Teamwork

My Faithful Reader said a nice thing to me the other day. After managing to rent both empty apartments in our building, he told me that it was all because of me. I had insisted on moving, even though I knew it meant living in an unfinished house, and I worked hard to get our stuff packed up. Then, in a strange twist of fate, our move helped rent the other apartment, because a neighbor saw us moving and knew someone who needed an apartment.

I’m glad he realizes that I contributed, too, but I don’t deserve all the credit. He’s been working his butt off. At the same time, I suspect he feels bad about leaving me alone so often in this unfinished house, knowing how hard it is sometimes.

Don’t worry yourself too much, Faithful Reader. I don’t want to live like this forever, but I can survive for a few more weeks. Better to live uncomfortably and have the mortgage paid than to live in comfort and let our finances go to Hell.

So kudos to us. We make a good team.

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The Cats Make Me Crazy

Living in an unfinished house, we’ve had to make some arrangements that aren’t ideal. For example, we currently have our three cats locked up in one room. Believe me, I’ve strained my brain to come up with a better solution, but this is the way it has to be for now. The downstairs, in its current state, is dangerous for curious kitties, and there is no way to prevent them from going downstairs except to lock them in a room. Even locked in a “safe” room, one of them has already found, consumed and puked up something that looked suspiciously like wallboard. I know how much damage they could do to themselves and the house if they were allowed to free-roam. Locking them up is the lesser of two evils.

Don’t feel sorry for them. They have all the comforts—food, water, litter boxes, toys, scratching posts, cushions, blankets, and numerous stacks of boxes on which to play. I visit them several times each day. I do everything I can for them.

But they don’t think that’s enough. They cry and howl and scratch at the door. The scratching really irritates me. Two of those cats with their evil scratching ways once destroyed the carpeting in my condo. We tried using a cat repellent spray, but it didn’t work, and that torn carpeting was a huge problem when I tried to sell the condo. In fact, what they did to that carpeting may have cost us thousands of dollars. So when I hear them scratching, not only is it annoying, not only does it wake me up at night, not only is it destructive, but it also brings up bad memories.

Today they scratched and scratched. I yelled at them. Then I yelled some more. Then I shrieked. I shrieked so loud I worried, isolated as we are, that someone might have heard me. They still did not stop. So I went to the room and sprayed with water anything that moved. Poor Peeps took a blast right in the face. Mojo got one from the side. And the ringleader, Zoulie? She was hiding, but I waited, and when she came out I soaked her.  Then there was silence, blessed silence, for hours. Aaaaaah. Relief.

I wonder, will a crying baby bother me as much as crying cats do? It probably will. But you know what the difference is between a baby and a cat? A baby grows up and somewhere along the way it stops crying. Cats never grow up. Their bad behavior goes on and on. I love them, it’s true, but they constantly try my patience.

Thank goodness for spray bottles.

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Worrywarts R Me

She was dwelling on her worries, thinking thoughts of dread,
When the first of many worry warts appeared upon her head.

Simply being stressed caused a second on her chest,
And the thought of being drowned made it bigger all around.

Fear of poison as she dined put a third on her behind,
And just fretting on her skin caused an outbreak on her chin.

Then her fear of deadly fire made the situation dire,
For her terror ran so deep, she grew ten more in her sleep.

A constant fear of being late caused another ninety-eight,
And by then, don’t you know, she was warts from head to toe!

It’s OK to be a worrywart; it’s not at all bizarre,
But to be a warty worrier is taking things too far!

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Free Association

My father always jokes that free food doesn’t taste as good. In the rare cases when he dislikes his dinner, he’ll ask my mother, who does all the shopping, if the main ingredient was buy-one-get-one-free, or fifty percent off, or perhaps purchased with a coupon. He can’t really mean it. At least I hope he doesn’t mean it.  It would be a very silly thing to believe.

I happen to believe the exact opposite. Free food tastes great. I made a sandwich with English muffins today, English muffins that were free. Not only was it sort of a novelty to eat them, because I haven’t bought English muffins in years, but the very fact of their being free made me happy. Most of the time I have to give something up in order to save money, so I was thrilled that the grocery store sent me coupons that said, in effect, “Come get your free food!” I went and I went gladly and I will go again next week with my coupon for free soda!

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From Grainy to Artsy

I’m sure you noticed that the picture in the last post was grainy. That’s because it was taken with the camera on my phone. It’s the only camera I have right now. My real camera is on its way to be fixed. No, I didn’t locate a fabulous camera repairman, but I did find out that the camera’s manufacturer offers repair services. Even better, the problem may be the result of a faulty sensor, in which case the manufacturer will fix it for free and pay for postage both ways. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

In the meantime, I do the best that I can with the camera phone. Sometimes it even takes some interesting photos. I think this one looks almost artsy.

artsy-light

The Broken Light–what does it say about life?

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Nothing but the Best

“Nothing but the best for Bonnie” is the punchline of a running joke Faithful Reader and I have about the house. It refers to something we were told by our realtor when we bought the house. Tom, one of the former owners, claimed to have spent a great deal of money on a new well pump because his wife, Bonnie, always insisted on the best. This claim gives us such a laugh because it is so obviously refuted by every old, broken light fixture, and every cheap, worn floor covering, not to mention the nonmatching collection of kitchen appliances that range in age from the antique to the merely vintage.

There is a lot of work to be done to bring this house up to our standards. Sometimes the task before us threatens to overwhelm me. “Nothing but the best for Bonnie” is the joke that keeps me from despair. It helps me realize, when I look at the horrible light fixtures in the master bathroom, that though they may not be the best, they sure are funny.

light-fixtures

It’s hard to believe these egg-shaped globes were ever in vogue!

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Letting Go

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of mankind is Man.
–from “Essay on Man” by Alexander Pope

Those immortal words, some of the only words I remember from my many English literature classes, came to me as I was writing a diatribe against the Vatican and Catholic dogma. I had had a splendid time venting and coming up with such phrases as “Stick that in your Pope pipe and smoke it!” But when I got deep into the matter, trying to understand God and to explain Him/Her/It to others, I was forced to admit that such a task was well beyond me. Not that I think Il Papa qualified either. He has undoubtedly spent much more time thinking about God than I have, but there is a barrier between us and Understanding that no amount of study or contemplation can pierce.

So be it. I know my limitations. Suffice it to say that I disagree strongly with the Vatican on a great many subjects, including the right-to-die debate as pertains to people in persistent vegetative states. I can’t speak to God’s intentions, I can only look at the human side of the issue, and that is that someone in a persistent vegetative state, though alive, does not really have a life. When there is no hope of recovery and the person would die without constant medical intervention, only unhappiness can come from prolonging that sad semblance of life. Just let them go.

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Brain Drain

Pregnancy is draining my brain. I can’t think straight. My work is suffering. Even worse, I can barely read for my own enjoyment. Normally I’m a voracious reader, able to finish any book within a few days, but now I’m lucky if I can force myself to read a few pages per night. It’s pathetic.

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Honeymoon Revisited

I’ve had pamphlets from several of Montreal’s sights sitting around in the hopes that I would finally blog about our honeymoon. Now, as I’m struggling to get all boxes unpacked and all my junk organized, it’s time to finally get it done. I don’t remember the order of events but I do remember all the big sights. Here goes.

We spent our honeymoon night in Boston; we had a fabulous and very expensive buffet brunch there on Sunday before heading off to Canada. I had never been to Canada, but I had tried to get there several times before. I had planned to go for my 29th birthday, but that was just days after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, which put the kibbosh on that trip. Then there was the time at Niagara Falls when I was within spitting distance of the Canadian shore but didn’t have my passport handy.

They say that three times is the charm, but I didn’t quite believe we’d make it to Montreal. I thought the car would break down or some other thing would keep us from going, and as a matter of fact, we came very close to having a car accident. While en route, a minivan on the other side of the highway lost control and started rolling over across the median. If it hadn’t lost so much speed once it hit the grass, it would have hit us. I can still visualize it flipping over and over and over again. It was a terrifying scene and it seemed at the time that it did not bode well for our trip.

We made it to Montreal without further incident, however, and what’s more we had a good time, even though our stay was brief. We visited the Basilique Notre-Dame de Montréal, whose interior may well be the most beautiful I have ever seen in a church.

notre-dame-basilica

They were tuning the pipe organ while we were there. Oddly, the same thing happened years ago during our visit to Westminster Abbey in London, and I can only assume it is God’s way of punishing me for something, perhaps for not going to church except as a tourist.

We also went to the Biodôme (not to be confused with the Biosphère) and Le Parc olympique de Montréal. At the Biodome, I most enjoyed watching the lynx. They are very cool cats. At the Parc Olympique, we took the funicular (awesome word!) to the observation tower.  According to the literature, “Par temps clair, on peut admirer le paysage jusqu’à 80 kilomètres à la ronde.” Pardon my French, but that means something like, “On clear days, you can see up to 50 miles all around.” It was not the clearest day, but it was an autumn day, and anywhere there was a bunch of trees there was a blast of color.

At the Insectarium de Montréal, they offered to let us hold a spider (we declined). The nearby Jardin Botanique de Montréal was my favorite part of the trip. There we saw the call of nature in action—a fox doing his business on the plants. Hey, he was just your local animal doing his best to keep the garden green. We had tea and some sort of Asian sesame pastry at the Chinese Garden, a place for which I wish I had some pictures. Perhaps Faithful Reader has some on his camera.

Last but not least, we took a walk along the Old Port. Here is the Tour de l’horloge (Clock Tower).

montreal-clock-tower

You can see gulls in the picture. Some of them were playing with what looked like little red rubber balls but which were actually cherries. Once we realized how much they liked the fruit, we amused ourselves for a while by picking cherries and tossing them to the birds.

And here, a pretty last picture to leave you with, a demonstration of how colorful was the fall foliage around the time of our wedding.

montreal-foliage1

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Seeing Is Believing

Here is the proof that I went out to the deck the other day.

snow-smiley

But you can also take it as my personal statement on life.

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