1. You would rather talk to the voices in your head than the person sitting by you.
2. You know the library’s phone number, but not your work number.
3. Some of the letters on your keyboard are completely worn off.
4. You have a favorite pen that no one else can touch.
5. Books are your favorite scent.
6. If you could meet anyone in the world, it would be your favorite author.
7. You eat macaroni and cheese for a week because you spent all your money at the bookstore.
8. Your/you’re errors drive you crazy.
9. You named your laptop.
10. You would rather write than go out.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
A Gathering of Autumn Thoughts
As I sit here listening to the rain with baby Buster on my lap, I can’t help but think back to one year ago and all the events that have transpired. Or, rather, all the crap that happened. It was a tumultuous year. The kittens were captured between September and October – and they were horrid to clean up and work with. It was raining a year ago just as it is now, but Buster had yet to be caught. He stood defiant in the downpour, hissing at me yet not able to squeeze into his safety area which was a culvert running under the neighbor’s driveway that became a rushing river. Poor Buster was soaked and I was absolutely distraught.
Layne had his health issues and we were in the middle of two lawsuits to get the disability he had paid into all his working life. Everything was unsettled in October, November was to bring a cancer scare with him, and December a ten hour mediation in Sacramento with four trial lawyers and me. But it is October 22nd that I will always remember. I was at work and checked my voicemail at my break. Robin had called and she sounded weak. We talked not infrequently, only a few weeks before, but she was in and out of the hospital so much that it was hard to touch base. The sound of her voice worried me, so I called back right away.
It was the call I was dreading – the “there is nothing more they can do” call. We knew it was coming, and it is cliché to say that it was still a shock, but it is the truth. Robin said they gave her eight to twelve weeks. I asked her if we could visit and when said yes I immediately contacted Ada and Tina and we all went down the following week. We spent 3 days with her, including Halloween. She loved Halloween and would dress her fake skeleton up every year. This year her brother Doug dressed him up as Sherlock Holmes and added in the ambience of an eerie smoke machine.
On December 1, 2009 we lost Robin. Even more so – I lost Robin. They gave her eight to twelve weeks; she really only had four left in her to give us.
Of the kittens three died, two were adopted out and I still have three - and they are a joy. We laugh at their spastic antics daily. We eventually did come to settlement agreements with our private disability and with SSDI. The chaos and tumult calmed down dramatically after June of this year. But Robin is gone. Of the two dates I think October 22nd is the more difficult. I still have her voice, including that fateful message. I saved her last five voicemails and recorded them on an mp3 player because I am not ready to let go. They go from October 31st back to April. She goes from weak to strong every time I play them back. Maybe someday I will be able to let them go - but not this October 22nd.
Layne had his health issues and we were in the middle of two lawsuits to get the disability he had paid into all his working life. Everything was unsettled in October, November was to bring a cancer scare with him, and December a ten hour mediation in Sacramento with four trial lawyers and me. But it is October 22nd that I will always remember. I was at work and checked my voicemail at my break. Robin had called and she sounded weak. We talked not infrequently, only a few weeks before, but she was in and out of the hospital so much that it was hard to touch base. The sound of her voice worried me, so I called back right away.
 |
| Robin gave me this ceramic shoe filled with cookies in Jr. High - I still have the note she gave me inside |
It was the call I was dreading – the “there is nothing more they can do” call. We knew it was coming, and it is cliché to say that it was still a shock, but it is the truth. Robin said they gave her eight to twelve weeks. I asked her if we could visit and when said yes I immediately contacted Ada and Tina and we all went down the following week. We spent 3 days with her, including Halloween. She loved Halloween and would dress her fake skeleton up every year. This year her brother Doug dressed him up as Sherlock Holmes and added in the ambience of an eerie smoke machine.
On December 1, 2009 we lost Robin. Even more so – I lost Robin. They gave her eight to twelve weeks; she really only had four left in her to give us.
 |
| This is a heart shaped crochet rag basket that she made for me a few years ago |
Of the kittens three died, two were adopted out and I still have three - and they are a joy. We laugh at their spastic antics daily. We eventually did come to settlement agreements with our private disability and with SSDI. The chaos and tumult calmed down dramatically after June of this year. But Robin is gone. Of the two dates I think October 22nd is the more difficult. I still have her voice, including that fateful message. I saved her last five voicemails and recorded them on an mp3 player because I am not ready to let go. They go from October 31st back to April. She goes from weak to strong every time I play them back. Maybe someday I will be able to let them go - but not this October 22nd.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
We’ve Hit a Snag
Attached, and I use the term loosely (pun intended), to the back of our rattle trap home (affectionately and henceforth referred to as ‘the hovel’), is a tiny 6’x8’ redwood deck. Also built by the Three Fingered Blind Men thirty years ago it is about to fall down. Stand in one place and sway and the whole deck sways with you (I sense a song in that). "Really, really poor workmanship" said our Master Builder Buddy. We are blessed to have him and another friend offer to donate labor to rebuild it – and rebuild it MUCH bigger. I am thrilled. Outside living space is nonexistent and a 14x10 deck is unimaginable to me. Our friends came two weeks ago to tear it down and…
They hit a snag. Literally.
A snag is a standing dead tree. Our big bottomed 100’ cedar right off the back deck completely died two years ago. We need to have it downed because if it goes down by itself it will take out our neighbor’s garage, his fishing boat, and part of our roof, and our neighbor would never forgive the destruction of his fishing boat. But, because the tree fallers will have to climb it and drop it in pieces, it could damage the new deck - so everything was postponed.
So, you say, what’s the problem? Just take the tree down. The problem is that I love our snag. Birds love our snag, especially birds of prey who can see the ground from the top leaf free. A flock of homing pigeons perches in the top twice a day during their seventh inning stretch. We don’t have T.V. so I can hear themcooing singing "Take Me Out to the Cedar Snag" when they are visiting. The squirrels love our snag and chase each other round and round providing endless entertainment for the cats who can see the trunk from the sliding glass door. It's a real "circle of life" here. Hakuna Matata and all that.
Snags are important environmentally, and if it is safe to keep them standing you should. But ours is not safe, not just because of the falling-over-and-crushing-boats issue, but also because of fire which is our perpetual Big Nasty Threat. So we need to take our snags down (there is another at the back of the property). Our old friends have to go. But I will see if they can leave enough of the stump to be used as a table - I know the workmanship will last longer than the old sway back deck did.
They hit a snag. Literally.
 |
| Our big, dead, but loved, cedar snag |
A snag is a standing dead tree. Our big bottomed 100’ cedar right off the back deck completely died two years ago. We need to have it downed because if it goes down by itself it will take out our neighbor’s garage, his fishing boat, and part of our roof, and our neighbor would never forgive the destruction of his fishing boat. But, because the tree fallers will have to climb it and drop it in pieces, it could damage the new deck - so everything was postponed.
 |
| See the boat in the background? |
So, you say, what’s the problem? Just take the tree down. The problem is that I love our snag. Birds love our snag, especially birds of prey who can see the ground from the top leaf free. A flock of homing pigeons perches in the top twice a day during their seventh inning stretch. We don’t have T.V. so I can hear them
 |
| This is a daily occurence |
Snags are important environmentally, and if it is safe to keep them standing you should. But ours is not safe, not just because of the falling-over-and-crushing-boats issue, but also because of fire which is our perpetual Big Nasty Threat. So we need to take our snags down (there is another at the back of the property). Our old friends have to go. But I will see if they can leave enough of the stump to be used as a table - I know the workmanship will last longer than the old sway back deck did.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
My Kingdom for a Spider
 |
| And the Spider Kingdom I live in a rattle trap 30 year old 1100 square foot house that was built by three fingered blind men. There is a hole in my floor under the woodstove. I think it is about 5” x 8”. It goes directly under the house to the crawl space so named, I believe, because it is crawling with bugs. Layne long ago put insulation in it, and earlier this year I had him board it up under the house and then reinstall the insulation because the kittens were getting under the woodstove and I feared them falling through. Supposedly they “had” to put a hole in the floor when it was built because the house was “too airtight” and “code” demanded a hole in the floor to compensate. This is what they told my very gullible (even to this day) husband and he bought it. I think it is a load of bull and they were too cheap and lazy to do the job right. Anyone else have a hole in their living room floor? I didn’t think so. Our house also sort of tilts to one side now and then, so our screen doors don’t shut well. The garage door has about a 1” gap all the way around and the lights Layne installed in there draw every living thing from miles around - probably even drug lords since they are so bright that from the outside it looks like a grow operation. I think the swamp cooler is breeding things. All of this and more leads to many bugs in the house, especially during the summer. We kill some, catch and release others, the cats take care of some (cheap entertainment) but have basically given up the fight unless they are real bad. This is where our spiders come in. I usually take our daddy long leg spiders outside when I can – I feel no need to kill them, but one day I noticed a bunch of dead bug bodies littering my bathroom countertop. I looked up and sure enough, there was a daddy long leg baby up in the corner. Okay, I thought, this could be a beautiful relationship. So I let her stay. For about two weeks I awoke every morning to clean up the remnants of her evening meals. She eats a lot, this tiny thing, and we didn’t have a ton of bugs flying about at night trying to crawl up our noses. Oh how I loved her! Last week I went into the bathroom and…no bodies. Uh-oh. Fear gripped me as I cautiously looked up and…no spider! I don’t know where she went or why, she had plenty to eat and I run a mostly chemical free household (although Layne gets a bit heavy on the incense now and again). We charged her no rent and we tried hard to please her - we excel not only in bug numbers, but also variety – and she still just up and deserted us. It only took a day for the pesky bugs to hear the news and our flying ant bugs that torture us this time of year exploded. Dang. So I began to pray for more spiders. Big mistake. Last Sunday I noticed little bug mummies in the same place again! I was happy until I realized that a baby black widow had moved in behind where we keep our toothbrushes. Shoot. I had to kill her and on a holy day! Nothing depresses me more. But their bites turn poisonous in me and I can’t take chances. Then, as we were leaving for church, I see a new resident DLL camped above the front door. Could it be our same gal who decided to move to a better neighborhood? The meals are much fresher here since this is where most of the bugs come in. A week later and she is still there – her webs are approaching Halloween decoration size and status - but we have had no flying ants to speak of, either. She is welcome - and her construction acumen obviously puts our three fingered blind men to shame. |
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
All Best Wishes
I should have known something was amiss when I recently had to mail in my Grace Tea order to Massachusetts instead of New York. "Hmmm..." I thought. "Perhaps they moved out of the City to save money, after all, times are tough and why should tea be any different?" Thinking no more about it I sent in my order.
It arrived today. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
I have been buying from Grace Tea (which used to go by Grace Rare Tea) for at least 20 years now. I no more remember the exact date than I remember how I originally found them. I have never ordered much, I am the only tea drinker in the house and the rest of my family of origin either drinks black swill...er...coffee or is not as 'into' tea as am I. But I have faithfully ordered once or twice a year for what seems to me to be forever. I anxiously await that day when the mail fairy flies down the wood stove flue singing, sprinkling tea dust, and presents me with my package. Or something like that. It is always an exciting day nonetheless.
Each order, of course, included a packing slip. What made this packing slip different, and what impressed me from the first, was the tiny little greeting hand written at the bottom: "All Best Wishes, Marguerite Sanders". Marguerite Sanders was the owner.
Now, being the New Yorkophile that I am, I was so very impressed with the OWNER of a company in NEW YORK who bothered to personally sign each and every packing slip. Who does that? Who did it then? Who does it now?
Apparently no one any more.
When I opened my package, and the tea appears as wonderful as always, the packing slip was different: no more regular paper but thin, mechanized packing slip paper, and,
NO GREETING. NO SIGNATURE.
That's a cold halibut upside the head if ever there was one. Well, for me anyway. Inside was a photocopied letter, with a photocopied signature, stating, "As one of the new owners of Grace Tea Company..." New owners? No more All Best Wishes? No more Marguerite? No goodbye? After 20 years of being wished all the best, I felt as though I had been sent a Dear Jan letter.
Little did I realize how much those biannual greetings had come to mean. I always looked for them and then, of course, never thought about them again until the next order arrived. It made me feel as though I had a friend in New York. A friend I had never met, never spoken to, and never would, but still...we did write twice a year! In a way - okay, a business sort of way - but wrote nonetheless.
Now it is all over. I suppose it was time; the Sanders bought the company in 1979. Thirty one years. And I bought from them for 20 of those years. But they were not the first owners - the company started 20 years prior to that. And perhaps the new people will be just fine. At one time the Sanders were the new people and I assume the old customers were a bit put out by whatever changes they inevitably made. But I will sorely miss that personal touch one woman gave to each and every customer - a touch that is now nearly extinct in the world with the passing of the Sanders reign at Grace Tea.
So I think I will try to pick up the ball here. I have nothing to sell and perhaps even less to say. But I will send each and every one of you
All Best Wishes.
It arrived today. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
I have been buying from Grace Tea (which used to go by Grace Rare Tea) for at least 20 years now. I no more remember the exact date than I remember how I originally found them. I have never ordered much, I am the only tea drinker in the house and the rest of my family of origin either drinks black swill...er...coffee or is not as 'into' tea as am I. But I have faithfully ordered once or twice a year for what seems to me to be forever. I anxiously await that day when the mail fairy flies down the wood stove flue singing, sprinkling tea dust, and presents me with my package. Or something like that. It is always an exciting day nonetheless.
Each order, of course, included a packing slip. What made this packing slip different, and what impressed me from the first, was the tiny little greeting hand written at the bottom: "All Best Wishes, Marguerite Sanders". Marguerite Sanders was the owner.
Now, being the New Yorkophile that I am, I was so very impressed with the OWNER of a company in NEW YORK who bothered to personally sign each and every packing slip. Who does that? Who did it then? Who does it now?
Apparently no one any more.
When I opened my package, and the tea appears as wonderful as always, the packing slip was different: no more regular paper but thin, mechanized packing slip paper, and,
NO GREETING. NO SIGNATURE.
That's a cold halibut upside the head if ever there was one. Well, for me anyway. Inside was a photocopied letter, with a photocopied signature, stating, "As one of the new owners of Grace Tea Company..." New owners? No more All Best Wishes? No more Marguerite? No goodbye? After 20 years of being wished all the best, I felt as though I had been sent a Dear Jan letter.
Little did I realize how much those biannual greetings had come to mean. I always looked for them and then, of course, never thought about them again until the next order arrived. It made me feel as though I had a friend in New York. A friend I had never met, never spoken to, and never would, but still...we did write twice a year! In a way - okay, a business sort of way - but wrote nonetheless.
Now it is all over. I suppose it was time; the Sanders bought the company in 1979. Thirty one years. And I bought from them for 20 of those years. But they were not the first owners - the company started 20 years prior to that. And perhaps the new people will be just fine. At one time the Sanders were the new people and I assume the old customers were a bit put out by whatever changes they inevitably made. But I will sorely miss that personal touch one woman gave to each and every customer - a touch that is now nearly extinct in the world with the passing of the Sanders reign at Grace Tea.
So I think I will try to pick up the ball here. I have nothing to sell and perhaps even less to say. But I will send each and every one of you
All Best Wishes.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Lord, have mercy
It is Lent. For the Orthodox it is an intense time of prayer and fasting. We are (technically) vegan until Pascha, which happens to be the same as Western Easter this year (and next). It also seems to be an intense time...period. Things get overwhelming quickly. Which is my long apology, mostly to myself since no one reads this, as to why I don't write as I had wanted to on this blog. Oh well, there is always April...
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Kifle (or Kiflice) for the Unintiated
We grew up with Christmas Kifle. My Aunt Helen used to make oodles of it. We would sneak into the kitchen at her house where they were beautifully displayed on a tiered rack. Mom would tell us "Two apiece! Only take two each!" And we dutifully obeyed.
Until she left the kitchen.
Now, she was not silly enough to leave us with the kifle unattended. Oh, no. She would make sure she shooed all four of us out of the kitchen in front of her. We would wait - a pride of lions stalking their prey - and do our best to appear engrossed in the Serbian conversations we could not understand since we were not taught the language. Then the signal from the lookout that mom's attention was diverted - the signal usually just slipping back into the kitchen. The rest would move quickly (afraid the lookout would bogart most of them) and, hamstringing the tiered tray, inhale as many kifle as we could without being too obvious which we probably were anyway. I imagine we looked (and sounded) like puppies fighting over a too-small bowl of kibble.
We would then artfully arrange the survivors so the tray didn't look too decimated and rush back out. Stealth was not so much called for as speed. We had to be quick, not quiet. Aunt Helen knew exactly what was happening and would never stop us - she apparently had plenty of kifle in reserve.
Today we don't make kifle as often as we should. It has been a few years since our last batch. I informed my niece that she needed to learn to make kifle as she needed to familiarize herself with the pain and suffering of her Serbian ancestry. Coincidentally, she came up from Fresno "too late" to make some.
There is always her birthday...
http://www.recipezaar.com/Kifle-Yugoslavian-Walnut-Cookies-307432
Until she left the kitchen.
Now, she was not silly enough to leave us with the kifle unattended. Oh, no. She would make sure she shooed all four of us out of the kitchen in front of her. We would wait - a pride of lions stalking their prey - and do our best to appear engrossed in the Serbian conversations we could not understand since we were not taught the language. Then the signal from the lookout that mom's attention was diverted - the signal usually just slipping back into the kitchen. The rest would move quickly (afraid the lookout would bogart most of them) and, hamstringing the tiered tray, inhale as many kifle as we could without being too obvious which we probably were anyway. I imagine we looked (and sounded) like puppies fighting over a too-small bowl of kibble.
We would then artfully arrange the survivors so the tray didn't look too decimated and rush back out. Stealth was not so much called for as speed. We had to be quick, not quiet. Aunt Helen knew exactly what was happening and would never stop us - she apparently had plenty of kifle in reserve.
Today we don't make kifle as often as we should. It has been a few years since our last batch. I informed my niece that she needed to learn to make kifle as she needed to familiarize herself with the pain and suffering of her Serbian ancestry. Coincidentally, she came up from Fresno "too late" to make some.
There is always her birthday...
http://www.recipezaar.com/Kifle-Yugoslavian-Walnut-Cookies-307432
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