Help A Sistah Out

It’s Saturday morning.  It’s 6:30 a.m.  I am caffeinating myself.  I’ve given up trying to read the paper, it’s all “blah, blah, blah” this morning.  The puppy is looking at me expectantly.  She thinks we’re going for a walk in the park, as is our Monday through Friday custom.  We are not.  It’s Saturday. She doesn’t understand the concept of days of the week, though I’ve been talking to her about it—it’s just not getting through.

And I have to be at my sister’s in 30 minutes to help her clean her house for her open house.  This is the sisterwho is the queen of clutter.  The one who can magically transform a party-ready place into its former state of chaos within 15 minutes of the guests’ departure. 

When I asked her what exactly she needed help with as I have my own house to clean, she said, “You know, the things I don’t think about.” 

As the caffeine courses through me and my mind begins to wake, I’m wondering what those things could be–and I am afraid.

Puppy For Sale, Real Cheap

 

I get a call, around 3 pm, a call that could be heard throughout the entire office because of our poor sound suppression (wood floors, no rugs, high ceilings) and the fact the kids don’t pay attention when spoken to.  It went a little something like this:

Kid:  Hey, Gina got through the fence again

Me:  What did she get?

Kid:  What?

Me:  (louder)  What did she destroy?

Kid:  What do you mean?

Me:  Did she eat the carpet?

Kid:  I don’t know. 

Me:  What do you mean you don’t know, look at it.

Kid:  Oh, not down here, I thought you meant upstairs.

Scream.  I’m getting IMs from around the office.  “Oh, oh, puppy in trouble again?”  Not good.  And, I have a private office.  Well, at least my boss wasn’t in and didn’t have to listen to it. 

I won’t go into the comedy of errors regarding my various errands necessitated by this latest news, but I have a new fence/gate for the dog to keep her out of the kitchen.  Dinner was deli hot, and I spent the next two hours making the new gate work.  I may have mentioned—this is not my forte.  J-Man stuck in there and helped me out though.  I think he wanted to save my day and stop me from swearing.

Time for me to get some grub and relax for a few before round two of my evening!

 
A dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down.  ~Robert Benchley

Black Cloud In Heaven

I get so much inspiration from other bloggers.  For example, Clio Bluestocking Tales, reminded me of a chapter of my life for a number of reasons – she recently blogged a great date, and she’s a historian.  It almost made me do a double-shudder in rememberance of the worst blind date I ever had (totally unlike the situation I got myself into earlier).

There I was, living in the Bay Area—the Sam’s Club of Lesbian inventory.  I was nursing a broken heart and just wanted a little company for dinner or whatever.  Whatever would have been good about then.  So, I began corresponding with a few people in hopes that one of them would ease my pain.

If you’ve ever looked at the personal ads online, you know what I’m talking about.  They are all the same, everyone is as perfect as perfect can be, and they all are intelligent with a great sense of humor.  Also, those of you who have experienced online dating know that it’s a lucky day indeed when you find one gem in a whole mountain of pyrite.

After sifting through 350 people, 290 of whom were couples looking for a third, 50 who were classifying themselves as bi-curious, 4 who were friends of Bill and having trouble maintaining the friendship, and 5 who were unemployed, still living with their ex, or trying to get their meds balanced, finally, there was one of interest.  Look at her…she’s my agish, decent looking, a college professor at UC Berkeley teaching history, speaks multiple languages, was raised in Augsburg, Germany (where I lived for several years) and is single.  We exchanged some email, spoke on the phone, and agreed to meet in Rockridge, Lesbian Heaven on the West Coast—at a pasta joint.  What could be more perfect?

I arrived on time and waited…she finally showed up and we sat down.  Conversation started out well enough; I had had a chance to check out her latest published book – on the Augsburg working class in medieval times – just the sort of thing I love. I had plenty of questions prepared to keep the conversation going, and, I thought, plenty of humorous observations to accompany my own comments.  Humor is in the ear of the listener, I found.  Indeed, each witty remark, each rejoinder met with a quizzical look and a resounding thud.  I felt my confidence ebbing.  She had an annoying habit of speaking little snippets in the odd languages she spoke, then not telling me what she said.  I began to feel stupid for not speaking Farsi and began to feel the butt of a very sick joke.  The conversation grew more and more difficult.  I noticed, that not only did my humor fall flat, she seemed to own none of her own.  I was wishing mightily they didn’t provide such healthy pasta portions in Heaven.

The check arrived and the bill was paid.  We lingered outside endlessly, banter at last flowing smoothly….rrriiigghhtt…I looked over my shoulder, waved goodbye as I thanked her for her time, and lit the hell out of there quicker than one of my kids when I yell out that I need help with something.

Ultimately, I didn’t let it get me down, I ventured forth again—very soon, in fact.  A girl needs her whatever, after all.   But, I decided to change it up and just go out with the ones who made me laugh. 

I’m sure you, of anyone, can appreciate that I can’t go out with you—my Millard Fillmore Club meets that night. ~ Unknown

 

Sucking Up Warmups Begin

My new boss is coming out to meet me in a few weeks.  It’s all very complicated, but they are pulling me out of the control of the person in charge of my location and putting me under some guy in Chicago.  While I think this will actually be highly effective for one third of my job and most of our offices, there are a few of us who do not fit the mold of the standardized position they are trying to create.  It’s a little daunting knowing you’ll be evaluated based on criteria that you weren’t hired for, nor would have wanted to be, but I’m going to roll with it until I can’t.  I have an evil master plan hatching, the outcome of which will be posted at a much later date. 

There are upsides to this.  I’m figuring I’ll get at least a couple of trips to Chicago every year and you know what that means – a veritable food extravaganza – especially in Andersonville, where the sightseeing is to my liking.  So much good stuff, and so little time.  Also, love to catch a show when I’m there at one of the tiny independent stage theatres.  It’s the most exciting city in the world to me—I’d live there in a heartbeat for 8 months out of the year. 

Even better, one of my old colleagues, long since moved on, who worked in our Chicago office is happy to get together when I go back.  We have a great time—she’s a kick, and a troublemaker.  I like that in a person.  She discovered I loved Port last time and I ended up being dragged, kicking and screaming to a bar with an excellent Port selection.  In the wee hours, when I at last returned to my hotel, I realized I’d had a just a bit much to drink—not a feeling I like at all.   But, would I call her up again?  You bet!  Plus she has some great stories about the inner workings of our company, and, though I don’t spread human intelligence data, I do like to absorb it from time to time.

Perhaps if I really suck up, I can get a transfer!

Oh, you hate your job? Why didn’t you say so? There’s a support group for that. It’s called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar.
~ Drew Carey

A Time To Shave

 

This is my new shower.  I’ve never had a shower stall quite like this.  When I was very young and in the Army, I had a big open bay of showers, shared by 60 women.  I hated that—60 naked women, all lathered up, giggling and laughing, trying not to bump into each other.  Oh, Lord—why did I get out?  Then, there was the bathtub shower for many years—you know, the standard kind.  Not quite as image inspiring.

So, when I saw this shower, I thought—how cool.  I’ll just squeegee this sucker and won’t have to clean the tub at all – I don’t take baths – just showers – I’ll just dust that giant tub out once in a while and check the plumbing from time to time.  Seemed perfect.  Ah, but look at the dimensions of the shower stall.  Carefully.  Notice how there are no ledges at a low level, like there is on a tub.  The only place to prop a leg is fully 3 ½ feet off the ground.  So, how does one shave, I said to myself?

Fortunately, I’m pretty tall, and still in good enough shape at 175 years old to still be able to lift my leg that high.  It’s a good thing, because there is no bending down in the shower to shave, it’s not wide enough—I bang my head against the wall.  And, if I somehow get myself oddly angled so I can bend down, the water blinds me, regardless of how my back is turned.  Don’t spend too much time with this visual, really, it isn’t pretty.

I think, ney, I demand that homebuilders and architects have a panel of women carefully vet every single aspect of a design before it goes into production.  This is not something one would normally think about on casual perusal, as I did not, and the women who lived here before me probably did not.  Hell, this is probably the singular reason for her move.  I’m quite sure I can hear the conversation with her husband:  “Marvin, we’re leaving here now; immediately.  I look like Magilla the Gorilla. I can’t live this way.”

Men just seem to have no facility to understand just because something looks nice, doesn’t mean it’s going to work (like that little 25-year-old hottie holding onto their 55-year-old arm in mid-life crisis).  As long as they can open the refrigerator to get the beer and the television doesn’t have to be too far from the recliner, they are good.  I’m quite sure, given a world without women, there would also be no toilet paper or paper towel dispensers, rugs, carpets, or anything beyond threadbare towels.  The garage would be full of giant power tools and mowing equipment that would lay idle because there was no woman around to add the projects to a “honey-do” list. I wish it were that simple for women—I just want a comfortable place to shave.

I can’t. I haven’t shaved my legs. ~Keira Knightley

Death of Marat

The three things I love most in this life are art, history, and the children. You’ve probably guessed that I have not ordered them by priority. Others follow on the list, like good friends, good Port, a meal not cooked by my hands, and my dogs, but if you break it down, those are the biggest influencers and passions of my life. The beautiful part about the first two of these things, is that they are tied together inextricably. To look at a period’s art is to understand the religious, cultural, and political climate of the day. It is the visualist’s version of the New York Times.

To watch the evolution of the Western artist through the years is fascinating. The artists started with rudimentary skills and tools, they stumbled onto new materials while playing around in hopes they’d find something that would both work and endure—often coming upon a great solution totally by accident. They were wholly unsophisticated compared to the artists in the East. One day, someone made the move from tempera and wood to oils and canvas, and someone else figured out light and shadow could create a 3-dimensional effect on a flat surface. To have witnessed these discoveries must have been very exciting—catching someone making a history-changing discovery while playing in their sandbox. I know that it certainly makes me feel warm and tingly just imaging how they must have felt.

Then there was the first guy who figured out that art did not have to represent religious icons and images alone. It changed everything forever. Thank goodness, because thousands of years worth of paintings with nothing but representations of the wrath of God, the Baby Jesus and Virgin Mary would really have messed with the design scheme in my house, ya’ know?

Now, all of these fellows, through hundreds and hundreds of years, would not have had time to while the hours away dabbling with paint and brushes, were it not for their patrons. These artists were almost exclusively men, by the way. They would have had to go out and get real jobs like most people. All of the famous painters had some rich and powerful guy paying his bills – kind of like a kept mistress, without the sex (although, who knows, things were not quite so morally clear back then). Some were successful enough to break out on their own. The very best marketers among the artists, who had success financially, could also hire a bevy of boys who could paint in his style, so the artist could sell more paintings and attain greater fame and influence. Art scholars are constantly arguing over whether this painting or that was painted by the artist himself or one of his workshop painters.

In college I discovered a connection between art and history. Amazingly, someone else must have too, because they had several courses, and even a major called art history–who knew? And, I began my love affair with The Death of Marat.

On the whole, I don’t like the work of artist Jacques-Louis David. However, I’ve stared at The Death of Marat for hours on more than one occasion. It’s a painting that has a visual narrative that is intriguing, exciting, tragic, and poignant. The subject was not a lovable character, but he was highly effective with his rebellious written word at the time the French monarchy had recently lost their heads in a little revolution thing they had going on over there. Somehow the artist has painted Marat in such a way, that even if you were a Royalist, you could have some sympathy for Marat; see his humanity, his failings, his flaws, and feel the power of his demise. It’s better than watching television anyday.

What piece of art makes you tingle?

In the arts the way in which an idea is rendered, and the manner in which it is expressed, is much more important than the idea itself. ~ Jacques-Louis David

I’m Sprung

I got a little laugh today.  My quality office sent out an email with some new information and referenced the attached photos.  Only there were no photos attached.    Quality control—got to love it.

I’ve been waiting several days for someone to get back to me.  I hate silence.  Had that in my last partnership.  You talk, you express…and you get nothing back.  It’s either they don’t give a shit what you say or they don’t know how to respond.   Either way, I’d think they could at least provide an interim response and do me the courtesy of not leaving me hanging.  Well, I’ll give it some more time.  Perhaps the answer will be worth the wait.  Either way, I’ll know I did what I needed.

Everyone but my first grade teacher seems to have cycled through the house tonight.  The night was perfect, the sky clear, the stars visible (unlike my homes of the last few years deep in the City).  I like that.  Love getting back into the groove of seeing actual people cross my threshold.  Hermit days are over, I’m thinking.

 

I think, in the words of fellow blogger Middle Girl, “I’m sprung.”  Welcome Spring!

It’s spring fever…. You don’t quite know what it is you DO want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!” ~ Mark Twain

Swap Meet

All week long, I was counting down until Thursday, when I could drive straight home without any store stops, gas pit stops, trips to drop off or pick up my sister’s dog, school runs, or anything else.  I woke up a perky and chipper.  Well, for you who know me, the perky part is not true, but I AM a morning person and the sun was shining on this fine first day of Spring.  Then I realized I did have a kid pickup at my sister’s and a kid pickup at the school–new developments, in fact—seems I have another houseguest for a couple of days.  One of Em’s friends will be with us again this week due to her mom’s out of town court schedule.  Still, I made it home in time to cook a wonderful shrimp dinner, which we’re about to sit down and eat.

I realized, with that startling revelation thing—I cook some meals very well.  They just all happen to have seafood in them.  Does that mean I need to cook all seafood all the time and I’ll have both an interest and ability?  I’m thinking, a life full of Braunschweiger sandwiches would be pretty good too.  Damn the high cholesterol.  Damn it to hell.

Reminder to world:  Still looking for that cooking wife.  Must make healthy meals.  Will trade hot, steamy sex for good cooking.  I figure that’s a win-win, don’t you?  Somehow, I don’t think I’ll hold my breath! 

Settling In, But No Longer Settling

The art work is up on the walls, the garage has some storage solutions, the gardener has been hired and did a great job the first week.  We readjusted the location of just about everything, but so far, I haven’t put the milk in the wrong cupboard (I am famous for this stunt, pre-Mt Dew in the morning).  So, I guess I’m settling in. 

Over the course of the last few months, little tiny charged ions and particles of information have been seeping into the cerebral cortex.  There appears to be a leak in there somewhere that is allowing all of this newfound data to penetrate the thick skull and wend its way into the gray matter, lodging somewhere deep in its recesses.   From there, this newfound data and information will make a sudden appearance—some would call this a startling revelation or that the light bulb turned on.  Whichever it may be, it’s causing some psychic angst.

Here’s what is noodling around in there that I can see so far.  I’m tired of settling.  I’m tired of being the one to give up everything for whomever I’m with.  These aren’t regrets, just hindsight telling me I put everyone ahead of me.  But, no more will I give up everything I want, need, or desire to satisfy and fulfill someone else.  I have kids, they get my all, but that’s all I can handle.  It just doesn’t work.  I’m going to take the advice of a friend of mine.  I’m going to make it all about me.  If I do, I will have a satisfied me and will be completely out there for someone else to behold and appreciate—or not.  I hope that the other one out there does the same thing.  Then, the games could stop.  Real life could begin.  Amen!

Walking On The Beach, Sipping Wine By The Fire

I have a friend I met years ago in Omaha who has a wonderful sense of humor.  I lean towards the dry, but she never fails to make me laugh.  She also has an insatiable curiosity about everything and as part of her fascination with the law, crime, and punishment, she decided to check into prison pen pals to see what it was about.  So, she decided to spread the love and wrote me my very own prison pen pal letter.  Give it up for first-time guest blogger, Trin.

Hi Hahn at Home,

 

My name is Nancy but everyone around here calls me “Bunny.” It’s because I am so lovable. I want to make friends with everyone, it doesn’t matter who you are, just have a good heart and be kind.

 

I know it looks bad, my profile, but HONESTLY, it’s all one big misunderstanding. I didn’t get a fair trial and people lied about me. I was framed, even though when the police found me I had a bloody hatchet in my hands and I was last seen in the same vicinity where a few people, give or take, who I just happened to know one way or another, were hacked to death at a backyard picnic.   I can’t understand why all this has happened to me, why?  I am just such a lovable person after all!  Sure, I was upset to hear my boyfriend, the cheating creep, died so tragically, but, how could people make such a mistake, even though they found my DNA all over the homicide scene? You know, the police did it…they planted it. I know they did, but I can’t prove it.

 

I know it looks bad, being in prison for hacking a few people to death, but, other than that, I’m really just an average down home country girl with love and passion in my heart.  And, they were probably asking for it—yes, yes, I’m sure they were.  Not that I’d know.

 

I want to find the right one, whether it’s a man, woman, or alien, I don’t care. (Just please be financially stable with a load of money in the bank because I plan on asking for donations later when my appeal comes up in the summer.)  I know you are lonely too and I know I’m sure I could make all your dreams come true.

 

I am not certain if I will get the death penalty for this or not but I want to be married before it happens, so if we correspond for awhile and I think your the one for me, I’ll even put you on my visitor’s list so we can make plans for a romantic wedding in my cell or the prison grounds.   I’d be willing to trade a couple of packs of smokes for the right guy.

 

If I ever get paroled, I will drown you, “pardon the expression,” with nothing but love and romance. I can relocate quickly to your home and be everything you want me to be (until you piss me off and there’s an axe nearby.) Ha, just a light joke there. Anyway, if you want to write to me, I’ll answer any mail I receive. Have a wonderful day!!!

 

au bientot;

Bunny aka Inmate #249568-20