags of leaves into one bag of mulch.  Ok, I'm exaggerating.  It's only 18.  But, still.

Great.  Ready to roll.  I couldn't find my sunglasses to protect my hypersensitive corneas from shrapnel in case I'd missed an important step in the assembly and the blade flew out like a frisbee.  I decided to throw caution to the wind.  I found the massive, three mile long orange extension cord.  By the time I got back, The D was trying to plug the three inch cord from the mulcher into the receptical on the wall.  I gently pried it from his hands.  At which point he grabbed the tangled part of the orange cord and started playing tug-of-war with the wall.  And with me.  I was trying to keep him from bending the prongs.  Meanwhile, I worried about the half-inch of exposed prongs between the orange cord and the mulcher cord.  It wouldn't go all the way in.  By that point, a wild-fire would've been welcome.  Finally, I was ready to flip the switch.  Don't they say that at midnight in Texas when the injunction never shows up at Death Row?  Again, it wouldn't have been unwelcome.

I tried to get The D to back up a little when we pushed the red button.  He wouldn't budge.  Since I hadn't had enough forethought to order an anodized aluminum chainmail shirt for $189.95 from Chainmail Depot (an Amazon storefront), I assumed the potential pit bull attack position (curling up to protect major arteries and organ systems) and pressed.  Lo and behold, it started.  And nothing flew out.  And it sucked leaves.

You should've seen The Daddler.  Picture the face of a two year old on Christmas morning, with a remote control motorcycle.  After he's spent two hours trying to assist his inept mother with the assembly while his father entered all his business contacts into his Palm Pilot.  Ok, I know I'm dating myself, but since no one else will...  Sorry.  I couldn't resist.

Now, picture the face of that toddler when his brand-spankin-new remote control motorcycle drives right into the water garden his grandfather had installed for the friendly frogs and goldfish and mosquito larvae.  And lily pads.

That's how he looked when the mulcher wouldn't start back up after we checked to see how full it was.  He was crestfallen.  I figured it was the half-inch prong chasm, so I tried for the 23rd time to shove the plug in all the way.  About that time, he figured out that we'd blown a breaker.  He hightailed it to the shed and started flipping switches.  All I was thinking was that I'd have to reboot the effin' Comcast box.  And reset all the blinking clocks.  Darnit.

It still wouldn't work.  So I tried the receptical on the side of the house.  It worked.  Hallelujah!  Now we had three outlets (two in the living room which required major rearranging to accomodate the Christmas tree lights, only 1/3 of which worked).  I'd forgotten to call the electrician.  Because I hadn't figured out how to use Angie's List, even though I'd paid for a year's subscription.  Note to self...

So I started raking and tried to keep The D from bending over to unclog the hose when the logs he was trying to chip got stuck crossways.  He'd been taking muscle relaxers and pain pills and hogging the heating pad to treat his back pain the last two weeks.  He refused to budge, though.  Insisted he was fine.  I decided to withhold his Lortabs.  At that point, I was sure I'd need them.  He was in hog heaven.  He was sure I needed direct supervision.  I was a 12 year old girl, after all.

Finally, the motor started making the same squeaking sound as the vacuum cleaner when a piece of dental floss gets caught in the brusher-roller-thingie.  Sure 'nuf.  The large capacity thing was full.  I removed the head assembly from the tank adapter and rolled the thing to the curb.  After realizing that the bag was too full to squeeze through the opening without ripping, I realized that if I removed the tank adapter, it would slide right out.  Wow.  I was feeling pretty stupid.

I sent The Daddler into the house to fetch the garbage bags, with explicit instructions as to their location.  Five minutes later he came strolling out empty-handed.  I hoofed it to the laundry room, hoping to get back before he'd started a wild-fire or burned the motor up or shredded his hand or cut his cornea or caused a myocardial infarction.  Or electrocuted himself.

I kept trying to rein him in.  I was worried about his back.  I was amazed at his unflagging stamina after our near miss with the grim reaper two days before.  He refused to take a break.  I must admit, more than worrying about his well-being, I was trying to avoid more doctors' visits or an emergency room trip.  Four crises in one week was a record. 

Then I had an epiphany.  I ran to get a chair from the patio.  If I could get him to sit down and just guide the leaves into the hose as I raked them from the yard, we might avoid medical intervention.  He complied.  After another two bags and 75 minutes, though, I thought about his lung condition.  I was sure the dust and leaf mold couldn't be good for him.  Still, he refused to go inside.

Ok, there's so much more.  I'm exhausted just thinking about it.  Suffice it to say that I was in Martyr Mode.  Especially after he bitched me out for bringing the huge thing inside.  I told him five times that the label said to store it inside and never at temperatures below freezing.  More head shaking and sighs of disgust.  I refrained from elder abuse and even heated up some soup and cornbread for him.  He didn't complain even though he'd had it for lunch (he can't tolerate leftovers).  I think he saw the wild look in my eyes.  And maybe remembered that I have Power of Attorney.  More likely, though, he was exhausted.  And I'd fallen asleep and he'd had to fend for his own dinner the day before.

Or, maybe, just maybe, he was happy.  And appreciated me.  I know he loves me.  But I forget sometimes.  I'm sure he does, too.  But now and then, we both remember.   

Bees in My Bonnet

I have several.  I'm on a Quixotic tear.  By the way, Quixotic doesn't rhyme with "neurotic" or "psychotic."  It's pronounced like "exotic."  Thank god I checked.  I'm still cringing over my gaffe involving fiefdom (long e, not i).  I'll blame my ineptness with the spoken language on my extensive reading, not my lack of intelligent conversation.  I swear, I read "schadenfreude" in the Wall Street Journal long before it became so hip.  Not that I ever indulge in it.  I also learned "hubris" from WSJ.  Sophrosyne (its antonym) is from Dictionary.com.

In re my windmill-tilting, let's just say I'm furious with a certain corporation which is complicating my life.  I can't go into details because I don't want to be sued for libel, but let's just say I'd bet the house that said corporation is the next Enron.  When I called their executive office yesterday, I got connected to some poor corporate schmo-drone who told me not one, but two, bald face lies.  Or is it bold face?  Either way, he lied to me.

When someone tries to bullshit me, I kick into auditor mode.  Which usually means I look at Edgar filings (SEC reports).  Turns out that poor, lowly, benevolent corporation, who hires liars and barely squeaks by, doled out $67 million in stock and stock options to management in the first nine months of 2011.  Wow.  Wonder what their Christmas bonuses were like...  But since there's a vesting schedule, this number doesn't show up on the financial statements  .  I had to do a little math.  I'll try to put it in layman's terms:  Instead of paying cold, hard cash to their executives, they give them chits which enable them to manipulate the expense on the financial statements.  This method also ensures that the recipients stay with the company until they can cash out their chits.  And that they don't rat out the crooked company, because if they did, their chits would be worthless.

I've decided to take a break from my investigation.  No one wants to avenge anything on the weekend.

On a really fun note.  When I was cleaning out the detritus of my life, I found a kite.  It's windy today.  When Deb brought The D back from lunch, I forced her to walk to the big field adjacent to the Good House.  The D wouldn't come outside because he was watching the Kentucky/Tennessee basketball game.  Yuck.  Wish they could both lose.

Deb and I got the kite aloft.  Lots of screaming and shouting and falling.  I was the one who fell, and Deb thought I had twisted my ankle, but it turns out that I have lots of practice in the falling department, so I bounced right up.  Hey, maybe "pratfall" is derived from "practice falling."  I think a few cars slowed down to look at the spectacle of two middle-aged women acting like silly kids.

Deb got the kite tangled on the church's power line.  All I could think of was The D sitting in a cold, dark church tomorrow morning because of his goofy progenies.  Luckily, I thought to break the string and let the kite fall off.  Deb had some sort of delusion that she'd catch the wind and make the kite do a 360 degree flight.

We got the kite down without severing the power line.  Then we called it quits.  We came in the house, breathless, pink-cheeked, and laughing.  I felt like I was 11 years old.  Oh.  I found my shoes and didn't step on a nail or dog poop.  That's the 50 year old woman in me.  An 11 year old wouldn't think about that.

So here I sit.  A desolate Saturday night looming.  Maybe I should figure out something to do with The Daddler.  Unfortunately, this is his Bill Gaither Trio night and I just can't bear it.  I think I'll take a hot bath and order pizza or Chinese.  Maybe call Angela and see if I can hit her hot tub.  I refuse to play Words With Friends or more Antiques Roadshow.  I'm feeling like such a loser.  Plus, I have to reboot my router every 13 minutes or so.

I'll figure something out.

All for now... 

Flattery...

 ...it's getting The Daddler everywhere.  I see right through him.

Deb called this morning to say she was going to bring lunch to The D instead of taking him out.  When I gave him the phone to talk to her, he asked who it was.  When I told him it was his favorite, he said thought that was me.  Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.  Still, it made me feel good.

It was grand central station around here.  While Deb was here, Kiddo's dad came to help him move some things from the old house (soon to be rented, I hope).  After that commotion, they hung out for a while before K headed back to Chapel Hill.  In the meantime, they all watched the Carolina ball game.  I played Words With Friends intermittently.  Deb regaled me with her stories of the absurd.  A woman who's become wealthy designing virtual hair extensions and perfume for sale on Second Life.  Another woman who's also hit it rich by filling a niche in the market for weirdos who have some sort of fetish for watching a morbidly obese woman eat.  She weighs 600 pounds and people send her money, ostensibly for food.  She decided to close her site.  She's lost 85 pounds.  Crazy.

But it goes on.  Deb became a Tweeter during the Casey Anthony trial.  She tweeted Nancy Grace and some other legal analyst about double jeopardy.  She follows Ozzy from Survivor, Joel Osteen, Dave Ramsey, Donald and Donald Jr. and Ivanka Trump.  Adam Carolla.  Go figure.

What's funnier, though, is that she has attracted a bevy of porn stars - Brandee, Shaina, and Easter, to name a few.  They all have websites with URLs involving the following words or word fragments:  Porn, Vid, Fetish, Hot, Sex, Perverted.  Ok.  I added that last one.  Actually, Easter was quite the poetess.  Here's her latest tweet:  Roses are red, Violets are blue, None of our friends match, Who the f*#@ are you? 

Wow.  How do I submit a Pulitzer nom?  Deb finally figured out how to delete these strange twits.  Kiddo left for the hills.  Deb left for god-forsaken Bartlett.  The Carolina game ended.  And now, here I sit, with my scintillating Saturday night social life stretching ahead of me.  Which reminds me.  Time for The D's din-din. 

And more Words With Friends.

I Give Up

Whoa.  What a week.  I'm in one of those "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me.  Let's go eat some worms" moods.  Actually, it would be more apt to say "I don't like anyone, I hate everybody.  Let them go eat worms." 

When I get like this, I shift into analytical mode.  I try to find the catalysts.  I can think of several, but I don't want to think about it, so I won't spend time describing them.  Except to say that I'm smart enough to know that I need to retreat, give it some time, and figure it all out in the morning.  When I'm rested.  Rational.  Reasonable. 

Also, it should be noted that a catalyst is something that causes a reaction without being affected itself.  Wow.  I can think of a few people who fall into this category.  Emotional Vampire comes to mind.

And since I'm sitting here, contemplating my navel and a desolate social life with no plans at all for the weekend (that don't involve closing December books),  I'm gonna figure out some way to comfort myself.  I think it will involve a hot bubble bath, watercolors and a glue gun.

First, though, I'm gonna heat up some leftover chinese takeout for The Daddler.  Egg drop soup, General Tsou shrimp, and Moo Shu pork.  Yum.  I'm so glad he's not a picky eater.

He's been incredibly sweet lately.  That comforts me.  Immensely.

All for now...

Contentment

That's synonymous with nirvana for me.  It's a rare state, but I'm grateful to be experiencing it now.  It's nothing short of a miracle.  I think it's because I'm in a sweet spot for a few days.  It's too late to order xmas gifts from Amazon.  Bank accounts are fine.  My fridge is full.  The Daddler is happy.  My property taxes and Kiddo's tuition are paid.  Things are good with FF.  I won't see him for the holiday, but I'm cool with that.  It just feels nice to have a BF during the holidays (even if, according to JoJo, he's not a real one).  Reality can be overrated.  And sometimes, it bites.

Besides, I'm totally obsessed with watching Lost on my Kindle Fire.  Amazon Prime makes it free.  From the very beginning.  I never watched a single episode before my Kindle.  Within a week or so, I'm to Season 2, Episode 8.  I keep thinking I'm gonna walk away.  But it's good.

I rented The Help.  Bought Simon Birch (loosely based on A Prayer for Owen Meany).  Play Words With Friends.  An e-version of Scrabble.  Might play w/ FF.  So far, I've just played with random opponents, and I think my W/L percentage is 50/50.  But it pisses me off when people come up with random words like Xi.  Who ever heard of that?

Gonna go now.  I hope I'm not the only one in the home stretch.  It feels good to be so close to home...

You'd better not pout!

I'm determined not to.  Just yesterday, I realized that I haven't attended a single holiday event.  No Sunday School or office parties.  No school events.  No black Friday outings (not counting Walgreens that night).  No cocktail parties or gala events (not my thing, anyway).  No Christmas concerts/cantatas/plays.

Instead, I've been quite content ordering random things on Amazon.  Including my new, super-duper, three-in-one Shop-Vac.  It blows/vacuums/mulches.  Leaves.  Wet ones or dry ones.  And I have plenty of those.  It's ginormous.  I'm going to spend considerable time figuring out lots of creative uses for my new gadget.  I'm thinking I could convert it into a carpet cleaner, pressure washer, air purifier, chimney sweep, dryer vent reamer, dog groomer/bather, gutter cleaner, ceiling fan duster, white noise machine, air duct cleaner...  The possibilities are endless.  Like my imagination.

Speaking of dogs.  Only in Memphis.  The missing pit-bull, who was stolen by a city (animal shelter) employee at 2:00 a.m. (caught on surveillance, no less) named Kapone (gotta love a hip-hop sounding dog name), was recovered today.  In, of all places, Senatobia, Mississloppi.  This is stranger than WM3.  Really.  I've been to Senatobia.  Pit bulls, corrupt Memphis city employees and rural Missssippians don't mix.  Maybe I'm wrong.  This could be the New South.  Maybe we all just CAN get along.

Pit bulls are on my mind.  I decided to take my money-pit-of-a-lemon-Subaru to a mom & pop shop instead of to the evil dealer.  I won't digress except to say, there's the devil you know, the devil you don't know, and the satanic car you sell your soul to maintain.

So... Pit bulls.  Mom & Pop.  After a week and a half of waiting for the autopsy of my lemon, I finally got the go ahead to pick it up.  I was greeted by two very muscular, slobbering, snarling, scary dogs.  I was assured that they were "sweeties", and that they couldn't reach my jugular, but nonetheless, I didn't complain about my $1,600 bill.  Nosirrreee.  I even thought about adding a tip.  Clever marketing ploy, I must say.

Kiddo was with me and I told him to roll in a ball if the dogs jumped over the counter.  He had an air of false bravado.  Didn't fool me.  Or the dogs.  They can smell fear. 

Enough about that.  While we're on the subject of our neighbor to the south, rednecks, corruption and breaking news stories, check this out.  The mayor of Southaven.  Just google it.  Connect the dots.  How embarrassing.  It even makes me cringe.  No schadenfraude here.

But...  Which came first?  The lemon drop martini or the gay porn?  I'm sorry.  I couldn't resist.  I'm not a hater.  Except when it comes to smarmy politicians...  And pit bulls...

All for now. 

Bah, Humbug.

That's how I felt early this morning.  My pre-lit tree wouldn't light.  The electrical outlets in the corner I'd planned to put the tree in didn't work.  Even after I went out in the cold to the breaker box and flipped everything back and forth.  I didn't realize those outlets didn't work.  I rearranged the furniture so I could put the tree near a working outlet.  After I finally found the right tree stand and fit all the parts together, I plugged it in, and nothing lit up.  So I walked away.

Later on, it worked better.  Some of the limbs, anyway.  And then, later, when I was fluffing the smushed fake branches, some more lights came on.  Kinda scary, huh?  Maybe I'd better put the smoke detectors back up.  I've given up on finding the source of the beeping.  And we've been flying without a net for the last four days.  Thank god the house hasn't burned down.  But the smoke detectors wouldn't help, because I've become inured to high pitched beeping sounds.  And The D is deaf as a doornail.  Which isn't all bad.

All of a sudden, I'm exhausted.  I've been up until all hours reading the last in the series of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo."  All I can think about is finishing it.  I have a feeling the book will hit me in the nose within 30 minutes.  With any luck, I'll wake up early and finish it in the morning.

All for now...