I Wish I Were a Lark

--one of those people who wake up alert, smell the coffee and want to carpe diem.

Instead, I resent the early morning bird twittering, believe alarm clocks are evil inventions to enslave a conformist population and I wish only to carpe dormire.

The thought of eating in the morning makes my stomach queasy. I do have next of kin who can wolf down Grand Slams, coffee, biscuits and gravy and go all day on it but I don’t know how they face that in the morning.

I have never cared much for coffee and would rather get my caffeine from a cold Coke but somehow it is unseemly a drink in the morning—suspect of being more as if I were adding rum or something. I dare not drink tea, having recently become a member of the Tea Party and need to save my tea bags to attach to my hat for the April 15^th event this year.

It is true that the sun coming up over a meadow with early morning frost can be quite beautiful and I can look at those photographs all day long any time after 10 a.m. I love to be present for sunsets and their sweep of never ending colors and variations across the sky over ocean or even roof tops and watch as the sky turns purple and night time takes on its mystery.

Lark friends tell me that they love the quiet of the morning starting their day around 4 or 5 a.m. They even exercise. Three words you will never hear me say together are “brisk morning walk.” How do they do that when it’s all I can do to crawl out of bed?

Early risers do have the advantage of being able to call businesses on the East Coast, but then as morning wears on daytime fills with crowds of people tying up phone lines as well as streets and freeways on their way to school or work.

Because let’s face it, owls are out of step with the rest of the business days activities and that makes scheduling appointments or surgery more difficult. It has been suggested to me—more than once—that I just go to bed earlier and voila, I will wake up with the rest of the larks, rarin’ to go. No, it doesn’t work that way, I will lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling--as well as I can in the dark--for several hours, thinking of all the useful things I might be doing.

As it turns out, there truly are larks and owls and it all has to do with an individual circadian rhythms. Normal rise and fall of body temperature determine rhythms of sleep and wakefulness. If like my sister, or my friend Kittie, your body temperature drops at 10 p.m. you are lights out and “up and at ‘em” first thing in the morning even on weekends thus allowing you to tout your wonderful garage sale finds or any other worm that early birds catch. The only thing that ever got me out of bed for sunrise was the rim of the Grand Canyon. Why would you want a worm anyway?

I got up early one other time. Since I wasn’t waiting for the coffee to brew or breakfast and didn’t need to call New York, I didn’t know what to do with foggy-headed self and I went back to bed.

Being a relative or friend of an early riser can be particularly difficult. For some reason they don’t understand that I don’t want their eight a.m. calls anymore than they want my midnight calls.

I have been told by a few close friends that they don’t call me early, not because they understand my circadian rhythms but because I am incoherent. I don’t remember that and I probably don’t remember the phone call either. I am eternally grateful for e-mails and so are my larky friends.

Something I have noticed about Larks is that they like to note the time stamp on e-mails and probably posts to Facebook. Why? Maybe I can get one of them to explain this to me. So I’m up late, very very late maybe, how do you know I didn’t just wake up very, very early, huh?

I love the night time. It is so quiet and cool. The phone is not going to ring unless it is another owl friend calling. The door bell almost certainly isn’t going to ring unless it’s the police. All the noises of the day have settled down, interruptions are far, far fewer. Children are sleeping--hopefully. Pets don’t mind keeping you quiet company.

There are no cars at the drive-thru to slow your burger down, there are no crying children in the markets or restaurants and no one trying to sneak through the 12 item line with 13 items. People up at night are usually not rushing to get somewhere else. Hardly anyone honks their horn at night. Movie theaters are nearly empty for very late shows.

Expectations are less at night. No make-up, who cares? Not driving hand’s free? Who can see? Forgot to change out of your slippers... no funny looks (unless they are the duck feet slippers). You can put on an old sweater or sweat shirt to go out--one that you wouldn’t dare wear during the day. Night time is a time to be comfortable, informal, cozy even.

Furthermore, my muse keeps erratic hours and always will unless I train him or her to show up only at appointed times, but where’s the creativity in that? My muse is no lark either.

Well, I seem to have talked myself out of wanting to be a lark even if it were possible to change. You can’t be a member of the Lark’s club anyway if you are not a Starbuck gift card totin’ coffee drinker and I’m not.

I enjoy being an owl. I almost never get to talk to the East Coast though. The only thing that troubles me is my perception people who don’t know me might possibly believe that I am lazy, slothful, a miscreant or have a drinking, gambling or other problem since I go to bed late and wake up late. Shoot, they ought to know and I’m here to tell them, I’m not having that much fun.

The owls aren’t what they seem...they are far more interesting. Just ask Robin or Snowy.

All God's Creatures

Previously printed in the Anthology She Writes which was published March 2011 by Windflower Press.  http://www.windflowerpress.com/

I like to think that I have a “live and let live” attitude toward life in general and that comes to little lives too.

However, if you are a fly or a spider or a damsel fly and I open the door for you and invite you back outside, I shouldn’t have to ask twice.

I have been known to capture a small critter, especially spiders in a jar, and throw them outside. I’m always surprised they make a sound when they land. If I’m upstairs they are on their own ‘cause I’m not doing the stairs for a spider and all the windows have screens.

I ought to mention here that the only thing I dislike more than uninvited guests is uninvited-guest poison spray. For pity sake, we walk on that floor too!

Lately, we have had more flies than the Amityville house. Reason tells me that they are coming in through the sliders having hatched over at the horse stables. Clearly, they considered themselves too good to hang out for long there and come looking for more refined accommodations. They seem to really enjoy the patio and the patio set with the umbrella covered table. It’s like a little Meet-Up place for them.

You have a chance inviting one fly to leave but when they get that mob mentality it’s a whole ‘nother story. So, I went to get some natural, doesn’t-harm-children-or-pets flying insect spray. It does seem to help them fly and they may do a loop through the mist that’s quite impressive but not the effect I hoped for. I have children, dogs, a parrot, a guinea pig and a husband to consider so I can’t use anything stronger. And everyone complains about the spray’s smell.

I just haven’t figured out how to explain all this to real people type guests. I don’t mean the children’s behavior, I mean the bugs. Sometimes--I have to admit—it’s all out warfare and I want you to know that I do not send them on their heavenly journey without a little prayer or at least a “go see God.”

There is a creek behind our house. We hear coyotes and see them too, rabbits and skunks and raccoons. Recently, I asked a neighbor about the punishing tree trimming taking place next to her house and she told me that the raccoons were climbing the tree onto the roof and staring at her children through the bedroom windows on the second floor and scaring them. That’s a twist on the children who stare out.

Every summer there is a portion of the creek area that gets mowed when the grass turns brown. This is a signal for the mice to pack their little bags and head north ahead of the oncoming scythe. If they can make it alive across the street, and they all seem to, they must see a little sign on my back fence that says “kind woman leaves water and dog food free for the taking.” They really like the Kirkland’s lamb and rice.

These mice are not like any others I have ever seen. They have Dumbo ears set low on their heads. Are they mutants? I don’t know. It does raise the question of the well water quality in my mind.

Their presence in the house was the last straw. I went down to Denault’s hardware and bought the strongest rodent killing poison cakes I could find. I placed them in strategic locations around the kitchen including in the cabinet under the sink. I forgot my daughter thought it was clever to teach our dogs to open doors. One day I come home to find a gnawed poison cake on the stairs.

My husband had passed by it earlier and “wondered” what it was. He has his own philosophy about don’t ask, don’t tell. Don’t ask if this wool sweater can go in the washer. Don’t tell that I used your best bath towel to clean up a grape juice spill. Don’t mention that son fell off his bike, chipped a tooth and now has a severe headache. He thinks this philosophy will keep him from getting yelled at but he is sooooo wrong.

Did I say that I have three small dogs--any one of which could be the rat-poison chewing cupboard door opening culprit? I called the vet and he told me to bring them down right away. I stuffed them all into a small dog crate. You can do that with Chihuahuas and I took them down. I apologized to them for what was about to happen. Two of them were innocent, I was sure. My dogs were fine. The vet was happy to tell me that he thought he got everything up from their stomachs even carrots. They do like raw carrots. It was only $150 for that information and a few more days of careful watching.

I did not relent in my waged war on Rodentville. I just made sure that the poison biscuits were well out of reach of my pets. The mice obliged me by eating the stuff and not chewing through the dishwasher water line like they did once before prompting a service call expense and leaking under the sink. In the all out battle they have gotten their licks in too. My husband was then able to bring his one unsprung mouse trap down from the attic.

You know writing about this has raised my ire. This is my house dammit. They can all go find their own places to live. I just wish they weren’t so darn cute then I could live without guilt for the sometimes unavoidable chemical warfare.

The insects are not cute but still they are all God’s creatures so they will get at least one invitation to leave with the door held open before they are dearly departed. For that I am sorry but they can’t cross my path and live here for long. I do hope my now adult age children take note.

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.