Halcyon Days

Hard drive blew

good lord. hard drive blew. the entire box has been shipped back to hp. I've been told it will return in two weeks. alternatives are dicey but I'll be back!

and NOTHING TERRIBLE HAS HAPPENED!    

nothing even remotely disturbing. :-)

good, funny, entertaining? definitely. not that good, funny and entertaining don't happen on a fairly regular basis anyway but when there's a great deal of garbage the good, funny and entertaining doesn't get talked or written about because, let's face it, the drama simply IS more blog worthy. And I've been thinking about this too. And I have stuff to say about it but as mentioned above, this particular posting alternative is dicey at best.

(And regarding the blown hard drive, don't even start. You cannot put a blown 8 week old hard drive into the terrible category or even disturbing. After all the entire box was purchased from Best Buy. This @#%@ is bound to happen periodically and there's only so much hp is going to permit the geek squad to touch. Look at it this way, it's under warranty and I back my stuff up)

Cheers! 23 days to spring!

xxxooo

Reaching Summer

I have NEVER had any real inclination toward Florida. OK, maybe when I was six I might have harbored Disney-like thoughts because I overheard a conversation at my grandparent's house about a once upon a time drive to Florida and Disney (what exactly is this Disney business, wonders the kid with very little exposure to TeeVee) but I don't think Disney + Florida existed in my realm of possibility. It didn't involve a drop zone or skydivers or anything like that and later by the time we were vacationing on the Outer Banks the idea of Florida was gone because the idea of Disney had remoted itself right off the imagination plane.

I went to Florida for the first time when I was 23 and Numbah One Son was maybe a year old and it was just a four day weekend and it was COLD and we weren't prepared. We were staying at my in-law's condo. They hadn't moved in full time yet and wouldn't be expected to go until after Christmas so we took advantage of cheap airfare and free lodging and off we went. I decided these things:

1. Florida in the winter is overrated (who goes to the beach when it's 40 degrees? (F))
2. Babies should not be allowed on airplanes without a certificate of health from a pediatrician certified AT THE GATE (I'm talking about ears, people)
3. Never travel with less than 4 dozen diapers and a gross of wet wipes (remind me to tell you about the poop explosion in the airplane lavatory. never mind)
4. Really old people tend to drive erratically
5. Always pack a sweater
6. Florida is a long, coldish, sand and pink colored strip mall with palm trees
7. Apparently we will not be having OJ this year

I saw no reason to return.

Two years later I was in Orlando in April at a conference at a Disney compound and it was an entirely OTHER experience but still... contained and somewhat alien. I decided these things:

1. Florida gets hot and windy in April
2. Florida is the middle of nowhere
3. Florida is a giant conference center full of large dolphin like sculptures and a lot of alcohol
4. Florida has very unusual shaped pools
5. Florida has REALLY COOL AMUSEMENT PARKS but I would NEVER come here if it wasn't shut down just for the user conference because if this place was chock full of screaming kids and their parents I think I'd have heart failure. It's that big. Also, there are signs at a lot of the rides that sort of clue you in about how much longer until we gettttt therrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeee.... 120 minutes.... 45 minutes.... 20 minutes.... oh hell no. 

I saw no reason to return.

I had a lot of trips like this. Some of them involved side trips to visit my brother at a drop zone in Deland which once involved a side trip to Daytona and some mildly bad behavior on that particular beach and one trip to a Robert Plant concert with my cousin when he was at Ekerd which ended with me and my brother leaving the concert and laying on our backs on the grass outside until my cousin and his friends staggered outside in a post concert haze of smoke and pre-post-party vomit.

Definitely no reason to return. Always good to see family though.

My own children suggested I get my head outta my butt about four and a half years ago and seven of us went to Disney for Cletus's 16th birthday. We stayed at a 3 bedroom condo off Disney property, ended up with two rental cars, stayed for five days (which included travel), went to three parks and ate out once. Overall, not terrible. Everybody had fun. Everybody came home happy. Relatively pain free given the circumstances. We certainly could have spent less money but on the other hand we certainly could have spent an awful lot more. It left me scratching my head. Families do this over and over again with multiple children, stay in lodging where they are forced to eat out and and and (the numbers went bonkers in my head). Anyway, that's not really my point. My point is, we did this, it was cool and...

I see no reason to do it again.

And I figure that about wraps up Florida, right? I mean, what else is there? OK, there's Daytona Beach. No. Key West. No. Miami. Been there, did that, user conference. The Keys. What's in The Keys? No, really, what's in The Keys? Key West is in The Keys. I think not.

Miles and miles of beach and sand and pink colored strip malls.

No and no and no.

And then Elizabeth got her teeth sunk into Big Pine Key. She got her teeth sunk into Big Pine Key because I vetoed Key West because of its reputation. I said, try something smaller. Find another Key. Knock yourself out kid, and make it cheap. REALLY cheap. Airfare in August from NYC to Miami is about as good as it gets, by the way.

So now I'm finding out about Florida. I have absolutely no idea what there is to find out about Florida but I guess that's the point. That doesn't mean we're going to Florida. That just means I'm getting out of the way. Again.  

And shutting up.

You know those people who instantly have a negative argument when you say you're going to do something or want to do something or are thinking about doing something? 99.999999999999% of the time they justify it by telling themselves and you that they're just looking out for you; giving you the benefit of their experience, telling you what they know you ought to be doing or not doing and for them it's real. The answer, I mean. They can't see it any other way. There aren't any other possibilities.

Cletus is struggling with her trip to Europe. She's afraid to tell her father. She's afraid she'll lose her job (fine). She asked her brother how to deal with her father. Her brother said it was too dangerous to go. Her brother said she wouldn't have a job when she came back (that would be her father's answer). This would be where we stare at the obstacles and decide what we're going to do with them. But this is also how we're beaten into submission. Or how we allow ourselves to be beaten... that's a very fine line.

I think there is a time and a place and then I think people ought to shut the hell up and say just do it or say nothing.

I think it's really hard sometimes to get past our own agenda. *I* know perfectly well I have a hard time getting past my own agenda (or even finding my own agenda in the muddle) but I'll tell you this; it is NOT freaking black and white, people. Ever.

And damn, ain't that a bitch?

I have an awful lot of energy on this, don't I?

So this Florida thing...

Stalkers will be shot on sight. Or possibly eaten by my dog.

The title started out as a statement that read:

Stalkers will be shot on sight. Or at least bitch slapped into a coma.

My ability to make people's eyes bleed at the drop of a hat has always been a bit of a problem. My argumentative nature, the fact that I have to work hard to remember to wrap a towel around a two by four or maybe even pound down the nails or just put the damn thing down already has almost always been an issue.

My first husband said I ought to have been a litigating attorney because nobody, but nobody was ever going to have the balls to look me in the eye and argue with my facts when I sunk my teeth into something. Ever. I'm that clear when I'm clear.

It's always been hard on relationships and I've spent the last 25 years working really hard on listening, negotiating and trying to work my way to some sort of level ground which always worked right up until it didn't but I'm getting off point.

My point is when I'm clear that I'm right it's all right there and you're not going to win this one. Under any circumstances, because I don't have a relationship to save. I don't have anything to lose except my case and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose it. I think the clue is knowing when to shut up and not coming unhinged.

So the email was composed yesterday evening. Carefully. I needed to be clear up front that it was from both parents but I was doing the writing. I needed to be clear that it wasn't a conversation; it was a one way message. I needed to be clear that this sort of confrontation made me uncomfortable (translate that to, now I'm pissed off that I have to do this but here it comes anyway, buster).

And then the shit storm hit the proverbial fan. One point after another starting with the egregious breach of social contract which was asking for the email address of an eleven year old without creating agreement with a parent first and then bulleting out a long list of unacceptable bad behavior which ended with his hands slammed in the door.

The email was sent to my friend who's response was that it was better his delusion be nipped in the bud and his feelings hurt now than to have him wind up in jail or worse, in the stomach of a 200 pound St. Bernard.

I don't know about that. His response was unaccountable and unapologetic but I wouldn't expect anything different. It wasn't argumentative either; he indicated that I was perfectly clear.

I imagine a baseball bat making contact with his itty bitty skull (he's a diminutive man). On the other hand it would probably be better to let the dog do his job.

At dinner I told the story about the trespassing real estate agent at the Indian Lake rental last summer. I don't recall how it came up; I must just have been telling Simon stories. Or something. Maybe at some level I already knew.

Here's an excerpt. I suppose I picked up the two by four without even thinking.

And then we went home. We found Cletus on the small sofa in the front room. She didn't look very happy. The front door was unlocked. I left it that way. The lights in the house were on. I left them on. The front room had games and other things scattered about, left that way. All signs of life in the house. A man. A man. Alone. A man walked into the house, through this front room, into the living room and called out, hello? Hello? Is there anyone at home?

Cletus came to the balcony of the loft in her t-shirt and boxers and stared down at him and said, yes, I'm here. He introduced himself. Said he'd like to show the place and could he come in. She said she was sick and her mother was out. Maybe later he said hopefully. She said we were leaving on Friday. She told me there were two women and two children walking around outside and then they all left.

I turned on my heel, got in the car, slammed the door, screamed backwards out of the driveway (I DID look both ways) and had topped 85 by the time I righted myself properly on the main road. I made a hard left into the realtor's office leaving rubber in the road and digging through about eight inches of gravel straight down into hard pack black dirt. I hit the brakes hard enough I ought to have left a bruise from the seat belt.

And then I sat there for a minute listening to the engine tick.

I got out of the car and walked to the side entrance, opened the door and entered what might have been a main room; it was hard to tell. I called out, hello? hello? Is there anyone here? A woman in shorts and a sleeveless blouse came from the other room and asked how she could help me. I told her I was the tenant and gave the address at the house a man just attempted to show and very quietly began to explain what had just happened to my daughter. She stopped me mid sentence and explained they had no idea it was rented. There was no phone in the house (truth).There was no car in the driveway, 'they' didn't tell them it was rented, it hadn't been rented all summer (I let her have all this). I explained in my very quiet voice that a strange man walked into an unlocked house, stood in the middle of the unlocked house and scared the living shit out of my had been sleeping half naked daughter.

There was a moment of stunned silence while she gathered herself together and explained earnestly that she was there with the man and another woman and there were children present and there was no man alone with my daughter.

I looked at her.

She asked tentatively if they might be able to show the house (what is WRONG with these people?! Don't answer that).

I looked at her.

I told her that if I had any idea we'd be dealing with real estate agents we would never have rented the house. I told her I had a houseful of very sick people and mentioned something about strep at which point she backed off about eight feet. I told her finally, lastly and very quietly...

that I was very, very, very glad for the man's sake that I'd taken the 200 lb St. Bernard with me and that in the future should I leave any of my children behind that the dog would be staying.

She got very quiet and asked where the dog was now. I said, 'the dog is at the house with the children, is the man very likely to swing back again?' She said, 'he might, but maybe if he doesn't see a car he'll keep going, we don't have any cell service, I can't call him.' I said, 'for his sake, I hope so. We'll be leaving on Friday morning.'

We didn't hear from the agents again but God Damn, people are stupid. And I'll be damned if I'm going to tolerate one cotton picking second of it.

The Predator

There's always a story and I'll start like this:

If an adult speaks in an authoritative voice my first instinct is to buckle under. Might have something to do with why most of my opions get stuck in the back of my throat right up until I'm experiencing frontal assault. Up until fairly recently I've also been prime meat for predators given my innate inability to establish and defend my own boundaries. That's changed slowly over the last four years but it doesn't mean I don't have my heart in my throat and my stomach all clenched because in my secret little girl heart I believe I might not have a right or my judgment might seriously be in question.

Until it comes to my kid. Well, even then I question myself or I'm scared but the worst thing that's going to happen is I'm going to come out swinging a bit too hard and that might have repercussions... and never mind, things have to be handled anyway.

I'm being vague but I wanted to make a point up front.

And maybe you've done enough digging to have found me here and you're reading this in which case you deserve everything you're about to read, you little freak. The email I'm still composing in my head is going to be a lot nicer although it will be crystal clear.

Back in November at the Thanksgiving Contra I met a man and his wife on the way out the door and he talked my ear off. I had trouble getting out the door. I have difficulty breaking off conversation with people who talk my ear off especially if they are charming, but I don't like to be rude even if my feet hurt, I'm exhausted beyond belief and my almost 11 year old is falling down tired. Eventually I got out of there. Turns out the man was married to the long time childhood friend of one of the committee members. I like her, the committee member, very much. I do trust her judgment although we are about to have what's probably going to be a difficult conversation. A little while after the dance I received an email explaining the relationship and asking if she could give the man my email address because he'd asked for it because he wanted to write Elizabeth a piece of music because he'd been very taken with her.

Elizabeth is very polite with strangers. Actually, outside the home Elizabeth is very polite with everyone. At home Elizabeth is 11. My friend explained that the man is very talented and had written a piece of music for her and her husband although they only had it in sheet music and had never heard it played since neither of them played an instrument. I said, 'sure, give him my email. Elizabeth has taken up the violin and Cletus and Numbah One Son play enough assorted instruments between them they'll work something out'.

A few days later I received a slightly over the top email intended to flatter which left me just a little uncomfortable but without anything I could really pin down. In retrospect I can dissect it sentence by sentence and if I sent it to Elizabeth's father at this point the top of his head would come off. The one thing he did do was ask permission and clearly indicate an acceptance of parent/child boundaries. OK, what have I possibly got other than a slightly uncomfortable feeling? Accept the gift. It's a piece of music called Whirling Elizabeth. Fine.

About four weeks later, exactly 11 days into my new job (when I would have been as underwater as possible) a piece of music arrived in my email box. It was well composed, well played and short. Very nice. The email itself was WAY over the top. On the other hand he wrote a piece of music for my daughter. He wrote that he dreamed about us. OK. He's weird but he's got to be harmless. He's the husband of my friend's friend and she's known him forever. Fine. He wants to be friends. He's provided his contact information. OK, I'll reciprocate. Not a problem.

I don't remember if I forwarded the entire email to Elizabeth's father. My guess is I did not. Red flag. I did send the music. I also responded to the email with a reasonable amount of information but not too much. He asked for recent photographs. I assumed he was making something for her. What I failed to process was that he'd already found pictures that were maybe too old or didn't work for him. He found these where, exactly? I was overloaded with work at the time and didn't make much of it.

Two packages arrived. They had nothing to do with Elizabeth. They were two books of poetry and something slightly biographical he'd written. The right thing to do was sit down and immediately compose two thank you letters and get them in the mail ASAP. We did so. ASAP. Elizabeth also wrote a poem in response to the book of poetry. In retrospect I wish she hadn't. At that point the responses should have reverted to doing what was exactly polite and correct. The email response was entirely over the top. OK fine, the guy really is out there. He mentioned having a meal together. Something about Prague, uh, we aren't travelling. He mentioned a home cooked meal but that was a problem since he was a house guest on this next visit East. My immediate response was (my inside voice), not my house, buddy. I let it go.

And then the email again, and then the phone call that was sent to voicemail the Saturday I slept off the 70 hour week. And then the next email and then finally the slightly petulant email that suggested, you really are busy (no shit. how many times do I have to say that?). And then the suggestion of a meal. What day will work for you? I was clear that Saturday would not but sometime Sunday would be fine. Sunday sounded like it would do if it had to. Something is definitely off now but this is no longer my problem; I have entirely reverted to polite and correct at this point. I still haven't processed that this is an invitation to dinner. I have processed that this is a suggestion that we meet and have dinner. There is a world of difference.

At the Saturday dance he and his wife arrived. He wanted to pin down a time and a place claiming no local knowledge. Bullshit. Your wife grew up here and you've been visiting for 27 years. That's when the shoes started to drop. He'd googled my address and knew exactly where I lived. He'd googled a number of things and seemed to have far more information than I'd provided. I wracked my brain trying to figure out what I'd put in those email communications. He didn't seem to have any compunction at all about telling me he'd done these things. On the contrary he was rather proud of himself. I was starting to feel stalked and a little afraid of what a meal alone with him might be like. I asked my friend if she and her husband would join us. After some hesitation and picking the right spot they agreed.

He wasn't pleased but there really wasn't any way out.

Dinner was strained. His attempts to dominate the conversation were thwarted. By me. I wasn't willing to tolerate it. In retrospect it would have been better if I'd allowed it. He was left to speak with Elizabeth which he did at great length. Through the entire two plus hours my friend's husband didn't say a word. And then the bill came. My friend, his wife and I each reached for the bill in order to split it three ways. He reached out and grabbed it. This was to be Elizabeth's meal and he was going to pay the bill. He glanced at the bill and laughed off the cost. I was uncomfortable and about to put my foot down when my friend simply accepted it. Again, in retrospect I wonder if it just wasn't worth the fight. I told him that it was very unexpected. He said, I'd make it up to him by buying the next meal. Or he'd come to my house and cook it for me.

What. The. Hell.

Oh. Also, during the meal he informs me that my phone is still in my ex-husband's name (me and the cable company, don't ask). And he knows this HOW?! Well, I know exactly how he knows this. A reverse look up. And he did this exactly WHY? Well, because you can find out all sorts of information about a person and who they're related to and who lives in the household when you do a reverse look up.

More email. I didn't read it right away. I read it two nights ago. Oh Shit. Elizabeth, he tells me, is sad because she is latchkey. He wants to come over and keep her company when he is back in April. He wants a number of other things. Oh dear god. I sent the email to Elizabeth's father who rightfully loses his mind. There is one other thing in his attack on my parenting skills (there was more, it wasn't just the latchkey business). At dinner he gave her a small object. It was something he made, possibly a carving or something out of clay and then cast into plastic. I probably saw it at the restaurant when we were leaving but didn't ask to see it until we got home. He mentioned that on Monday he heard that I'd been harsh in my questioning.

Is the hair standing up on the back of your neck?

Before I go further, he has googled Elizabeth's father and wants to talk to him too. He has way too much information. He has attacked my childhood and both of my parents. He has accused my parents of ruining my life. He has accused my parents of spending the seventies stoned out of their minds (this at dinner). That's probably the point where I started taking his head off. He has accused me of being destroyed by my job (and then immediately accused his wife of the same thing). He has accused my parents of treating me as an object. I haven't actually said anything about my parents; I've mentioned that I, like a good part of my generation was raised in the school of benign neglect and therefore have overcompensated by overprotecting my children thus rendering them somewhat incapable of managing in adult situations where they really need to manage. Therefore I was chattel and my parents were stoned and boy is he bitter. And boy is he right. And boy is he pissed at me. And he's pissed as hell at his wife too publicly enough to be truly uncomfortable.

Is the hair standing up on the back of your neck?

I waited for Elizabeth's father to arrive at the house before we sat her down and asked if he'd contacted her directly. We didn't know how much to tell her. What to say to keep her safe? The balance between safe and scared - what is it? Where is it? What do we do?

Well, at dinner he asked for and she gave him her email address.

HE DID WHAT?!!!

Well, and she gave it to him. He's a family friend, right? Of course she did.

And he sent her an email. And I had no idea. She thought she was in trouble for not having responded yet. No, you are not in trouble. Show me the email. Send me the email. Delete the email.

Elizabeth's dad has googled him as well. He is not on the national sex offender's registry. Well, there is that. He is a stalker of sorts though. He is a predator. In the email he sent to Elizabeth I am refered to by my first name, not 'your mother'.

I don't know about you but the hair is standing up on the back of my neck.

All pretense of boundaries is gone.

His intention was to ship a package of 'antiquities' to Elizabeth yesterday that he would collect in April when he returns.

We've had a hard time explaining exactly what he's done wrong to Elizabeth. We were too worried about scaring her. She kept going back to, but I like him. Last night I sat her down and repeated parts of the email including the judgment about her unhappiness and his intention to come to our house after school. She was outraged. She stood up and pointed at Simon and said in a voice I've never heard before:

See my Saint Bernard? I don't THINK so!

I should explain about the unhappiness statement. First, her response was, 'I'm not unhappy. Why does he think I'm unhappy?' My response was, 'because you're latchkey'. Hers was, 'I like it here alone and it isn't for very long'. The truth is that in the January communication I mentioned that Numbah One Son came to her birthday dance because Nomans blew her off and that her sadness at that time was epic. I was talking about my children in general. He extrapolated the word sad to unhappy and applied it where it suited him. I didn't bother to tell her that. Why pick at scabs?

I don't know whether or not I'm going to have to kill her yahoo account. Probably we will. For now I've synced it with my crackberry so that all of her email will show up. We've talked about why and my respect for her privacy versus my need to keep her safe. All email that comes in will be instantly deleted, unread, from my phone (not her inbox) unless it comes from him.

Now she is scared. I am sorry for that but I need her to be safe.

Safe from what, exactly?

There are all sorts of predators. Yesterday she got her first lesson in the many different flavors and the way they work.

Do I think he'd snatch her? Do I think he'd lay hands on her? Probably not. Lay hands on her mind in a way that is entirely inappropriate and will eventually be damaging? He's already done that.

I don't know the percentage exactly but you hear in the news when children go missing or are abused that often as not it turns out to be a family member or family friend. Someone you trust, or maybe you don't trust. Maybe you know perfectly well this person is just a little bit off or WAY the hell off but because they are a family member or a family friend they have diplomatic immunity.

I don't think so.

The friendship which was assumed, let's call it an assumptive close, which was really only an acquaintance is about to be severed entirely and in a way that leaves fingers slammed in the door.

Cletus and the walkabout

Several years ago Numbah One Son was presented with the opportunity to go on walkabout in Europe. Now, walkabout in this family is not an easy thing. It's not designed to be an easy thing and I've never actually done it. I was first thrust across 'the pond' by my boss at The Castle and while it scared the bejesus out of me initially I was certainly taken care of with regard to travel, lodging, meals, expenses and all that. I even had a road map. I was scared because it was different and new and I was in the UK for pete's sake! I couldn't figure out how to call home. It was ridiculous. Oh wait. I'd even been to Germany with my family when I was 19 or 20 or something like that to visit my uncle but I was definitely a passenger on that trip.

Anyway, the opportunity was presented to Numbah One Son. One of the things he was given was a frequent flier ticket routing him through several connecting countries (because it was a frequent flier ticket) and eventually landing him in Spain or something like that. He was also given the names and numbers of friends and relatives across the world. He was given the promise of seed money (not enough, he'd have to work for more and raise more) and some books meant to educate him on the concept of the European rail system (should he choose to use it) and hostels. And he was pointed toward the internet.

He chose not to go for many reasons. No judgement. He just didn't.

Oh wait. There was judgement. Cletus threw a fit. She would have been fourteen or fifteen at the time and the concept of walkabout in a plethora of strange lands was about the best thing she could imagine. This from the kid who was, and often still is completely unwilling to communicate with strangers. She swore if she was ever given the opportunity she'd be all over it. She declared him batshit nuts.

I won't go into the multitude of roadblocks in his way because he could have walked through any of them. He simply did not. The thing is she's going to be facing at least one of the same roadblocks and it's going to be interesting to see what she does with it, said roadblock being her father. We'll leave that alone, it's not part of this story, just a note.

So the purpose of walkabout is exposure and survival to some extent. You're not being tossed to the wolves but in this generation we have over cared for our children to the point where they are nearly incapable of functioning outside the bubble on their own. I'm guilty to a large extent as my brother pointed out when Numbah One Son went tharn like a rabbit in an airline terminal never once thinking to look up and read the arrival and departure monitors to figure out what gate he should head toward. He called Baby Brother in a panic instead. That sort of thing.

Cletus watched the entire thing unravel I suppose. She looked at the books and listened to the conversations and thought about the possibility of a journey into an unknown. For whatever reason she didn't think the chance would come her way and for whatever reason it didn't occur to her to do this without the jump start. After all, if you time it right you can get yourself a last minute ticket overseas for a very reasonable price.

She's been given the jump start.

One week early this summer (I don't recall which week) Cletus will fly by herself to Italy (at least I think it's Italy) and spend a week with family and friends without Momma and Elizabeth. Just Baby Brother and Aunt and Grandpa and Step-Grandma too. And a whole lot of Aunt's family she doesn't know (that ought to be daunting enough to stop her in her tracks but apparently it is not). It's a frequent flier ticket. Not designed to be easy and I don't know which country she'll fly out of to come home.

I don't know how long she'll be gone. She'll have to work that out with her father because she works for her father's company these days. He frowns on this sort of thing. I suspect she's just pig headed enough to blow through him. She's going to be sleeping in cramped hostels with complete strangers and learning to live on very little dollars a day (It's not $5 or $10 anymore but it ain't much). She has the luxury (and this IS a considerable luxury) of periodically being able to dial phone numbers that will be answered by complete strangers (to her) who will be delighted to give her a meal and a couch. Even for a few days. And act as tour guides. And listen to her stories. And share some of their own.

She's going to be off the grid without a map.

Jeeze O'Pete. For real? Will she do it? I think so.

Which brings us to Elizabeth.

Where to go with Elizabeth this summer without Cletus. This has never happened. It was bound to happen eventually. Strange how the subtraction of one person can make such a difference. Changes everything, it really does. Elizabeth is incensed. Why can't we go on walkabout with Cletus too? We can't go on walkabout because this is Cletus's walkabout. You can go on walkabout when you're older if you so choose.

Wait. Go get yourself online and tell me what we're doing this summer. You don't have very much money so plan accordingly. Work it out. Dream big or small but this is your chance. You also don't have any frequent flier miles so don't be telling me we're going to Europe unless you plan on hitting up family members and quite honestly that boat sailed already. You also don't have very much time. We aren't taking off for six weeks. We're taking off for one week. Go to it.

Once she forgot about the fact that we don't have frequent flier miles and had us hiking, starting in Zurich and staying in hostels. She had a week all mapped out. Later she had us at the bottom of the Grand Canyon but hadn't quite figured out how long it was going to take to drive to Arizona (or how much money in gas but... at the rate she was going she'd have traded gas money for motels and had us sleeping in the car). She's dreaming, plotting scheming. She's not kidding.

The thing is I hear people with dreams and desires and wants which are immediately followed with a barrel load of I can'ts because it has to look a certain way or it's scary or something. Usually it comes out sounding like it has to look a certain way and that certain way involves a good amount of money because we only know that one way of having something. Other times I hear fear or judgment thrown up like brick and mortar until we're boxed up nice and tight and the dream is outside the wall until it's entirely forgotten. Not for the likes of us. For someone else.

I hear it out of my own mouth too. 

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Juxtapositions

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Where we live. A number of Cletus's friends had a year, a semester, a summer away, in Europe, in India, elsewhere. Some were very well cared for and one lived in more difficult circumstances in India but still, she was well cared for. All of these trips away were for their own good; to fix something, to fill a gap, a void, some hole that kept them from doing or behaving or continuing down the expected road. Only one of them was really meant to be on a journey. But still, she was meant to come home with a fresh outlook on life and then get herself back on track.

***************************************************************************

What is on track? I have no idea and quite honestly it isn't up to me.

This is what I think. I think if you can pick yourself up, out of *this* culture, fly out of your native space and into the unknown with very little funds and only a self directed road map and come back with your own stories and own experiences then you can do anything.

Because you can see yourself outside the brick and mortar. Brick and mortar comes in all shapes, sizes and flavors. And good lord are we attached to it. Mine is quite cozy. How 'bout yours?

It is when I am uncomfortable...

I should have been taking notes

I wish I was taking notes, really I do. Every time something completely absurd happened I wanted to sit down and write about it immediately because I figured nobody was ever going to believe me anyway so I might as well but then I'd run out of time or energy or fall asleep or something like that and before I knew it here is Saturday morning (well, now it's nearly 2 PM on Saturday afternoon) and I'm having to rummage all the way back to Monday because that's when the good stuff started.

I ought to mention this week beat last week hands down, at least for me. Peer may be still suffering to some extent and we'll get to that but a good amount of my pressure, self imposed or otherwise has lifted.

Monday. The cleaning crew. They arrived. Oh yes they did. They came. They saw. They attempted to conquer and they were summarily defeated. Regardless, my house is still very clean under the fine layer of dog hair and dirt that accumulates weekly between kid and dogs but nevertheless the fine (who am I kidding; it wasn't fine, it was an encrustation) patina of crud is gone from most parts of the house.

I don't recall when I talked to the cleaning guy who dropped off the women and supervised to some extent but I do know he had to bring in an extra two women (and he calls them girls and this does bother me) half way through the afternoon so that the total was six toward the end of the day because he'd underestimated the job. I do know he suffered some deep confusion about the artwork in the house. There are still some original pieces I happen to care very much about; one or two that have reasonable value associated with them (reasonable being probably worth insuring but I have not) but the two with significant value left the house three years ago. The rest, while quite good hold only personal value because the artists are largely unknown. Anyway, they are largish and I would imagine quite obvious.

And then there is the reproduction of Fredrick Leighton's Flaming June (the original currently resides in the Ponce museum in Puerto Rico) complete with large gilt gold frame hanging over the front door in the extra tall (yes, that's what I call it) foyer. It came with the house and I love it (both the painting AND the extra tall foyer!). Don't judge. It's a fairly good reproduction but reproduction it is all the same. In any event this poor man about lost his mind over the painting and instilled the fear of God into the cleaning crew. It is entirely possible their entire day was spent in fear of Flaming June presiding over their almost every move (insofar as Flaming June can see up the stairs and into the living room, dining room and half the kitchen and down the stairs and partially into the lower level). Perhaps Flaming June is all seeing and all knowing. Who knows. In any event, mistakes were made, things happened and I don't think this guy was prepared for the results.

That's ok. I was.

What I wasn't prepared for was just how far they thought they needed to go to call a house clean. The front porch? Really? Those column things that hold up the little roof like thing over my front porch were scrubbed as were the front window like things that frame my front door. My front door sparkles inside and out. Erm. Jeeze. OK, maybe that's just a presentation sort of thing but I'd consider it going overboard and I surely wouldn't ever care to pay for it. It's outside for heavens sake! This is an illustration of what went on inside the house.

My first clue that something was horribly amiss was the text message from Elizabeth announcing that while the house was very clean the furniture had been rearranged to some extent and that the entire phone system in the house seemed to have malfunctioned. Also, none of the lamps worked. I called the iTouch (she found the phone app) and suggested she check to see if they were plugged in. Nope. OK, plug them in. Some need extension cords. All extension cords missing. OK, do what you can and I'll be home by 8 (it was Monday, this did NOT go on all week).

In a nutshell, I'm pretty sure they panicked. I think it might have been the fear of God and Flaming June that set them off. Maybe that and the dog fur and walls coated in Simon Slobber. The stuff does come off and it doesn't take all that much effort and we do it a lot more frequently than you'd think. I guess it's just hard to imagine if you've never been exposed to it. I think they freaked out and moved all the furniture out of the living room and into the dining room and scrubbed. I think they moved all the furniture the other way and did the same. I think they had a hard time figuring out how to put it all back. Then they started putting things away in closets. Bad move. The things left out were left out for a reason. Things like a ballet bag staged for Tuesday. I found that by accident. All spare power cords, extension cords, router cords, phone system parts that didn't make sense and cables (printers, monitors, one of the hubs) bundled up and shoved into the back of the kitchen pantry and other spaces.

I got home and started looking but not until I walked around and admired my beautiful grout lines and sparkling kitchen (the kitchen was seriously in need of some help and boy did they help it). The cement grout between the tiles in the girls' bathroom looked like it had been painted. It had not. We'd just forgotten it wasn't colored burnt sienna. Cement grout is hard to upkeep but rather beautiful when it's clean. Probably wasn't sealed properly and I ought to do something about that while it's clean. I admired the missing gunk on the blades of the ceiling fan in my bedroom. I missed the cobwebs but they'll be back and really, did I need so many? Under my bed I found the main base of the phone system and plugged it back in. Wallah! Working phones again. I opened my closet door and a pile of shoes and power cords tumbled out. OK good.

I entered my bathroom and said. Oh oh. They missed. Somebody ran out of steam and I'm probably going to have to tell him and not only that I'm going to have to tell him he's not allowed to come back and fix it.

And then I noticed there was an entire shelf missing. I have a small bathroom. A really small bathroom. One of those 4 x 4 spaces where the only way to make it workable is to install a corner shower that is all glass floor to ceiling. Otherwise you might think you're going to die. It's a half bath size made into a full bath. I love it a lot. The corner shelf is something you'd notice. It was just gone. The things that used to live on it were under the sink on the floor. I looked all over for the shelf but it was nowhere to be found. I decided it would turn up eventually, probably in a kitchen drawer or downstairs or something like that maybe in six months or next year.

Still. I'm OK with this other than I know I have to tell him and I'm trying to figure out how to tell him without having him come completely unhinged. And I know why he's going to come unhinged too. He's going to come unhinged because he's called Baby Brother and given him the bad news in advance. 4 man (woman) hours times 8 to scrub the place. I don't know if he'll charge him for the mistake of needing to send in the 2 extras for the afternoon. That's A LOT of money. I'm guessing between $20 and $25 per hour in these parts and maybe even more. I still have to tell him.

At about 8:40 I give up and decide I'll find the rest of the cables later; never mind the fact that the computer is still useless. I'm tired, I haven't spent any time at all with Elizabeth other than running around desperately searching for pieces parts and trying to put the furniture back in at least the right rooms. At 8:50 I've cooled off a bit and notice it's a little chilly in the house. I wander off down the hall to check the temp. It reads 62. That's funny. The temp shouldn't drop that low until after 10 when we've all gone to bed and then it drops to 60 until 6 AM. I manually turn it up but see it's still set at 64 which is the step down process toward the 10 PM low. I turn it up to 70 to see what happens.

Nothing.

I go downstairs to the furnace room. The furnace is doing nothing. I hit the reset button. Nothing. I go out to the main lower room and turn that thermostat up to see if anything happens. Nothing. I check the fuse box and notice some of the fuses are thrown. Oh my. I throw them back although none of them have anything to do with the furnace but I try again anyway. Nothing. I know I have oil, just got a delivery. I run upstairs and run the water. I get luke-warm that runs to cold pretty quick. The heat has been out for a couple of hours. Probably since they left around five. This is NOT good.

I decide to throw the on off switch on the side of the boiler just because. Nothing.

Mother of God. Now what. How the... Of all the... No... Really? Not possible. Purely coincidental. Now I'm going to have to call the oil company and I have no idea what this is going to cost or not cost because I'm still not sure what's really covered in my maintenance contract.

I make the call.

The nice young man arrives in 40 minutes (not bad, actually).

He and I spend about 30 minutes in the furnace room. He takes some things apart, looks at the work that was done in September and the cleaning in November and finds absolutely nothing wrong. We are flummoxed. I go upstairs to check the girls and the current temp. Suddenly I hear the furnace kick on and go running back downstairs.

I meet him on the stairs halfway up.

Really. You're not going to believe this.

There's a kill switch in the bedroom on the lower level. It's a light switch just inside the door. It is missing a plate and is about a foot above normal height. At normal height is a regular light switch that turns the overhead light on and off.

Six years ago I knew what this was. And then I promptly forgot about it. It hasn't been touched since. No one ever seems to touch it. Actually, no one ever seems to see it. We see the switch with the plate at switch level and reach for it instinctively. The light comes on and off. At any point in time, let's say if the overhead light was out, we might have used the other switch and shut the furnace off. It just never happened, not even with two nannies living in that room. We were lucky. Or smart. Or someone else living in the house remembered. Or something.

The bottom line is I forgot. And then I had a cleaning crew come in and unplug and turn off everything in the house. Literally. Everything. All wall switches were in the off position. Not only were they in the off position but any lamps or fans associated with the wall switches were first put into the off position so that when the switches were thrown nothing happened. Then you have a who's on first scenario starring me until I get it worked out.

I still don't know if I'm going to get charged for the service call (he doesn't either but he's doctored the call ticket just enough so if there's a stupidity claus I won't get called on it. this time) but this is absolutely on me. I still had to tell him about it. Mostly in light of, for God's sake man, please tell your people to stop already with the plugs and the lights. If a switch turns something off then turn it off, if not DON'T TOUCH THE MOTHER FUCKER BECAUSE NEXT TIME YOU'RE GOING TO TURN OFF THE BROODER LIGHT IN THE GARAGE AND MY BABY CHICKS ARE GOING TO DIE!

Not that I have any baby chicks yet or anybody else has any baby chicks but you see my point. I have had exactly two conversations with him. They were extraordinarily painful. At one point I told him they were extraordinarily painful and I told him exactly why and asked him to stop. He asked for feedback and I gave it to him. First and foremost, your crew did a really fabulous job on my house, more than I would ever have expected or asked for. Seriously. Second, you asked for feedback so I'm going to give it to you. Don't unplug things without plugging them back in. They disconnected the entire phone system making it impossible to reach my latch key daughter by phone thus relying on her iTouch which is unreliable. Don't do that again. That's bad. Don't put things away. That's an absolute no-no in the cleaning world. This I DO know. Don't disconnect computer systems, you can disconnect things that might be running in the background and do irreparable damage. If you're worried about a painting I'd be more worried about electronics these days.

And then the furnace. I said that was on me but that he needed to know it happened and that the random outing of lights was a very bad idea. Outside lights that come on automatically had been switched off as well.

The pain? The pain was listening to his pain. I think it's a built in defense mechanism but it brings me to the situation at work...

My Peer is in pain. Perpetual Pain and Panic. I have finally been allowed out of his cube because on Monday morning I picked up a task of my own and just started doing it which got the attention of my boss pretty damn quick. He rushed over and watched while I read the instructions and built and then rolled the cube. The rest of the week, little by little I took over bits and pieces of the job and was left pretty much to my own devices. Instead of testing me, my boss started telling me I was gaining points. At one point my filter slipped. I smiled and said

Me: You know, it's a funny thing, awhile back, external approval stopped meaning all that much, it really doesn't do anything for me but you know what does do it for me?

Him:    ?????  You're going to have to explain that to me but OK, I'll bite, what does it for you?

Me:    A challange that I pick up on my own. Sort of like what you've let me do all week. I find something I want to do because I feel like it needs to be done and I can do it without getting into a great deal of trouble and you let me and in the mean time you get to see what I can do so you don't ask me to do anything that will get us both in trouble and I can also ask you for help when I need it.

Him:    OK. I guess that's what we've been doing this week but I still want to know what you mean about external approval. Who doesn't like approval?

Me:    That's kind of a long story and we can talk about it but I feel really great when I make something cool happen and I did that for me.

(and it's WAY too early to start talking about the difference between real and not real although they've both already been prepped for the chicken and garden conversation and the difference between what is food and what is not food and what we are told to eat versus what maybe we ought to be eating... yadda yadda yadda)

Him:    I think I get that.

I kind of wonder about that conversation. I'm not going to think very hard about it because I don't really have time but I watch him when he's neck deep in something and nobody is giving him external approval or disapproval and I think at some root level he does get it. Doesn't mean he knows how to interact any differently but you know what?

I've never said that before. Not to me, him or anybody.

And the other thing?

External approval is starting to make me nervous. Chew on that.

*****************************************************************************************

post script - I have not touched on what must have been going through the minds of the women who scrubbed, mopped, dusted, cleaned, put away, turned out and no doubt panicked to the point of causing a bit of chaos in my house, none of which can be even comparable to the chaos that was probably occurring for them. I have not touched on this for a good many reasons. First and foremost, I'm not sure I'd ever be able to stop myself. What I think isn't pretty. I can suggest the book Nickled and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich but that's only a start. The bathroom shelf? I wish I'd never mentioned it because I bet somebody slipped and broke it and was too afraid to say anything. I wish I'd never said anything at all because to me the fact of the missing self was slapstick in the end but was most assuredly not slapstick to anyone else and when I asked I think I just wanted to know where it was. Now see? I've almost started...

Because I actually can imagine.

Honey Badger Day 2012

I feel a bad case of potty mouth coming on. That might be a warning or it might be a bit of left over punchiness or I'm still staggering about in a fog or all of the above. All I know is we started calling the dog Vajayjay last night and it stuck. See? Potty mouth. We called her Vajayjay because, as Cletus so aptly pointed out, you can't really call a girl dog Penis Head; it's just wrong. Penis Head is reserved for boy dogs and we have a boy dog and the night he chose to lift his leg on my one and only basket of clean laundry thus earning himself a night in The Hole used up the name for the week anyway. Why we waited a full day to stick her with the Vajayjay moniker is beyond me because she chewed through the boingy boingy leash at the handle the day before and it was only a minor infraction that sent me over the edge last night.

It HAS been a long week. I DID stay up until 1 AM even though I should have poured myself into bed the moment I walked in the door at 8:30 and I DID sleep until noon and would have slept later except noon was when Vajayjay decided her bladder was going to give out for sure (I DID let her out at 12:55 AM on the way to bed so come ON, dog! wtf? couldn't I have had another hour?). And so I'm up, more or less, wandering around in my bathrobe with a pointless cup of coffee and a not so pointless bagel and cheese.

This week I absolutely lost touch with reality and I'm not quite home yet. I recognize this at least.

I will, however, return to calling the dogs by their proper names. It's the right thing to do. Sane adults do not walk around calling their dogs Vajayjay and Penis Head and then dissolving into fits of adolescent hysteria. At least Elizabeth wasn't around to hear it (because Elizabeth and her father gave up waiting for me because I was too fried to call and tell them I'd left the office at 7:45 and would return by 8:30 and could they please wait) and I'd like to think I had enough filter left to have restrained myself. As it was I didn't see much of Elizabeth this week anyway. I got home after she'd gone to bed and staggered around her in the morning. On Friday morning when the crackberry told me to get up I nearly cried. One night when I made it home before nine and sat on the couch in front of the TeeVee with the girls I wrapped my arms around Elizabeth and wouldn't let go until she finally yelled at me. MOM! Get OFF! That might have been Tuesday and I might have been just as interested in huffing the hairspray leftover from the ballet bun as making sure I was getting enough Elizabeth contact to hold me through the rest of the week because the freight train was already on top of me.

So. What happened? Right?

Complete and utter chaos. Madness.

It is common practice in the business world to blame your predecessor for the first 90 days if the shit really is hitting the fan (don't even start me). You can blame the shitty fan on a bad transition, bad documentation, a bad job, a dozen or more hidden dead bodies falling out of a multitude of closets, a bad national deficit, whatever, but after those first 90 days it's on you. Period. If you're still blaming your predecessor after 180 days there's a problem (not that you should ever be blaming anyone because it is what it is and now it's yours, the good, bad and the ugly) that's indicative of - this ain't EVER going to get better. There has to be at least some sort of forward movement. Some kind of change. Or at least an honest assessment of the state of things. 

What I witnessed and then became part of was... refer to sentences one and two, two paragraphs above; "Complete and utter chaos. Madness." I'll add lunacy to the mix too because the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting (hoping, praying, begging for) different results. It got so bad Wednesday night I finally kicked my peer out of his chair (this was all supposed to be observation and note taking time for me so I could see just how it was done, document it up pretty and be prepared to do it next time) and started driving myself. He gave up the wheel no questions asked and I started poking about at the process trying to figure out what we were missing and why shit was blowing up all over the place and keep in mind, I don't actually know jack shit about most of this. In the mean time he's trying to eat his dinner behind me; it's just after 9 and what I hear is not chewing, it's choking. I turned around. Instead of red in the face (which is pretty much his natural coloring due to his natural state of hyperventilation) he was white in the face and well on the way to blue in the face.

Me:    STOP THAT!

Him:    Gulp. Swallow. OK.

Me:    You have to take smaller bites and you have to chew slowly and then you can swallow. Otherwise you're going to choke and die.

Him:    OK. Thank you. You're right.

Me:    OK, I'm going to turn around again and start working on this and I don't want to hear anymore dying sounds, OK?

Him:    OK.

30 seconds later:

Me:    STOP THAT!

Him:    I can't help it.

Me:    (turning around) Give me that sandwich. Now.

Him:    What are you going to do with it?

Me:    Cut it up in tiny little pieces and then throw the small bits over my shoulder at you one at a time.

Him:    OK. Thank you.

Me:    In the mean time I want you to get up and walk around the block (the cube farms are organized into neat walled in blocks) at least once and stop in the men's room and when there's color back in your face you can come back.

Him: OK. Thank you.

5 minutes later he was seated behind me again breathing more or less normally. Sort of. 20 minutes later:

Him:    Can I have some food?

Me:    What food?

Him:    My sandwich.

Me:    What sandwich?

Him:    Didn't I have a sandwich?

Me:    Yes, you did but you ate it earlier.

interlude: look. I wasn't trying to be mean. I DID think about his blood sugar level and decided it was probably perfectly OK since he'd been grazing on trail mix since 2 PM and he did have lunch and he had managed to choke down half the sandwich. I made an executive decision to save his life. And mine.

Him:    Oh. OK.

This man is not stupid. This man was four feet past the end of his rope.

And where was our boss? Elsewhere. At a meeting where he couldn't talk but could periodically respond to text messages. At first I thought he was just being an asshole and testing us. OK, maybe there was a little of that but probably not as much as the other things. And then I thought he was just fried too and maybe in a bit of denial. And then I thought he really had no idea how much Peer really didn't know about the processes and the systems and the fact that the documentation did not get updated between last quarter and this. And then I thought he was in denial about Peer's ability to actually comprehend the bigger picture of the individual processes which is what's required to troubleshoot failures. And then I thought he seriously underestimated what happens when Peer hits DEFCON 1 panic.

All of the above and probably some more stuff.

Dead giveaway:

"You should just be filming Peer and then document everything he does from the film."

I think by the end of the week he realized I'd have to figure out which parts actually worked and it would probably take the entire quarter to get there and not having a test environment in which to replicate the process I'd be grasping at straws. Did this happen to Peer between last quarter and this? Possible but given some of the things Peer said I don't think Peer ever got to trying.

I threw periodic fits.

Not. Oh. kay. None of this. And it's going to stop right now.

I don't remember what day it was. Maybe the morning after Peer and I got 3.5 hours of sleep and staggered back in the next morning to find out we still had a broken process. Whatever day it was I asked Boss if I could expect a post mortem after the close. I think he meant post mortem on a specific database failure. I said, no, post mortem on the entire process because I want to back up 500 feet and look at what worked for us and what didn't work and then figure out what we can do differently next time. He told me I could set that up and lead it if I felt like it. (COUNT on it, sweetheart)

Yesterday that had translated itself into his own version of a two hour meeting next week and I've got to tell you that's one of the most heartening changes I've seen since my arrival. That and the fact that I haven't heard the word 'hate' since my last blog post.

I had a conversation with Peer yesterday which may have disturbed me more than it upset him:

Me:    Peer, you have to get more sleep. You simply cannot allow yourself to lay awake all freaked out about the day before (he tells us every day how he wakes up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep because he realizes he's screwed something up or thinks he might have).

Him:    I can't help it.

Me:    You're going to have to learn to.

Him:    What do you mean?

Me:    You have to learn to let it go. It will still be there in the morning.

Him:    But I can be working on it at night.

Me:    No you can't.

Him:    Why not?

Me:    Because the days of pulling all nighters are behind us now. We are too old to maintain and I'm not entirely certain we were ever young enough to maintain on anything other than sheer hubris and brute force.

Him:    What do you mean?

Me:    It's very simple. When we get really tired and burned out we get stupid and when we get stupid we break shit because we can't think straight and we can't fix stuff very well either.

Him:    I don't get stupid.

Me:    Yes. Yes you do and so do I and quite honestly it's irresponsible to believe pushing through on brute force instead of stopping and saying no is the right thing to do.

Him:    I don't want to let Boss down.

Me:    You already are.

Brutal, eh? I did soften it and he did take it to heart and he did have it out with his wife which was probably a good thing and he did get a good eight hours of sleep that very night. I did too but it wasn't enough for either of us anymore than the 11 hours I got last night was enough.

There's a contra dance tonight. I really want to go. It's going to require a nap. I really don't want to go. I just want to lay down and not get up until I absolutely have to on Monday morning.

And if that isn't the most WRONG sentence ever I don't know what is.

So I'll have myself a nap and I'll go to the contra dance tonight because sometimes it DOES take brute force to grab your life back from your job.

All week my boss kept making references to working to live versus living to work and I just stared at him slack jawed. He thinks it's best to work all night too. And none of this mess is his fault either.

I wonder what I'll decide to do next.

*****************************************************************************************

Oh. Good lord. One other thing. Just before Christmas I was on the phone with my brother, him doing his usual three days before Christmas shopping for my kids (and I'm generally prepared for this now) and he said, 'you don't have time for anything, do you?' and I said, 'no, I don't' and he said, 'I know exactly what I'm getting you for Christmas'.

I hung up the phone a little bit worried but then when nothing arrived for me with the onslaught of boxes I breathed a sigh of relief and I really have no idea what I was worried about in the first place because he's a thoughtful man and short of sending a Manny?... I think the statement just made me think, oh God, you're going to send one more 'thing' to my house that I'm going to have to contend with. But one more thing didn't show up and I forgot all about it.

He called Christmas day like he always does and we passed the phone around and then it was my turn and he told me to get something to write on and with. I got a pen and some leftover wrapping paper. He gave me a name and a phone number and said, 'this is a cleaning service in Wilton (next town over) and we're giving you a thorough house scrubbing for Christmas because I know you don't have time to do it. Just call the man and tell him what day to come over.'

This is my brother. He's been to my house. No offense was taken. The only thing I worried about was clearing up enough wreckage so that I could actually take advantage of such service.

At one point Baby Brother asked why I hadn't done this yet and once again assured me I didn't have to do anything but call the man and I said I still had the Christmas tree in the house but I intended to get to it immediately. And I did. It's out of the house now (the Christmas tree). It's still half on the front porch and half off but you CAN get past it. I called the man and arranged to have him come by last Tuesday which means last weekend Cletus and I had to excavate the house to the best of our ability.

The man came by to have a look on Tuesday to determine how many bodies he had to send in.

When he came in the house the first thing he said to Cletus was:

"Your house gets a real workout, doesn't it?"

Later he called me and said something about needing to talk to my brother because it was going to take at least three people all day and my brother hadn't called back yet. I sent Baby Brother a text warning him about sticker shock.

The next day I got a call back from the man at the service. On Monday he's sending four women all day. I wonder what the hell he told my brother. I know, after a few minutes of conversation it wasn't the Simon slobber that upset him, it was the yuck in the grout lines and other such stuff.

I'm thinking the last time my house was cleaned down to the bones was before that man left over three years ago when there was more income and a very different life. I am wondering why people are so bothered by grout lines. I am looking forward to coming home on Monday night, I really am. I wonder what my grout lines will look like. I wonder what has happened to me. I wonder a lot of things. At the moment I'm a little unnerved but I think I'll have a nap and go dancing instead. I think I'll have a nap and let it all go for a bit.

What do you think?