Spring Cleaning

Yesterday, instead of cleaning the manse, I cleaned out the closet.  For the past year plus, I’ve had all good intentions, but I’d look at it and just stepped away from the door…quietly, and then ran like hell.  I could have done it when I moved, but it slid down list until it was somewhere under “sort the nails and screws by size.” My recent visit to Macy’s during the semi-annual clearance sale with the additional 20% discount, caused me to need to clear the closet whether I wanted to or not (and please don’t laugh at the thought of me actually going to a mall, it was vital—and I took my personal shopper, Sistah, otherwise I would have been found wandering aimlessly through the clothing racks muttering nonsense and would have left with nothing).  Metaphorically speaking, I’m also cleaning my psychic closet and attending to things left unattended.  So, it all kind of worked for me yesterday.

Every evening, I stand in the closet and stare at the clothes hanging not-so-neatly, desperately trying to decide what will be worn the next day.  Hey, I spend all day being decisive, a girl is entitled to a little indecisiveness somewhere, right?  Invariably, I end up wearing the same few things because none of them need a) ironing; and b) dry cleaning.   I go through this exercise every night so that I can sleep and not have to face the same stultifying decision in the morning.  Were I to win the lottery the two things I’d do for myself with the money is get a full time chef who did the grocery shopping and a personal dresser/shopper.

So, ta-da…yesterday I sorted clothes, tossed ones I don’t wear into the donate bag, ironed all of the shirts remaining, sorted my shoes that had kind of ended up in a messy pile because I just kick them off when I get home, and did the winter/summer clothes switch.  For good measure, I cleaned out the drawers of my dresser.  Then, after taking a look at my sweeping masterpiece, I took a nap. 

But, I’m trying to forget Em’s words every time I make her clean their bathroom, “Why? I’m just going to have to clean it again.”   Does she mean I’m going to have to iron them all again once I’ve worn them?  Shit.

 

If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance. ~ George Bernard Shaw

 

What About Love?

 

Recently, I was speaking with a friend who is searching for the love that will last.  She hopes to find that wacky, upside-down, can’t-think-straight, can’t-breathe-when-they’re-in-the-room, goo-goo eyes, heart-pounding, serotonin-spewing kind of love she had one time before.

At what point does the mind acknowledge that the chances of the heart feeling that particular kind of love more than once is about as large as dying by Mountain Lion in California (and if you forgot, the odds are 32 million to 1)?  The mind that tells you that serotonin blush fades after a while, it has to.  Those gray cells that remind you ever-so-gently that the heady rush is then replaced by something deeper or it crumbles.  The hippocampus that stores the memory of that feeling and allows you to relive the joy and/or agony over and over.  The cerebrum that then tells you there are other, calmer, kinder kinds of love that may last longer–and are probably far more satisfying in the long run.

I have had the privilege of giving my heart four times in my life.  Not everyone has that chance.  I’ve always kind of disagreed that there is only one person for everyone.  Sometimes, there are more…but no two are alike, that’s for sure.

One was built on friendship.  Friendship and a common desire to work together as partners to build something.  One day, the friendship left, leaving nothing.

Then, I fell madly in love.  It was a singular experience. I had to wait until my mid-30s to experience it, but it was well worth the wait.   My brain truly did not function in any sensible way for a very long time.  I screwed that one up. 

I won’t talk about the third.   

And, then, I got to love again.  And, it was wonderful.  But, it was not meant to be in this time and place; it was really as simple as that.  No one was to blame.

Without each of them, I wouldn’t be who I am today—for better or worse.  Life is complex.  Our lives are complex.  And, it begs the comment that we don’t really ever know when will be the last time we will hold the someone we love.  

Trying to forget someone you love is like trying to remember someone you never met.

 ~ Unknown

Heavy Sigh

It’s hard to believe the last of a relationship can be marked by something as simple as shipping $8.62 of stuff back to the owner.  Toothbrush, check.  Jammies, check.  Socks and undies, check.  Shampoo and other hair things, check.  The package arrived safely and one last conversation took place.  I’ve discovered that I need more than a weekend a month or so.  And, I’ve finally figured out that hasn’t worked, despite the other party being quite wonderful.  Chapter closed.

Take a second out to think about this: in your life you search and search for the right person for you. Every time you break up with someone you get one step closer to that person. You should look at moving on as getting closer to meeting the one. ~ Ian Philpot

 

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

 

Giddyup

I was giddy part of today. I had this fun, fresh little email exchange that made my day. It’s so refreshing and such a rush to get a thought-inducing or thought-provoking missive when I sit dealing with contracts and numbers and stretching things here to make it go there all day. As warped as I am generally, it’s a pleasure to meet a like-minded lunatic.

 

Legal things were also leapt over today. And, I didn’t knock down the little thing-a-ma-jiggy that had to be jumped over. Ah, I’m so articulate. What do they call that thing—oh yeah, a hurdle.

 

We hired an intern today to work for the summer. Sure, he’ll be part slave to me at work, but that’s a good thing. Or at least that’s how I’m spinning it with him. He’s one of those kids you don’t see every day—bright, fresh, eager, tenacious, and by appearances, refreshingly wholesome and nice. Another bright spot. My current slave will be relieved to know some of the pressure is off.

 

Rita/Sandy/Puppy is doing well. She found a magic marker, but at least it was pink. Makes an attractive accessory to her slender, lady-like forepaw, but not so much to the carpet.

 

My good friend Chris, who can be read at www.redhogdiary.com, in case you’ve forgotten, will be coming out to California at the end of July for a few days. He wrote in his blog earlier this week that he’s looking forward to his Harley ride down Highway 1—an adventure in blogging—and is just a little afraid, I think, of what The Castro, in San Francisco, where I promised to take him, will be like. I think California will be like nothing he’s seen before. Especially the Castro. But, I’m thinking that by taking him to the local Bear Bar, I will give him a taste of something that will provide fodder for his blog. My sister is most anxious to hit the highway on the back of his bike. I on the other hand, will be content to sit on the beach and play in the sand while they go for their little ride.

 

Why do people talk on their cell phones in an elevator? Please, tell me why.

 

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
~ William Shakespeare

A Day In The Life Off

I’ve managed to move a pile of papers around three different times today, which remain unfiled, but are now at least sorted. One of those little things I put off in the moving process. Like balancing the checkbook. Since I spend 80% of my day dealing with numbers, budgets, contracts, and other things with $ signs involved, my personal checkbook is about the last thing I want to see on any given day, night, weekend, or holiday. Hopefully, the money will hold out until next payday. I figure some crisis will force me to attend to it—like paying some kind of fee for not paying attention. Fortunately, there was room cleared off on the couch when I fainted after seeing the VISA bill I received today.

 

Having a good laugh or three does a body good. How Zombies and Bimbos got me there is still a mystery. But, it was enjoyable and got me thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad being a Zombie.

 

Caught up with my mom today by phone, despite her “sprained” voice. We talked about all kinds of stuff on my day off today—politics, Oprah Be Thy Name, and her crazy neighbor who travels from property to property while people are “away” and “borrows” things from their houses and yard. Everyone knows she does it, but no one does anything—Mom locks her doors now. And, while bantering with mom, I can kill dust bunnies in the vaulted ceiling, Windex all the light fixtures, clean the bathrooms, and about 100 other things and before I know it, we’ve talked for over an hour and the house is spotless.

 

“No Child Left Behind” has some serious flaws. I’m about to get jiggy with my own version of a peace protest all over the school district offices. Stand by for breaking news, or a call from me for bail money.

 

It would be really nice to get a bottle of 20 year old Port to share with a friend of mine who is now addicted to this particular Nectar of the Gods. The Port Grape Growers Association should hire me as their international ambassador.

 

I have to go back to real life tomorrow and start working full work weeks. Need to plan a getaway that doesn’t involve cleaning, painting, or mowing but does offer room service, ocean waves, and sand between my toes.

 

Personally witnessed vignettes and variations of everyday life wherever it occurred.
~ Dave Berg

Workin’ Man

I met a lot of cool people today. People who have jobs I can’t imagine doing, but do them very well and with élan! Zipping home about lunchtime, I began my “work from home” afternoon while stealing Internet signal from an unknown, but appreciated neighbor. The exterminator arrived moments after my arrival. Yeah, I called, begging them to come as soon as possible. I don’t know, but seeing a cockroach kind of freaked me out. Hadn’t seen one since I lived in Texas 25 years ago, and was not looking forward to seeing another. Bug extermination technology has come a long, long way in that 25 years. My exterminator told me in detail. He loves his job. He loves nothing more than knowing he’s killing those dirty little bastards. He assured me I’d never see another one in another week. Promised that his cockroach death cocktail was the best.

 

Hot on his heels came the communications guys. They looked the house over and decided that where I wanted the televisions and phones and computer weren’t very convenient for them, but by golly, they’d go that extra mile and do it up right. They did too. They even vacuumed up their mess and said it was nice to meet me. I mean, how many times do people bother with even the most rudimentary pleasantries anymore?

 

The carpet cleaner showed up with a bright smile and a firm handshake. He efficiently cleaned around the communications guys and knocked it out in no time. I got to hear all about how he got into the business and how his passion for carpet cleaning was an accident, but a lucrative one that also gives him a chance to meet people.

 

I feel more relaxed than I have in over a year. Once everyone left, the place looked fabulous. Another stroke towards completing this painting I’m creating called my home. A whole bunch of noble folks are helping me get there too.

 

Some people dream of success… while others wake up and work hard at it. ~Author Unknown

My Lover, My Sheets

Shopping is not my forte. I do however, love to curl up in the luxury of good sheets and I love Internet shopping. One of the things I did a couple weeks ago is seek out a new bed companion–new soft, supple, welcoming sheets. Easy, huh?

 

 

Each day I waited in breathless anticipation for my high thread count lover’s arrival to my boudoir. Each day, I waited in vain. And, then, just like the arrival of the Sultan’s latest concubine, my 100% Egyptian Cotton laid before me at the door, alive and full of promise, ready to yield to my desire for a good night’s sleep.

 

 

Or so I thought. Inside I found a heating blanket. Was the God of nocturnal pleasure trying to tell me something? I was bereft at the thought of yet one more night without my sheets.

 

 

Rather than stand in line at the post office, I decided the better thing to do was dash over at lunch to the Macy’s just down the street from my office. I raced through the mall and up the Macy’s escalator to Returns; anxious to right this horrible wrong.

 

 

“A serious mistake has been made!” I cried, “Obviously this blanket is not my sheets—I must have my sheets, so away with you to refund my money.”

 

 

The three damsels it took to determine a mistake actually had been made and the 30 minutes to do the refund did not deter me.

 

“Bring me my sheets, wench!” I ordered.

 

 

The sheets were brought before me and I eyed them with hearty approval—so my purchase was made.

 

 

I’m sure our relationship was meant to be, because I got the new sale price and a credit for my trouble. She is a patient mistress, my sheets, but she awaits, so I must not dally here further.

 

It is better to wear out one’s shoes than one’s sheets.

~ Italian Proverb

Boxed In

I was sure last time I moved I wasn’t moving anymore. The two of us had quite a collection of extra special moving boxes, which we decided to throw away the day we moved to the house. I was really ticked I had to go out and actually buy moving boxes again. And, it was quite the move. A whirlwind three trips for stuff and one special trip and extra bodies for the pool table, and we were done. Only one broken thing that I’m aware of and I’m nearing the bottom of the boxes. Cleaning was the major issue. The things people leave behind tell so much about them. I determined from the debris that they were from another country (probably India), had a child, someone in the family had diabetes and someone else had really bad indigestion, and they had bad taste in art. Neither of them were good housekeepers and they both had a bad eye for where to hang things on the wall, as the myriad holes attest.

 

My friend Lisa gamely came up to help with the venture and was a buzzsaw of energy. Unfortunately, in the morning, when I got up to take Ben to school, I noticed her car was not parked where she’d left it. Yep, it was stolen. Nice welcome to the neighborhood, huh? Half of the next day was spent at work (dealing with crisis), driving Lisa to various car theft related events and appearances, and scrubbing bathrooms and the kitchen down with the contents of a 50-gallon drum of bleach.

 

I am now on day four of putting the house together. Yesterday, I went to Laure’s , joining the kids with German Chocolate cake and gifts in hand. It was kind of sad, that visit to my old home. Laure and her roommate were busily making the place their own though traces of me linger, for now.

Each day I’ve woken up happy and excited. I’ve not worked this hard for a long time, but I’m bettin’ that once the wallpaper is down and new paint is up, this will be our home, just as we’ve made each place our home through the years. My tiger picture is going back up. I hope I don’t move again for several years, but just in case, I’ve hung onto the moving boxes.

 

Goodbye, and hello, as always. — Roger Zelazny

Moving Day

It’s moving day. At last. I hear the rain is coming back to help me move, which is a bummer. In theory, I know a move that is but a mere few blocks away should be easier than a cross-country move, but alas, it is not. Careful packing and wrapping seems senseless when the box will be unpacked again after two lefts, a right, and six speed bumps. A cross-country move would entail carefully packing like items in clearly marked boxes, which would then be deposited in the appropriate room on the other end. A neighborhood move means toilet paper boxed in with the books and knick-knacks, oh, and that spatula I forgot in the dishwasher—basically, wherever whatever was leftover would fit. We’ll all be rifling madly through every box in the place for the misplaced toilet paper in a few short hours, I just know it.

 

Speaking of toilet paper, I’ve always had a thing about having “enough” on hand. I feel best when the there’s has at least a 24-roll reserve. With the upcoming move, I’ve let the supply dwindle, and it’s making me more than a little anxious. It’s like having an adequate stockpile of food. I’m sure this is some genetic quirk I’ve picked up from my family’s farming roots, when supplies had to be ordered from the Sears & Roebuck catalog and shipped via stagecoach twice yearly or something. Some people find comfort in warm socks, or soft puppies, or large bank accounts—I find comfort in a closet stuffed full of Charmin and bulk buys of canned goods.

 

I’m not a packrat though. Don’t get me wrong. Considering my age and the number of hobbies I’ve had, traveling I’ve done, and décor styles I’ve used, and the huge fact that I’m basically a big old mushpot of sentimentality, I have very little. Somewhere in the past ten years things have just become unimportant to me. I have but a handful of things I’d insist on keeping if push came to shove, and those are mostly of sentimental value. My insurance agent was trying to sell me a jewelry rider yesterday, but I own no jewelry. No diamonds, no sapphires, no rubies—I’ve spent all the money I would have spent on jewelry on trips to the beach. No stocks, no bonds, no Mercedes in the driveway, no big screen television, no villa in Majorca. But, by tomorrow night I will have the greatest treasure of them all—120 rolls of nice, white, soft and cushy, two-ply.

Possessions are usually diminished by possession.
~Friederich Nietzsche