Living in Purgatory

In this case it is the place between moved out and not completely moved in. Boxes lined up against walls give the place a spacious feeling that will disappear as soon as the other two pods of stuff arrive. I waited and waited to get the fence put up so our Lab mix Rascal could be outside as she prefers. Inside, she prefers to get into the trash can, jump on the bed leaving enough fur behind to make a new pillow, chew the carpet, drink from the toilet, and "adjust" the mini-blinds. At our previous home she actually chewed the corner of the house. She makes up for all the mischief with a perpetually sunny disposition and while I have seen her chomp down a June bug or two, she would never hurt a fly. She is eleven and leaving her behind or "rehoming" her was just out of the question. She is family. Because our escrow closed the same day at the old house and at the new, and I must say lovely for its size and amenities, mobile home we need a fence up like NOW.

Without the fence, I can't get the dog out of the house. Without the dog out, I can't get the flooring in, without the flooring, I can't get my furniture delivered. What should be so difficult about getting a fence put up consigning one to purgatory you may wonder. Well, let me tell you. First, there are the mobile home park rules, fence height 4', partial exception for the height of the fence that faces the street that points car headlights at our bedroom, so 4' and 6'. Part of 6' was already up, so let's match part of that and put some of that lovely open looking white vinyl fence that never needs painting. Good enough. Second, the handyman who came recommended to us did not have English as his first language and had some strange fence building ideas. Have you ever seen white DAP used to join the seams of fences? I hadn't. He thought also it didn't matter because we were going to paint the fence white...no we weren't. We were staying with the redwood color that was already up until we get to the vinyl fencing. The job was going horribly wrong already and I didn't want to continue. Third, part of the reason that I didn't want to continue was that the vinyl fence had to be ordered from the Midwest I was told. The slats of the local fencing are too far spaced apart and Waldo our 4 lb. Chihuahua can just stroll on through. I couldn't wait two weeks for a fence, Rascal was redecorating my house and getting ahead of the flooring guy by pulling up carpet. I found someone else to build me a fence. He wanted to build it in wood. OK, that's okay. Lastly, it looked beautiful but now the beautiful natural fence has to be 1) sealed 2) stained or 3) painted. The only way to match the preexisting fence was of course to paint. The stain on the preexisting fencing was aged and would be impossible to match unless stripped down and there was the white DAP problem to overcome. So we decided to paint the whole thing. The first color we tried looked like ladies foundation make-up. The redwood color was too dark and after several trips to Home Depot and a secret paint formula kept here at home in our vault we got a color that was "just right." Or, I'm too tired and frustrated to care what it is. I bet this never happened to Martha Stewart. Let's just get this dog into the yard.

While the fence was going up Rascal was driving us crazy inside the house. We tied her outside but that didn't work because she would whine and cry and and garner us more complaints than the numerous ones we had already accrued. When we had the area partially closed in she would always manage to escape. When we tried to keep her on the porch she slithered under the lowest rail and got out that way. She went directly to the neighbor's yard and did her business there. One morning I tied her outside again trying to get her used to her new yard. I drove off to the market to get her a bone to keep her busy and occupied. When I arrived home I was accosted by a neighbor man who told me I was cruel to my dog and I was a "horrible neighbor" and people in this park were dog lovers and that was no way to treat an animal. I listened as politely as I could and I calmly said to him "What about patience and tolerance? We just moved here and we're having trouble getting the fencing up. I just left to get my dog a bone and have only been gone less than twenty minutes. Would it be kinder for my dog to be in a crate at a kennel, supposing I could afford it or take her to be put down?" I was in tears inside..."I am not a horrible neighbor" I told myself. I went to sit with Rascal in the yard. I was very surprised when the man came back over and apologized, said he was sorry, he was just a dog lover and couldn't stand to see Rascal tied up and crying. I told him the story of the fence and showed him what was happening and he went back to his double wide and called the park manager and told her that he withdrew his complaint and that "she is a nice lady." The bone that I bought at the market was spoiled and while waiting for the fence to still be finished, for three days Rascal emptied her bowels in the house. Horrible dog. It's a good thing the carpet is going.

Downsizing

Everyone seems to be downsizing these days by choice or by force of economics.

Like many, my husband and I have been forced to “downsize.” This is politically correct for “move to lesser quarters.” I would prefer that it were a matter of choice for retirement’s sake but alas it was not. And, I want my husband to work as long as possible.

The reason I want him to work at least for another year is that he, Bob, when he was between jobs became “Pop-Up Bob.” In the morning I’d go to take a shower and THERE HE WAS. I’d go to fix breakfast and THERE HE WAS standing in the way between the toaster and the refrigerator. I’d go to put in a load of laundry and THERE HE WAS, I’d go to ask him to run an errand and oops there he wasn’t . . . well, you get the picture. Whoever said “I married my husband for life but not for lunch” knew what they were talking about.

Downsizing we are, like it or not. In my mind, we are going off to the senior dying grounds which to say is a Mobile Home Park. I pictured someplace where I could at least swill beer and shoot off a gun on weekends but it turned out to be more than that. The residents aren’t toothless, grammarless, beer swilling gun carriers but they are all SO old. It is a Senior Park so what was I expecting? Friends and family keep reminding me that I am old enough to be someone’s grandmother but the point is I am not!

There were a lot of places for sale in the park and I asked where everyone was moving to and expected to hear “Texas or Oregon because the taxes are less there.” Instead I was told “they passed on.” So I wasn’t expecting to have much of a future there.

We had considered a well known senior resident community with a golf course and club house but I no longer golf and I’m not a “club” sort of person. And, when I went to check out the place, it was overrun by “senior police-wanna be’s” in golf carts making sure everyone was abiding by the extensive list of rigorous rules and counting the days your guest may have stayed, handing out parking tickets, making sure there are no lawn flamingos out after curfew etc. Noooooo, not for me. No way. Not now, not ever. I’d rather throw myself in front of a train.

Knowing I was going to HAVE to downsize, a friend took me around to look at Mobile Home Parks. Most of them were managed by people who seemed like they were more crypt keepers than managers and just about as humorless. They were also ready to read you the long list of rules and regulations including no dogs over 20 lbs. I’m sorry but I cannot give up Rascal, she is the best dog ever, a lab mix with a perpetually sunny outlook and too old to be “rehomed” and a portly 40 lbs.

Many of the parks also do not allow anyone under 40 to stay any length of time and we still have a special needs daughter at home. You can imagine my surprise when we found a place that had a pleasant manager, a heated swimming pool year round, residents with bicycles in their driveways not golf carts and I actually saw a child at the club house playing ping pong with her grandmother! Maybe I won’t have to look up the train schedule just yet.

Now for the hard part. I hate … I know it’s wrong to hate… but here’s the truth of it-I hate physical labor. Chain me to the computer, tie me to my easel, sit me in a chair and make me do telemarketing or watch infomercials, but please, please do not make me clean, carry, pack, sort, haul, bubble wrap belongings or do all that it takes to move, please. I’d rather sit with my 90 year old demented friend Mary and listen to her stories and questions over and over and over and over. But please no bubble wrap at least not for anything other than childishly simple entertainment.

After crying for a week, and finding a sort of, almost, maybe I could live there place, I faced the inevitable move. Little did I know that help would be hard to come by. I called on all my friends. One had to be fitted for orthotics, one was in Spain (why wasn’t I?) one had chicken pox (yes, seriously) and another looked jaundiced so I didn’t even ask. My sister would have to come 3,000 miles to help out and bring three small dogs who would otherwise get depressed. My older brother was tied up with his family and so it went.

I decided I’d better go shopping for tape, boxes, markers and yes bubble wrap. My mother passed away a little over a year ago and her sacrifice made it possible for me to finance our moving.

She came to me in a dream and asked for her money back. By the way, she was 94, nearly blind, mostly deaf without aids and still lived on her own, her way. And my grandmother’s dying words when she suffered a heart attack on the street and passers-by told her they’d get her to the doctor and hospital told them “F--- the doctors and hospital.” You see I come by my independence rightfully.

I was told that I could pick up help by the U-Haul rental place or by the lumber yard. There are many day laborers there. It seemed that none of them wanted to work for less than $12 an hour so that was tough. We tried a couple of them without much success. One of them only seemed interested in giving me and my husband back rubs??? Communication was a problem and open food containers got packed for moving, glass was not wrapped, things got moved rather than packed which in a way was a good thing. I was afraid they were going to put little Waldo in a crate and put HIM in the Pack-Rat Pod!

Which brings me the next item: why oh why do we have so much stuff and much of it in triplicate? No wonder my mother wanted her money back! I’m sorry; one person cannot keep three others who are unorganized, organized. I know I’ve tried. And because I love to clean so much (I’m being sarcastic) and haven’t be able to afford a cleaning person for a while, I have been using my mother’s excuse—“my maid died.” I will not mention that it was 10 years ago.

You can imagine my horror when it came to showing our home to sell. Being the poster child and inspiration for the Fly Lady website when we did show the house, I usually went and hid someplace. I didn’t worry--they were strangers to me…they could think what they like or I would write them a long letter of explanation after the visit or post it on the door: two special needs adopted kids (now grown but they don’t need to know), three dogs, apparently deaf husband, very loud parrot, insomnia, allergies, post-post partum depression and chiggers. As it turned out the buyer was known to us. We even shared the experience of a Brittany Spears concert together with our daughters when they were school age. Oh dear, there is no living this down.

Do you remember Peter’s Principal? It was in full force for this move. Escrow was delayed but then it got activate and then we now had, not a 90, not a 60, not a 30 but a 10 day escrow. Not enough time to pack, wrap, sort, sell, thrift shop donate, or throw away years and years of accumulated stuff. All the rooms were full and so was the garage but it had to be done. The escrow had to close here at the same time as the other escrow or we could not go to our new place in the Not Quite Ready For The Bucket List Mobile Home Estate.

Do miracles happen? I think so, especially if you aren’t looking for big ones. Our realtor was praying for us in his prayer group. One neighbor brought us dinner two nights. Another neighbor asked us for dinner. Another friend had a friend who was looking for any kind of work. And he had a couple of friend’s also looking for work. And we were surprised when our realtor actually pitched in helping us pack, gave us advice and helped us find resources. One neighbor was willing to take Rascal for a few days while we moved and the little Chihuahua’s were going to be crated also but taken by car.

My brother took in my daughter. She went by train to Texas. My son went to Utah to stay with friends and find work. The only thing left was Zoe, our rather large noisy, sassy, bipolar Amazon parrot. I knew without a doubt that the neighbors in the Park will not be tolerant of her squawking, she can be heard three houses down now. So she would have to be down-sized as well. I went on Craig’s list and found a wonderful little hand-tamed green-cheeked conure who is just a delightful bird. I was so dismayed that I was going to have to give up Zoe at least having Daisy will take some of the sting out of it.

So the house is downsized, the family is downsized, the pets are downsized and even I have downsized. I’ve gone down one dress size because of all the stress and physical exertion it took to downsize my house. Who needs a bowflex when there is a whole ton of furniture and stuff to sort, organize, clean, donate, bubble wrap box, store, crate and move!

The move is moving along and the new place will be great, I’ll tell you about it later.

As I See It

Introduction
This is my new, new blog and blog address. Somehow in the move, I was unable to recover my original blog address and subsequently could not post. Note to newbie bloggers: do not set up an account under a provider you may later change or have cancelled on you due to unforeseen circumstances including a poor memory.

Disclaimer: If you read it here it's probably not true but may well be, the people are fictitious or not(but honestly even I am not good enough to make some of this up). The names may be changed to protect the innocent-usually me-from physical, mental and emotional abuse which you will see often doesn't work. Currently, I am under attack by family members who know that dirty dishes left in the sink or uncleared from the table bring on fits of apoplexy which I apparently inherited from my mother's side of the family. To quote my children's favorite phrase "I didn't do it." Even the parrot says this. So, like me you will have to decide for yourself who or what may or may not be true because I'm not sure about the statute of limitations on some of what may be written about here.

Grammatically and Politically Incorrect
I have to get this out of the way from the get go. I am here to write. I don't have time to think about whether I should have used a comma or a semi-colon which should just be a reference to someone who has had bypass surgery. I will try not to split any infinitives, change tenses, use passive tense or forget to make adverbs out of adjectives if I am appropriate thinking. For those of you to who(m?)...just kidding...incorrect punctuation and grammar grates like fingernails on chalkboard (as it does I) or FCC warning emergency alert sounds on your radio, we have this to say...
go print yourself
a copy of this if you can, grab your big red Sharpie and have at it. I am the kind of writer who keeps editors in their jobs. They should be grateful. I refuse to make perfect punctuation and grammar evidence that I can write any more than I have to show you that I can draw to do a painting. I have had the training, I will let others carry on the religion at least until I can afford or tolerate my own editor. Besides in the time it may take to correct something I may have lost an incredibly funny, astute or profound (not likely) thought.

Political incorrectness is just an accusation used mostly by people who want you to believe what they believe as they see it. Political correctness is usually neither and I reserve the right to be also. I have friends and family of all races, education, ages, colors, sexes, sexual preferences, religions, politics and species and am willing to kiss most of them on the lips or at least face and if that isn't good enough then a pox on you.

If you can agree to these terms then welcome to my blog.