The Cat from Hell

Four days ago I decided we needed a cat. After all, my life isn't complicated enough with working full-time, moving, a retired man in the house ALL THE TIME and a 14 year old. So I visited the Humane Society which is not that far from our new home - not a good thing. Basically I can swing by after work and pick up an animal or two every week.

Ian and his friend Elias and I stopped there to just look at cats. There were at least 112 cats and I decided we should get this small, shy half grown orange one. Then the sweet volunteer ( although I have now decided she has an evil streak) convinced me I should also take her buddy home. She pointed to one cat in the cage and I was looking at another cat in the cage. So after I filled out the paperwork which included the question, "How will you discipline your new animal?" (it's a cat) the gray-haired volunteer, which as I mentioned is secretly a sociopath, and I went in to gather up our two new cats.

She handed me the small, sweet, purring kitten and then grabbed a 27 pound orange demon. I said, "That's not that cat I wanted, that's the one I wanted," and I pointed to another small, sweet, calico. "No, this is the one that is your kitten's buddy," and she shoved him, head first, into an abnormally small cage; he was growling. Not wanting to cause a ruckus at the non-profit humane society I decided that I, the brilliant animal lover/trainer/psychologist figured I could, after kindness and patience, bring this cat around.

I was wrong. This cat is the devil.

I brought him home and released him into our house. He shot out of the cage and lodged himself under the wood stove. In retrospect I probably should have started a fire in the stove.

When I reached one finger in that I had dabbed with tasty cat treats he hissed at me. When I got more tasty treats on my finger since I had dropped the dab before with fear of the cat, he clawed me. I told Mike, "I think he just needs to be left alone for the night. He'll be fine in the morning."

At two am there was a crash in the living room. I stayed in bed. He scared me.

When I woke up he was under the TV stand. I stuck my hand in without tasty treats and he clawed me. I told Mike, "He just needs to be left alone for the day. He'll be fine later."

Later I walked into the living room and he sailed out from the TV stand, crashed onto the counter, broke three cups and flew behind the fridge. He was stuck on his side with one Satan eye glowering.

I wanted to ignore the 37 pound cat stuck behind the fridge. I wanted to push the fridge in more so he was crushed. He was still growling.

We fashioned a noose and tried to slip it around his neck. I took a closet rod and poked him. He did not move. At first. Then he slipped around and started clawing his way up the back of the fridge. Mike, Ian and I ran. I peeked around the corner and saw 47 pounds of  Hell scrambling across the counter. Mike, Ian and I ran farther. From the hall we saw him once again launch himself into the corner of the wood stove. It was 10:45 pm. I wanted to go to bed but I was afraid. We were all afraid.

We got a big box. We got two large blankets. We got a two by four. Ian was in charge of poking him out so I could grab him. I had extra heavy gloves on. Ian poked, he growled and I grabbed his tail, swung him up and into the box and Mike threw two blankets onto the top. It was a plan well executed. Except that now we didn't know what to do with him.

Ian said, "Let's put him on the deck for the night and then bring him to the barn in the morning."
Good plan, Ian.

In the morning we carefully and quietly loaded him into the truck and with the two dogs ignorantly following us. we jauntily drove across the field into the barn. We backed into the barn and we all got into the back of the truck and slid the box to the edge of the tailgate. The dogs were curious and excited. Mike then took his knife and started quietly slicing the two blankets away. There was no sound. I backed up against the back window of the truck. Ian was holding my hand. The dogs were curious and excited.

Mike threw the blanket off to the side and the 57 pound cat flew off the truck. The dogs were no longer curious and excited. They were now afraid. They saw something orange flying through the air and even though they outweighed Satan by 50 pounds they ran out of the barn.

The cat scrambled up into the loft and glared down at us. Then after enough time for our hearts to slow down, the cat started cleaning himself, ignoring the peons below.

The cat, as far as I know, is still in the barn. I'm not sure since we're all afraid of actually going to the barn. We're going to give him a few days to relax - I'm sure he'll be fine after that.

Those Annoying Christmas Letters

I hate Christmas letters. You know, the ones that come tucked into Christmas cards on merrily decorated paper. I used to automatically throw them away when I opened the cards. Mike accused me of censoring the mail. I responded that I was only censoring for his own good. I am now no longer allowed to open Christmas cards.

I am tired of hearing how perfect everyone's kids are; volleyball star, straight As, prom king, state track star, volunteering for the sick, poor and blind. Every kid has their own paragraph; pity the reader if the braggart has more than two kids. Nobody's kids are like that. 

One time we received a Christmas letter from a couple with no kids - this was before I was banned from opening the cards. I was kind of excited - what could I learn? How will they entertain me? What is it like to have no kids? It was two pages, single spaced, on their house remodeling. I've never even been in their house so why are they telling me this? I heard about the "near disaster" with the toilet. The "funny" story of how her husband put the hammer through the wall. How the new tile looks in the kitchen (apparently they made the right choice between the dark gray and the light gray).

We used to get a Christmas letter from an acquaintance of ours that rhymed. She had four children, one husband and a dog. Each individual received a rhyming paragraph. I took that one to school and read it out loud in our office - all of us English teachers were practically peeing our pants on how bad her poetry was. By the way, NOTHING rhymes with orange so if that is your child's school colors and somehow you think I'm interested in that, you should lie and change the colors - you can find more words that rhyme with blue or red.

For once I'd like a Christmas letter that spoke the truth. Something like "Dear People I Never Keep in Touch With Except Once a Year, we've had a pretty good year except that Billy Bob lost his job at the pickle factory. Too much drinking on the job I guess. Sally Mae didn't make the cheerleading team this year - the school she's going to now doesn't let girls who are pregnant cheer, kind of a bummer for her but she's thinking of getting her GED anyhow, so I guess it'll all work out. Bubba got a job at the Exxon gas station - we're real proud of him, he gets discounts on Nacho and cheese and has a shirt with his name on it. Got a new hand dug well this past summer and while we were at it we went ahead and put brand new shiny skirting on our mobile. Our place is lookin' real good. I planted me some geraniums that I been raising in cans I picked up free at the dump. It adds a splash of color that gets me happy every time I pull up the blinds. We're hoping for snow this Christmas, it always makes the freezer in the yard blend in real nice. If you're ever out this way, stop by and have you some Nachos and a cold beer. Merry Christmas All!"

Now that's a Christmas letter I'd read.

Shopping Two Days Before Christmas

Usually I'm a fairly organized person when it comes to Christmas. Not because I'm a fairly organized person, but because I hate to shop - the Internet was designed for loser people like me. But this year I found myself shopping for Christmas on December 23. Not for presents (already ordered, delivered and wrapped) but for food for Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas morning. Thus I was at Fred Meyers on December 23, four in the afternoon with the other procrastinators, people with Alzheimer's and men.

If that wasn't painful enough people WERE NOT following the rules of grocery shopping. I try to give men a break, after all, not many of them understand how a grocery store works so I smile piteously at them and give them wide berth with my cart as they're on the phones with their wives/girlfriends/mother-in-laws trying to understand the difference between canned whole cranberries and canned cranberry jelly.

These are the rules of grocery shopping.

Rule Number One- you do not talk on your cell phone while grocery shopping  unless you are a man (see above). There are multiple reasons for doing this- the most obvious is that it annoys the hell out of me. Secondly, everyone can hear your conversation and unless you are the president you are not important enough to continue your inane conversation in the grocery store. Thirdly, people who talk on the phone do not pay attention to the seriousness of grocery shopping. They leave their cart in the middle of the aisle, they stop in the middle of the aisle to exclaim into their cell, "Oh my gosh, are you kidding????" and they do not know that some people are waiting patiently (not me) to get by them.

Rule Number Two- stay on the correct side of the aisle. The right side of the aisle is to go down and the left side is to go up. Do not attempt to pass unless there is plenty of passing room. Do not veer your cart to the wrong side when you finally find bagged walnuts. Do not smile stupidly when you are caught on the wrong side - you know you're on the wrong side so quit pretending you don't.

Rule Number Three- if it says 10 or less items, that's what it means. Do not act like you can't count. A two year old can count to ten. Do not try to explain that 12 bags of oranges are just one item since they are all oranges - that's not how it works and you know it. You can only go in the 10 or less aisle with more than 10 items if the checker invites you, otherwise stand in line like the rest of us and if you continue to ignore this rule, remember-God is watching.

I think if we are to all follow these three simple rules our lives will be much fulfilled and harmony will enter our souls.

And if they keep giving out wine samples at the back of the store like they were last night, our lives will also be much fulfilled and harmony will enter our souls. (On a side-note, do not send your 14 year old to get you  more samples of wine - they're kind of stickler about rules.)

Five Years and Fifty Thousand Dollars Later

The Crazy House has become crazier. We finally got the TV hooked up and the first thing I turned to was the movie with Shelly Long called "The Money Pit." Remember that one? She and her husband buy this historic home and they plan to fix it up in a few weeks and a few stops at Home Depot. But they end up pouring all their money into the house that never ends. I am afraid that this may be this house. When it comes to buying homes, Mike and I have lived by these two adages: Buy the worse house on the block, and the house doesn't matter-you can change a house, you can't change land. We are about to see if those two adages are really something we want to live by.

Mike took the toilet out of the middle of the laundry room. Now there is a piece of blue tarp duct taped to the floor; it will probably be there at least one year. Our shower, what I have NOT affectionately named "The Camp Shower," is tilted so that soap, shampoo and anything else you put on the shelf falls off. Ian's shower sinks about four inches when you stand in it because the floor is rotted out. You cannot open the freezer if you have the fridge open. You cannot get into the kitchen if the fridge is open unless you detour through the living room. We cannot figure out the complicated heating system thus we only have heat at five in the morning and ten at night. The wood stove is disconnected and sitting in the living room since our insurance wouldn't cover our house unless we got rid of it; it will probably be there at least one year. When I opened the barn door, it fell off its hinges.

But......I wash dishes in the kitchen and look directly at Smith Rock. I wake up in the morning to a view of Three Sisters. There are coyotes that talk and howl every evening. There is a small herd of Black tail deer that live in the trees in the middle of our pasture. We have a black and white barn cat that came with the property. There are a pair of doves that sit in the apple tree outside the dining room.

Overall, I do like it. It's starting to grow on me, somewhat like a wart - you keep putting duct tape on it since your science teacher told you it worked, but it doesn't so pretty soon the wart becomes a part of your body and you no longer notice it.  In other words, I will probably turn the wood stove into an accessory and the soap and shampoo will remain on the floor.

It's all good.

Moving Day

We have finally moved into what I am referring to as "The Crazy House." We walk around the house noticing aspects of it that we didn't notice before we plunked down a huge wad of cash. I see Mike staring quizzically at a wall and then he says something like, "Hmm, I wonder why they did that?" Or ," Huh, this is kind of strange."

There are seven light switches in one of the bathrooms. In the half bath right off the kitchen, which doubles as a laundry room, the toilet is set in the middle of the floor so that you cannot open the washer door all the way, or you could look as it as being able to go the bathroom and fold clothes at the same time. There are four recessed lights in the dining room but no lights in the living room. There's a switch in the guest room but so far we can't tell what it turns on. There are three doors leading into Ian's room and three different ways to enter our bedroom. There is a door off the guest room that if you're not looking, you will fall four feet off the side of the house.

A few people of been by to welcome us to the neighborhood and the most they say is "Wow, you have a lot of windows." Kurt, my student who helped us move says that "it has a lot of character."

The dogs love it. They were not interested in coming in last night, even Mona who I believe thinks she is a lap/house dog. They periodically stampeded off the deck barking wildly at something....anything. Bodie is starting to get hopeful that he will never have to go to the dog park again.

The main thing is that we're here and we didn't kill each other. Moving is stressful even on a solid thirty-year marriage. There has been a lot of eye rolling and ignoring each other the last two days. When I opened up the storage area and saw a broken vacuum cleaner I knew it was going to be a long two days. I told Kurt that a certain battered metal file cabinet was NOT to come into the house. It's in the guest room. When I asked Mike to paint the laundry room before he put the washer and dryer in, he did but only halfway up the wall. He was surprised when I questioned his painting skills. He made a trip over to the apartment last night and I asked him to bring all the food; he brought the beer.

Poor Kurt - he will probably never get married.

But we're here and that's what's great. I'll worry about the 63 boxes of books I brought and the twelve boxes labeled "Buffet" later.

Forced Family Fun

Ian has entered into the phase which Jordan fondly referred to as "Forced Family Fun." This is when, as the horrible, cruel parents that we are, force Ian to join us in family time. We are terrible. We demand that he go to museums with us or go hiking or go out lunch. Jordan's most horrendous times were spent fishing with us. Ian's most horrendous times are just about anything that entails spending time away from the skate park.

Mike and I are the kind of annoying parents that like to do things as a family. I remember many times when Jordan was the charming age of 14 that we'd go fishing and Jordan spent the entire time attempting to make our lives miserable. Mike and I learned the fine art of ignoring although I do remember one distinct moment, walking by Jordan as he half-heartedly threw rocks out into the lake next to his fishing pole and for a moment, just a moment, I wanted to push him in.

When I was growing up my grandfather would say, when he too was demanding of my precious time, "You better quit whining or I'll give you something to whine about." My mother, while taking us to a drive-in money with her hard-earned cash as a single mom would turn around in the car and yell at my sister and I "If you two don't quit your bitching, I'm dumping you both off right here and you can walk home." So you can see that the idea of Forced Family Fun is a tradition spanning multiple generations.

When Ian and I first got to Redmond, every weekend we'd do something  together; the museum, hiking, shopping in Sisters, Oregon, going to Peterson's Rock Garden and it really was fun. But this was before he had any friends. Now he wants nothing to do with Mike and I, especially on the weekends. Yesterday we went Christmas shopping for people other than Ian; he was not happy about that. We went out to lunch, we strolled through the mall, we ate candy canes and listened to Christmas music.

Ian shuffled behind us pretending he was born of the Virgin Mary and every four and a half minutes piteously said, "Can we go now?"

The irony of Forced Family Fun is that both our kids think that we enjoy it. Seriously. Do they think Mike and I want to spend time with them listening to them whine, cry, complain and whine, cry, complain some more?I would rather be riding my horse who does not talk and I know Mike would rather be watching the Denver Broncos.

Last year for Christmas, Jordan, who is now 23, asked for a fishing pole.

It's funny what our kids remember about their upbringing. I remember a lot of fun times because I think Mother Nature blocks out all those bad memories, sort of the same idea that when you get in a car crash you really don't remember it.

 I said "A fishing pole?"
"Yeah, remember when we used to go fishing all the time, that was so fun."

This is what inspires, no, forces me to make Ian spend all those horrible moments with his terrible parents - I really am doing the right thing.

The Final Chapter in Apartment Living

When we first moved into our apartment I tried to convince myself and Ian that this would be fun, this was an adventure. We've never lived in an apartment, won't this be fun? This weekend we'll finally be moving out and into our new house and all of us (and I include the dogs in this) cannot wait.

I haven't really minded the smallness of it. I can't do my Yoga because the dogs take up so much of the living room and we eat on the half of the sectional I snagged when Mike got here with the furniture since there's no place for a dining table. But that's okay, I guess.

I tell people I'm not "into stuff" but I'm starting to miss my stuff. Ian drew some graffiti on a piece of cardboard and stuck it up on the living room wall, so this is our art. I have pens and markers in a cup I bought at Goodwill so that's a kind of accessorizing. There's also a can of purple spray paint sitting on a kitchen shelf - I guess that could also be called accessorizing.

I never thought I 'd say this, but I'm starting to miss cooking, real cooking the kind that entails more than one pot (again bought at Goodwill) and a cheap WalMart frying pan. There's about 4 square feet of counter space in the kitchen and one drawer. I haven't cooked anything that needs chopping, dicing or mixing since I don't want to buy a tool that could do this since I know I already own one that's in a box.  Most of our meals have to be cooked in one pot....think Hamburger Helper with no MSG.

But this is not really the worst of it. Last month our apartment complex was evacuated because a man who robbed Ray's Supermarket, two blocks away, escaped into the complex. It was quite the excitement - police dogs, policemen running around with guns drawn and hordes of Hispanic families standing in the parking lot speaking too rapidly for me to understand.

And then this weekend, once again, our complex was evacuated. The entire complex was roped off with the scary yellow tape declaring CRIME SCENE-DO NOT ENTER, again the dogs and men dressed in frightening black holding even more frightening large weapons. Apparently a man was suspected of building a bomb in his apartment. But not to worry, as the paper stated the next day, he was not building a bomb but he was declared to be mentally unstable and taken into custody.

I talk a lot about diversity at my job. I try to convince students, faculty and staff that diversity is a good thing and we all need to embrace it. There is definitely diversity here in this complex however I think I only want to talk about it, I don't want to live near it.  I really want to live in my nice safe house and look out into the field and see my horses and pet the cats and walk the dogs. I figure this, like anything in life, will be counted toward those "character building" lessons, the ones my grandfather was always expounding about that quite frankly I was tired of, I figured I had enough character to last me a lifetime.

This weekend we will be moved and even though I will probably be living out of boxes for a year or so, I can't wait. I hope that sometime in the future I will drive by the apartments and laugh and say to Ian, "remember when we lived there, wasn't that fun?"

Lesson Number One

A few weeks ago I mentioned on my blog that if Mike can run a multi-million dollar ski area, he can learn to shake a can of Comet.

Apparently not.

Since I'm working and he's retired he has decided that he will take care of house-cleaning. I wanted to hire a housekeeper. He didn't want to spend the money. We haven't even moved in to our new house and already I'm worried.

I asked him to clean the bathrooms last week. I had to put it on his calendar. He has this large calendar that he writes everything he has to do on. If I need anything done, I have to put it on the calendar and he's already warned me not to go overboard with the daily requests.

Two days ago I asked him if he had cleaned the bathroom; I had requested it on Monday.

 He said "Yes."
I said, "Did you also clean the toilets?"
"Toilets? I have to clean the toilets?"
"Well they aren't going to clean themselves."
"I can't clean the toilets unless I have the right tools."

He went out and spent $100 on the right tools.
I could have hired a housekeeper for two weeks for $100 and she would have cleaned the entire house, not two toilets.

Last night I asked, "Did you clean the bathtub?"
"Kind of."
That meant he wiped down the side with his $5 special chamois.

So today we're having a lesson in bathroom cleaning. This is the same lesson I gave both my boys, the only difference is that they were both 14 at the time; Mike is 55.

I'm concerned that the time used to question Mike about his cleaning may not be worth it. However, instead of going ahead and doing it myself (which is my usual method of operation) I may go ahead and hire a secret housekeeper.

I doubt Mike would even notice if the house had been cleaned by the Secret Housekeeper. I mean, if he doesn't even notice the ring around the toilet bowl while he's standing over it, why would he notice if the rug had been vacuumed?

I can't wait to teach him about dust.

The Dog Park

Since we live in this tiny apartment, we spend a lot of time at the dog park. Fortunately we only live two blocks from it, so it's an easy walk for all.

Bodie, our Collie, hates the dog park. He has no interest in playing with other dogs, sniffing other dogs or acknowledging other dogs. He certainly has no interest in chasing balls.

Mona is Miss Social. She loves the dog park. She starts straining on her leash as soon as it gets in sight. Mona loves the other dogs, she loves sniffing the other dogs and she especially loves chasing balls. She will exhaust herself chasing balls. She's the kind of dog that if she could speak she'd be yelling "Throw it again, throw it again, again, again." If Bodie could speak he'd say, "Are you kidding me, I'm not chasing the ball," and then he'd flop to the ground and ignore me and all other humans.

Just like dog owners,there are a variety of dogs and personalities at the park. There is always the Border Collie or two. Apparently they are one of the most intelligent dogs, but I can't see that-they spend a lot of time herding anything-people, ducks, chickens and other dogs. I'd concur that they are intelligent if they could herd cats. There is the guy that has three Great Danes-I think the only thing you can say about Great Danes is that they are big, because quite frankly, they aren't the brightest bulb in the bunch. One in particular still hasn't figured out that the gate has to open in order for him to continue walking - he presses his head against it and will stand there, head bowed, for as long as it takes for his owner to show up and open the gate, and then he acts rather surprised. Then there are the people who own Wiener Dogs. Again, they don't seem too intelligent, they aren't cute at all, and they yip incessantly. When one comes up to me in the park I am hard pressed to not step on them and crush their heads into the ground.

Mona plays with all the dogs. She is as happy as happy can be when she's running around, tongue lolling in the midst of a pack of previously unknown friends. She loves the Border Collie, the Great Danes, the Yellow Labs and yes, even the Wiener Dogs. Bodie is arrogant to all of them. He has no desire to be friends with them and he is continually bugging me to go home.

When we were in Colorado Bodie's job was to watch the horses. He was not allowed to go in the field with them so instead he stalked them up and down and around the fence lines. Chaco, my horse, soon figured out that Bodie couldn't come inside, and proceeded to antagonize him mercilessly. He'd reach over and bite him then hilariously run away knowing that Bodie was not allowed to nip at his heels.Now that we're in this apartment, he has no job so he has turned that energy into disdain.

He is disdainful of his food. He is disdainful of the leash. He is disdainful of going on walks and he is disdainful of me. I hope that when we finally get moved into our new place, I will regain my standing with him.

Mona's job here has not changed from the one she had in Colorado. She chases balls, she catches gophers, she sleeps and then she sleeps some more. She likes apartment living. She likes the dog park.
She likes going on walks because people stop and pet her. People pet Bodie too, he is a beautiful dog, but Bodie does not like to petted by people. Bodie pretends people don't exist. If he could figure out how to open a can of dog food, he'd finally be happy.

We should be moved in the next week or so. I hope that Mona can get used to being a dog again and I hope that Bodie finally forgives me.

Home Decorating with No Input from Males

Here's what I'm interested in regarding our new house; decorating. Paint, bedding, towels, counter tops, rugs, fun stuff like that. Here's what Mike is interested in: cematious siding, insulation levels, square feet of anything that might have a square foot, fireplace vents.

Here's what I think about that; BORING.

When we redid our bathroom downstairs in Granby the only thing that was fun was picking out tile, shower curtain and towels. When Alfaro (Mike did not do this bathroom - that's a whole other story.) he asked if he should put copper piping or flexible PVC, did I care? No. (Does anyone out there know what PVC stands for?) When he asked where the new thermostat should go, did I care? No...regarding that, I probably should have since he put it inside the vanity because the wiring was already there...can't you move wiring?

When I tell Mike I want to take out this pony wall (I actually know what that is) because I don't like it, he proceeds to tell me why I can't (something to do with a support something or other) or when I want him to put book shelves all the way to the ceiling in the living room, once again he tells me I can't (something to do with no bearings to hook to) bearings? I thought that meant "I can't get my bearings out here in the wilderness, therefor I am lost.)

I want the remodeling/decorating of my house to be like that on HGTV. They can redo an entire kitchen in a half hour. Granted, they probably have all the material in the garage ready to go and they don't have to argue at Home Depot (see previous Blog) but still, a HALF HOUR!!! I can't even get Mike to commit to a paint color in a half hour.

So this is why I don't tell Mike anything about decorating. If I was to tell him that we need to buy all new pillows for our couch to fit in with the new colors, he would want to know why we can't use the old ones (never mind the fact that I gave them away before we moved.) I guess I could just buy a new couch; now there's a thought... I told him, while in Home Depot, that I was in charge of decorating and he was merely the unpaid laborer. Probably not a good choice of words. But let's face it, if men have a TV, a comfy chair to sit in in front of the TV and some sort of table (a box will do)to put their beer on, they think their house is decorated.

This is one of those "topics of discussion" that talk shows and Dr. Phil base their livelihood on. This is why the book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" is so popular...decorating a home.

Here's what I have learned. If you can, hire someone to do all the peon labor. Occasionally show your husband a small slice of what you're doing (like a scrap of fabric which really doesn't even have to be related to the new room - he'll never know) and ask what he thinks. This will confuse him because A-he's not sure what to think about color and B-you SEEM to be interested in his opinion and once again, he will be confused. Keep talking about how well the remodeling is going and throw in phrases such as "Alfaro probably isn't as good as you, but we're only paying him $15 dollars per hour," or "I think you were probably right about the heated tiles, that was a good idea," and then hand him a beer.

The key to decorating and staying married is letting your husband believe he's making all these decisions. I've actually taken tile back to Home Depot that Mike has picked out that is just plain butt-ugly and then convinced him that the tile I've picked out instead are the ones he picked out. I've done a lot of decorating and remodeling without Mike knowing anything about it. One time I bought a new fridge when he was on a business trip and he didn't even notice until about a week later. I saw him staring, confused, at the new fridge, but he never did say anything.

I have many plans for this new house and none of them Mike needs to know about. It's how I keep peace and after all, I have been married for 28 years.

How Many Ways....

How many ways can two people discuss where a closet door should go?

Many.

And none of them end up well.

People that know Mike believe that he is this rational, level-headed person who enjoys the simple things in life...it's not true. Once Mike gets a pencil, ruler and graph paper in front of him he turns into the Dr. Jekyll of home-remodeling.

Here's what I think we should do with our new house - replace the floors, paint the walls, move in.

Here's what Mike thinks we should do with our new house-replace the floors, paint the walls, move three doors, move the laundry room, add one door, gut two bathrooms and....add the Taj Mahal of walk-in closets.

 I quit listening when he started talking about removing doors. My eyes glazed over. My thoughts started wandering to a peaceful day on the beach. He wants me to understand his plan by using such words as "measure," "square feet," and my all-time favorite, "perimeter." (What the heck is a perimeter?)

He tells me that we'll have the best walk-in closet I could ever imagine. Here's what's really bizarre about this plan - I will never have enough clothes to fill a walk-in closet. Ask my friend Dana. I hate to shop and when I do go shopping, once a year, I refuse to try the clothes on and my outfits look exactly like the mannequins. I have no imagination when it comes to dressing myself. I watch "What Not to Wear" every week. I love Stacey and Clinton. I wish Stacey was my best friend and Clinton was my cousin. But even with all this passion in wanting to be like Stacey and Clinton, I am most comfortable in sweats, socks and T-shirt with no bra (only around the house - I put a bra on when I go out into public.) So I'm not understanding Mike's quest for the MASTER CLOSET.

He says I can walk in and ALL  my clothes will be hanging right there in front of me (usually I just throw my sweats on the floor of the closet.) He says I can arrange all my shoes according to color and time of year (usually I just throw my tennis shoes on the floor of the closet.) Now all my scarves and belts are ALWAYS VISIBLE to me (usually I just keep my belts on my pants and throw my scarves on the bottom of the floor of the closet.)

I hate to squelch all this creative energy, but do you ever look at your spouse and think "Where in the world did my husband get the idea that I want a walk-in closet?" Now I'm under all this pressure to go out and buy more clothes (usually I get all my clothes from my friend Dana - now there's a person who needs the CASTLE OF ALL WALK-IN CLOSETS.)

I don't need a walk-in closet...unless there's a lot more floor space where I could throw ALL my clothes, not just my sweats.

I think Mike has mistaken my enjoyment of Stacey and Clinton to mean that I want a five-thousand dollar shopping spree. If I had five thousand extra dollars I would not use it to buy clothes to fill up a 200 square foot closet.

I would go buy another horse and then ask Mike to build me the Taj Mahal of all barns. Now that's something I could use.

Our First Major Decision

Mike and I made our first major decision regarding our new home at Home Depot and we didn't even get into a huge argument about it. Sort of.

This crazy house has wide plank pine wood floor which are in rough shape. I think it'd be very vogue to refinish them, Mike does not. He says we can't because they're sub-floors. What does that mean to me? Nothing. He tried explaining to me that it means there's just insulation and then the ground. What does that mean to me? Nothing.  Sub-flooring, Mike quietly explained in front of Martha from Home-Depot, is what you put floors on top of, you do not live on them. Martha discreetly left to go help another couple...good luck with that Martha.

Martha probably hears a lot of these discussions in Home-Depot. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Home Depot employees don't have training in relationship counseling.

There's a lot of eye rolling in the Home Depot aisles, from both sexes. On our way to look at counter tops, we heard another couple in a heated discussion regarding lights. He wanted to buy the $2.87 ones that were on sale. She did not. She wanted the more expensive ones in her hand. I agree with her, the ones on sale were ugly; that's why they were on sale.

In the counter top section we agree that we are going for a laminate- it's inexpensive and they have them so they look like granite. It was the edging that set us off into another discussion. Mike wanted one kind, I wanted another. He told me that that one I wanted would be too hard to clean. I reminded him that he never cleans the kitchen anyway. Jud, the counter guy, walked back to his computer and ducked his head down over his keyboard.

Here's what we agreed on - bamboo floors (they were on sale) and Mike's going to install them (even though Home Depot will install them for only $300, which is what I think we should do). We tabled the counter top argument (which I'm pretty confident I'll win) and didn't even talk about the bathroom redo.

One step at a time when you remodel a house with your spouse. If I don't say a word about putting a shop in the barn, he'll leave me alone when it comes to replacing all the appliances with ones that are all the same color....Mike thinks cream and white are the same....

It's all about what battles you choose to fight. I suggested we go to separate rooms (hard to do in this apartment) and write down our ideas for this new place and then come together and compromise. What does compromise mean in a marriage? It means that one person gives up something one time and the other person gives up something another time. It does not mean meeting in the middle.

This means I won't get my wide plank floors but I will get heated tiles in the bathroom. It means Mike will get to take over half the barn for his shop but I will get book shelves in the guest room. It means Mike will get to cut down some trees but I will get French doors. It means Mike can have a huge file cabinet in the office but I get to pick out the paint for the entire house.

He doesn't know any of the above. It's important to let your husband THINK he's making all the major decisions but you know better.

On Having My Husband Home

Although I like having Mike home after him being away for three months he's driving me crazy. I feel like I have another Ian but one that takes up more space in a place that's already small and...add two large dogs who do not like apartment living and you have me wishing I could stay at work longer.

I'd ask myself, "What is it about men that makes them think they need to come first?" but instead, I should ask, "What is is about women that allows men to think they need to come first?" I think I've done a great disservice to women everywhere (especially the women who end up marrying my two sons) by being nice to the men in my life.

That's all it is; we women like to be nice and we also want everyone to like us even if we don't like them.

We need to be more like men - we need to care less about relationships-we need to care more about power and how to gain it. If we focused more on being like men I wouldn't have to be concerned when Mike loses his glasses or his car keys or his phone. Never mind that I don't use any of that, apparently it's still my responsibility to find them. Why? Because women like to take care of people and that means finding lost items. That means that when we do laundry we are responsible for cleaning out their pockets. That means making the bed even though they are the last ones out. It means showing them over and over and over how the remote for the DVD player works.

I started thinking about this when I took the dogs for a walk; they didn't really need the walk and it was a little cold, but I needed the walk otherwise I was going to take the knife I was using to cut up cucumbers and stab my husband on the hand.

So this is my new mantra - I will retrain my husband so he is a contributing member to my family. He will learn to clean bathrooms (he supervised a multi-million dollar ski area - I think he can learn to shake a can of Comet). He will learn to make the bed AND arrange the decorative pillows. He will learn to take pens out of his shorts before he puts them in the dirty clothes, and oh yeah, he will learn to pick up the lid of the dirty clothes hamper and put his clothes IN the hamper - not on top, not AROUND, not in the general vicinity.

I think these are are all reachable goals and a good step toward making my husband someone I want to live with in our new home
.
 Otherwise I may have to call a couple of rather criminal-type cousins I have and find out what my alternatives are.

My Sprititual Journey

I'm trying to become a more spiritually in touch individual. At COCC I am surrounded by people who are (or at least they say they are) and I'm beginning to feel left out. These people have a calm, outward appearance. They arrive at meetings smiling and greeting others with hugs and sympathetic looks. They wear jewelry that is symbolic of something. They go on spiritual journeys to some place that the rest of us can't pronounce and they talk of meeting the Dalai Lamai (although I heard he died...do these people know this or are they talking about meeting him in the netherworld.) They read books by people who also have names the rest of us can't pronounce.

I do yoga. I don't practice Yoga. In fact, I've been doing Yoga for about three years and still don't know what Namaste means. I do Yoga because it helps keep all the aches and pain from old age and bad living,stay away. I don't do it to become more in touch with my body; I wish I could get rid of my body and get a new one. When the final words of my Yoga DVD are "Live today breathing out the negativity" if Mike or Ian are walking by, they laugh out loud.

I told someone at a recent meeting that I DO Yoga. She got all excited and wanted to know what level I was on. I told her I was on Level One from Amazon; it was only 5.99. She sneakily got up and sat by someone else; I don't know how she's so spiritually in-tune, I think she's kind of a snob. I told another lady with black hair that was going grey that I DO Yoga. She got excited too until I told her I only did it so the pain in my shoulder was not quite so bad. She got up too. I think next time I see her I should tell her she needs to dye her hair and that it doesn't look good and the only ones who look good with grey hair are men. Then we'll see how spiritually in touch she is.

This journey is not going well. I'm not a nice enough person to become more forgiving and tolerant. I'm too busy to concentrate on my breathing. I'm too loud to become soft-spoken. I'm too obnoxious to give unknown people hugs and support. I rarely pay attention to what comes out of my mouth. I secretly laugh at those who gush over the latest epiphany they've had.

My friend Betsey (aka Elizabeth) says I'm also a snob. She says I like being around people that I find at my work; I get to talk about ideas and think that I'm saving the world. She's right. But I also know that I like living in Redmond (no matter how many people from Bend tell me I shouldn't say that out loud) because it's a cowboy and ranching town and it's small and when it comes right down to it, I'd much rather hang out with cowboys at a bar than yuppies at a spa

So I'm going to continue to work on my inner self even if all it means is that I don't hope the lady with the bracelet that symbolizes world peace walks in front of a car. .

Rejoining the Twenty-First Century

We have lived in our apartment now for about four months with the following: four plates, four bowls, one set of silverware, two cups, four wine glasses, one couch, one real bed and one air mattress, three towels, a small flat screen TV and two gigantic dog beds for the two gigantic dogs. I've kind of liked it; I think I could get into the feng shui thing. You know how easy it is to clean a house with no furniture? Do you realize how quick it is to wash four plates and four forks?

What I don't have, which I haven't missed, is a computer. I'm work with a computer all the time, all day; anymore people can't function in the "real" world without a computer. At COCC we are constantly reminded to check Commlines multiple times during the day; I guess it's so we know if the school has caught on fire or something. So far the only interesting information I've garnered from my repeated checking  is that if I want to retire I can get $1000 right away. (They send that message to everyone, so I'm not taking it personally.)

So now we're on the hunt for a computer. Mike loves stuff like this. I wish I could manage to lose my cell phone more often. My friend Dana is always making fun of me because I don't have a Face book page; she says I could get in touch with all sorts of people that way. On the flip side, many people could get in touch with me and maybe I don't want to be in touch with all those people. I figure if I want to be in touch I'd be in touch.

We've been down to the Verizon Dealer, Best Buys, Computerland, Costco and any other store that might have a computer for sale. This is the plan; Mike is trading his fancy phone in (the one that if it rings and he's not in the room and I am, it doesn't get answered) for a simpler model (like mine) and then he'll get a Notebook which has built in wireless and then we'll get a laptop. All of this is supposed to save us $40 a month...really?

I brought home an IPad from our library that I reserved so we could try it out. Ian and Mike love it. I hated it and after 23 minutes lost interest especially since where ever I moved my finger the screen followed. I did not want it to follow. I wanted it to stay on my email which I couldn't even reply to since I couldn't figure out how to get the keyboard to come up. I clicked something which sent me to Sports Illustrated and then handed it back to Mike and said, "I'm going to go upstairs and read a book." Ian then said, "But Mom, you can get a book here." He flipped around and around and lo and behold, a book did come up which I couldn't get to "turn" the page because it doesn't "turn," it floats. I went upstairs to read a book which has real pages that turn when I need them to and which I can turn upside down on my nightstand when I'm done and pick it up the next morning and it will be in the SAME PLACE I left it at.

I think I'm the kind of person that would be perfectly happy living in a home with running water, electricity, a dog or two, my horse and books, real books with paper and covers and page numbers.

As it is, I guess we're buying more electronic stuff to clutter up my mental and emotional space. My friend Laura has managed to run over two laptops; I'm thinking of following in her footsteps.

The Things Mike Brought and The Things Mike Left

Mike's job before he moved here, during the two weeks after he retired, was to go through all the stuff (i.e. crap) in our house and decide what to move and what to take to the dump/Goodwill/give away/burn. This was after I had a major garage sale and gave away practically an entire house of stuff/crap. When I'd call him he'd be out playing golf, on his way to playing golf or on his way back from playing golf. Which explains the high level of stress I sensed in our phone calls three days before he was to leave for Redmond.

The day he loaded the truck, with help from a group of wonderful friends, he was calling me every 15 minutes to ask if he should bring something. "Should I bring the Monopoly game that I found under the couch that doesn't have any Monopoly money?" Should I bring the wooden box that weighs 100 pounds that has two camp stoves in it that don't work?" "Should I bring the generator that's still in a box that weighs 600 pounds that we've hauled from Oregon to Colorado?" "Should I bring the piece of carpet that the dogs sleep on in the garage?" "Should I bring the empty mayonnaise jars?"

What he didn't ask is if he should bring the Christmas cactus that my grandmother gave us for our wedding 28 years ago which I've babied along for 28 years...he gave that away to someone he can't remember. What he didn't ask is if he should bring the door that Ian has been decorating with stickers from all the Colorado ski areas that he's been to that he wants to use in his new room as a headboard...Jordan stopped at the house and mailed the door...it cost Mike $93. What he didn't ask is he he should bring the iris bulbs that I brought from Oregon given to me by a now passed aunt and planted in Colorado then dug back up to bring to Oregon in a box labeled IMPORTANT...he threw those away - he thought they were weeds.

I keep telling myself it's just stuff and that everything is replaceable. I guess I can buy a new Christmas cactus and pretend my grandmother gave it to me. I can also buy more bulbs. But I must admit that it's quite annoying when I see he used space in the van to bring two plastic garbage cans worth $1.50. Or a half a package of toilet paper. Or a broken broom. Or my favorite - an empty box. Seriously.

Oh well, I guess we really are starting a new life...maybe even with a new husband.

On Looking at Other People's Houses

We have found a house to put an offer on. Here are the things wrong with it: illegal wood stove, sloping floor in the bathroom, sloping roof, trees leaning against the deck, three dry ponds and a kitchen with no doors on the cabinets. Other than that it's perfect.

Seriously. I've looked at so many houses I've lost count. I thought this would be fun; it looks fun when they do it on HGTV. The people walk in to these somewhat perfect homes, complain about the border wallpaper and then make an offer which is accepted.

I walked into one house that had a sunken hot tub in the bedroom; if I fell out of bed I could drown. One house had an escape hatch next to the fireplace that led to the illegal garage. Another house had a barn for miniature horses-you had to duck to get into it. One house had a chandelier in the middle of the living room that even I, at 5'8', hit my head on.

I've looked at dirty homes, homes where the plumbing had been ripped through the walls, homes where the cat fur was so thick I thought it was a cool kind of wallpaper until I touched it. One house had an Italian villa theme going on, right down to the mounted flower boxes in the dining room with plastic geraniums stuck in real dirt.  One house had no septic; I guess the sewer ran out into the pasture, which explained the really, really green grass.

I'm tired of looking at homes. I want someone to buy one for me and then fix it for me and then move all our stuff out of storage for me and paint the walls and decorate and fix a crock pot of stew and then I come home.

We're living in a 700 square foot apartment with two dogs who are NOT used to living inside. Bodie, our collie, is not adapting well. He does not like a leash, he does not like to come when called, he hates the dog park and all the dogs in it and insists on laying down in the middle of our 6'x6 kitchen. Mona however, has decided she likes apartment living. She likes the dog park since she's much more sociable than Bodie, she doesn't mind a leash and she loves sneaking onto the couch at night (how does she know when to get down???). She may have a harder time adjusting back to being a farm dog.

Regardless of anything, we may be in a new-old house by Christmas ducking under the roof and roping ourselves through the bathroom.

Mike and His Journey to Redmond

Mike will be here this afternoon. He left Vale, Oregon about 8 a.m. and a normal person would take about six hours to get here. Mike and I do many things well together; we play well together, we raise our kids well together, we still enjoy each other's company. One thing we do not do well together is "Get Ready to Travel." We travel well together, but we DO NOT "Get Ready to Travel"  well together.

I like a schedule. I like to have motel rooms, lodging and directions planned ahead of time. I like my bag packed the night before. I do not like to get to Arizona and realize I have not packed my swimsuit. I do not like to drive aimlessly around a strange town or a dark forest at night hoping a camping spot miraculously appears. I do not like to rely on a 10 year old Atlas to find my way anywhere in the United States. I like to know there are places to stay at night. I like to have the printed page of the Google map in my hand when we leave our driveway. And I like to leave our driveway on time.

Since Mike is bringing my horse I have already pre-arranged boarding. I have sent him the Google directions on how to get to the horse boarding spots. I have talked to the people who run these places. I know and have relayed this information to Mike, as to what he needs when he gets there. However, Mike is the kind of traveler that puts a horse in a horse trailer and forgets to put the hay in the trailer, that I specifically left for him WITH A NOTE ON THE HAY THAT SAID "BRING THIS HAY." This is why he calls me at 10 pm from Evanston, Wyoming wanting to know if he can feed my horse alfalfa cubes since he's forgotten the hay.

There are many things wrong with this. One - Mike and I have been married 28 years and he should know by now not to let me know that he has: forgotten the hay, forgotten the locks for the horse trailer and the stall and lost the directions. I haven't seen Mike in three months however after that conversation I no longer wanted to see him. Two- he did not leave Granby at 8 am, he left at 11. I'm the person in our relationship that says, "It's 8:05, we were supposed to leave 5 minutes ago. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

In Vale, Oregon, the second night of his trip, I have arranged for my horse to stay at the vet clinic. I have orally communicated to Mike the directions to get there, the phone number of the clinic and IF he is not there by a certain time he needs to call the phone number (of which I have given him) and leave a message so someone can be there to let him in.

Don't ask.

Maybe I'm a bit paranoid when it comes to Mike and my horse. Mike can fix, repair and build anything, which he does a lot of because of my horse. But he still hasn't figured out that when it comes to horses you really have to prepare for the worse case scenario because, let's face it, horses are large animals with small brains.

Mike called me while he was having Chaco's feet trimmed.  He thought it was funny that Chaco untied himself then wandered into the chicken coop. He thought it was funny that five minutes later after he re-tied him, Chaco actually crawled underneath the hitching post and ended up on the other side. Okay, Chaco is an entertaining horse, but he's also the same horse who got himself tangled in old wire at a neighbors because SOMEONE left the gate unlatched (that was a $180 vet bill.) He's the kind of horse that ended up at another neighbor's in his pasture chasing his cows, SOMEONE left the gate unlatched (the neighbor called the sheriff who fortunately did not give me ticket, just a warning for a "nuisance animal.")

I can't wait until Mike gets here safely .....okay, I can't wait until my horse gets here safely. I hope he can find Redmond, Oregon. I hope he remembered to put gas in the truck.

I hope he remembered to put my horse in the trailer.

Time Flies When You're Having Fun

What is worse than a 14 year old boy?

A 14 year old girl?

I don't know, maybe. According to Ian, everything is stupid or boring. School, classes, the neighbor next door with the cat with the collar, dinner, soccer practice and girls.

Teachers are labeled psycho. I think this is because in his health class they are studying mental illness, so now since Ian is an expert on mental illness, each one of his teachers has some sort of mental illness. His Biology teacher is Bi-Polar. His English teacher is Psycho. His Health teacher is schizophrenic. I haven't the heart to tell him that if they were indeed any of these diagnoses, they probably would have killed him or the entire class by now.(I really didn't wish to burst Ian's bubble about all his psycho teachers and tell him that they all had very nice things to say about him. Call me cruel but I like to remember these comments when I feel psycho about Ian.)

It's dumb that he has to keep a notebook. It's dumb that he has to use a pen. It's dumb that he has to write  BOTH of his names at the top of ALL  of the papers he turns in. It's dumb that he can't be late to class. It's really dumb that I went to Open House and, sin of all sins, talked to ALL of his teachers. It's dumb that Redmond has a curfew and it's really, really dumb that I make him come home before the curfew.

He insists that the curfew in Redmond is 1:00 am. I laughed when he told me this...if a curfew is 1:00 am, what's the point of a curfew? He said he talked to a policeman. I then showed him in the paper (Redmond is delightful in that it publishes the police reports..what a kick. Granby used to and it was the only good writing and entertainment that that paper offered) and pointed out where three youths were arrested at 10:36 for breaking curfew. He insists that it's a typo and should read 1:36.

 I remember Jordan at this age and how  he too drove me crazy and only spoke in monosyllables or grunts. I remember one time telling Jordan that "No, you cannot drive to Denver in a blizzard at 11:00 pm to visit friends I don't even know" and him telling me that I had ruined his life.

Here's my theory on raising teens.

If they think you're psycho and they hate you and they slam their bedroom doors a lot and you're ruining their life, you're doing a good job. No, you're doing a great job.

Two More Weeks as a Single Mom

We have sold our house...don't ask how much money we lost. I keep telling Mike that AT LEAST we sold our house and AT LEAST we'll be able to pay it off and AT LEAST we'll have money to buy another house and AT LEAST we aren't living in our car and AT LEAST we can buy groceries. These are all positive things but when you're dealing with men who deal in cold, hard facts, the only idea that keeps popping up is that we've lost a boatload of money. As you know, I was willing to give the house away or at least arrange with another poor seller a Two-for-One deal; buy one house get another free. But fortunately we sold the house and Mike is on his way to Oregon in about two weeks.

Ian and I are living in our apartment which we've come to call the "Japanese Feng-Shui" mode of living. Very spare, so much so that nothing gets in the way of the Chi in our place. As soon as Mike gets here we'll have our two dogs, one cat and a few pieces of furniture that we'll keep out of storage. All of this in 700 square feet located between two major roads in Redmond.

Our two dogs are not used to city living. Mike has to buy leashes before he comes this way since we don't even own leashes and most of the time Senorita Mona is missing her collar and tags. Our Collie, Bodie, is afraid of linoleum, tile and carpet.  Senorita Mona would like to be inside but she has a problem with flatulence. Our cat Bob is a barn cat, which means he's half wild. Mike's idea is to capture him, put him in an old chicken cage and transport him 1,000 miles. If he doesn't die of the stress and if he doesn't claw Mike to death in the whole capturing thing, he might be okay. I don't think Bob knows what a litter box is and he may destroy the walls in this apartment trying to escape, but Mike is determined to bring him.

There is a dog park one block from our apartment and I think we'll all have to take shifts with the dogs at the park. We may be down there enough so that more legitimate dog owners will call the city police to complain. I haven't yet informed Mike that we're going to have to pick up our dog "messes" in plastic bags that you can find on most of the street corners. We have big dogs. I am afraid this will mean big messes.

I'm hoping that the deal on our house closes quickly so we can buy the property we have our eye on and bring our animals there during the day and lock them in the barn at night. Most of the time our dogs figure out their boundaries quickly, although they still think Skip's 200 acres are part of their property. I'm hoping that the fences that surround the property will be enough to keep them contained. If not we'll all have to do the shift thing at this place until February, when, if things go according to Plan A, we'll have our house built. I hope so since I don't have a Plan B.

On Watching Soccer

I have been watching soccer for 14 years and I still don't understand the game. I have friends, female friends, that understand all types of sports, including football which appears to my uneducated and bored being, to be perhaps the most ridiculous game in the entire free and not-so-free world.

I began watching soccer when my now-22 year old was 4. I am still watching soccer for my now-14 year old as he plays on the Freshman soccer team here at Redmond. I think he's good. I mean he doesn't let the ball go between his legs and he seems to kick it a lot and he runs around a lot and drinks Gatorade on the sidelines and when he's sitting on the bench he seems to be jostling around with the other boys; I think this are all good parameters.

I know mothers who are walking quickly up and down the sidelines and grimacing when a "bad call" is made. I know mothers who yell at the referees (not umpires; umpires are for other sports of which I cannot name) for calling their kid "offsides" when he wasn't. What is offsides? I asked my husband that once and he explained that it's when a player is on the wrong side of the field. How do they know what is the wrong side of the field? My husband got off of his camp chair and joined the mother who was walking quickly and grimacing. There are times when I think he wishes he was married to someone who at least pretended to be interested in sports.

When we lived in Granby we always had what I called a "Non-Super-Bowl-Party." The people who were really interested in the game watched it downstairs. The rest of us stayed upstairs and ate too much and made fun of the people downstairs. Occasionally there were women down there, but I think that's because another woman happened to be in the bathroom upstairs and they could no longer hold it. Our Non-Super-Bowl-Party was very popular and friends began asking about it right after Thanksgiving.

I try not to gather women around me who like sports. First of all I think they are just pretending to like sports so that their husband/boyfriend will like them more and secondly, women who like sports do not have the same wit as women who do not. This is true. Women who like sports cannot make fun of men and sports because they understand the game and do not think it's  funny when the rest of us laugh hysterically at terms such as "tight-end" or "dead ball."

Nevertheless, I have probably only missed 5% of all my boys' games in 28 years of marriage, so in that respect I'm a pretty good mom. However, you would think that in 28 years of marriage I might have learned something about sports.Many years ago, in a moment of weakness, I told my husband that when he retires I will learn to play golf. Today he retires; this is not good news for me, my husband and geese. The last time I played golf I killed a small goose. My friend Sam and I were in Sunriver, Oregon, which is very, very fancy (I'm surprised they didn't take a DNA reading when we drove in). We were teeing off on the first hole (doesn't it sound like I know what I'm talking about?) and I hit the ball and it hit a baby goose who was just getting into the pond. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so instead Sam and I ran out onto the course (apparently a big no-no) to rescue the baby goose and were attacked by the mother goose and hightailed it back and headed to the bar to drink. This is a true story. I have not played golf since and when I told my husband that I would learn to play golf when he retired I probably had also been in a bar.

I don't think I need to worry. I'm pretty sure my husband won't ever remind me of this promise. I think he'll be happy if I just stay in the bar.

Ian's Greatest Fears

Ian, as a Freshman, has two fears; that I will CALL THE SCHOOL  and that I will WALK BY THE SKATE PARK. He has no idea that because I know these weak spots  I will use them to my advantage.

He keeps informing me that now that he's in high school, parents DO NOT CALL THE SCHOOL...EVER.

I said, "What if your dog dies, can I call the school then?"
"What if I've run out of gas and you will need to cook dinner, can I call the school then?"
"What if I've just won the lottery and I want to take you out and spend $10,000 on anything you want, can I call the school then?"
"No, you cannot call the school."
"Okay," so instead I stopped by. I wanted to make sure that he gave the school our new address, just in case they want to send me a formal letter asking why I'm the only parent who has never called the school.
I told him I stopped by...on my way to work...in the morning...while there were students in the hall.
 "You stopped by?" he practically fainted.
"Yes, I wanted to make sure they had our new address."
"Did anyone see you?"
"No, not really, just the 100 or so kids who were in the hall in between classes."
He was aghast.
"Did anyone know who you were?"
"Well, no, not until I stood in the middle of the hall and yelled at the top of my lungs, 'Hello all you young people, I'm Ian Ricketts' mom'"
"That's not funny."

He hates that when I walk in the evenings I walk by the skate park at least twice and wave and say, in a high-pitched voice, "Yoo hoo, Ian, it's your mom" just in case none of the other kids know that by now.
When he leaves to go skating he grills me as to when and where I'm going to walk.
I always just shrug and smile secretly as he bangs out the door.
I try to give him just enough time to become slightly comfortable with the idea that I might not be going on a walk then I show up. His friends seem to like me - they always wave and say "Hi Ian's mom." I think they think I'm cool, Ian just doesn't know it because Ian's not as cool as he thinks he is, in fact, I may be more cool than him.

Let's face it, when you are the parent of a teenager, the only joy you get out of your kids is the ability to humiliate them. When Ian was in middle school, Mike would drop him off and yell out the window, "Bye Ian, I love you, make good choices." Yes, Mike does love him and yes, Mike does want him to make good choices, but he really only said that to embarrass him and see him squirm. Ian started asking me if I could drop him off. I said sure and the first time I did I yelled out the window, "Bye Ian, I love you, make good choices."

Those are the moments we parents of teens live for - humiliation, embarrassment, physical squirming, rolling of eyes, flipping of the hair, stomping off, slamming of doors. It's all such joy that I hope Ian stays a teen forever.

Why I am Forced to Break the Law

I have taken to stealing books from the library. Why? Because this particular library has a stupid policy where you can only check out eight items at a time AND even I have just turned in three items, they have not been checked in because they only check in things once per day. Thus, I have been forced to stealing items since even if I don't have one darn thing checked out their RECORDS state that I do.

You can see my dilemma. If this was a reasonable library with reasonable policies and employed people who could get off their butts and check in books, I would follow the rules. But none of the above is true, so I have no choice.

When we got our new horse trailer three years ago I went to the DMV in Hot Sulphur Springs at their brand new, multi-million dollar courthouse with the gym in the basement and tried to buy a license plate. I was told that it was $275 for a license plate for a horse trailer that gets used 10 times per year. Do the math - $27.50 every time I drive it three miles to the Granby Roping Arena. I asked what would happen if I didn't buy a license plate.
"Well," the overweight overpaid clerk haughtily replied, "you would get a ticket."
"WOULD get a ticket or MIGHT get a ticket?" I just as haughtily replied back.
"Well, I would hope that you would get a ticket; we just can't have people going around breaking the law all the time."
"How much are the tickets?" I asked.
"Well, it's up to the discretion of the officer, but they range from $25 to $50."
"So, I would have to be pulled over at least 10 times in order for me to reach this ridiculous fee of $275."
"Well, yes, I guess."
Do the math. I have been pulling my horse trailer for three years without being pulled over. Once again, you can see my dilemma on how I have been forced to break the law.

A few years after we moved to Granby, we decided to install electricity in our barn. I called the county inspector and asked if he could come out and sign off on our project. He said it'd be a few weeks. "How many weeks?"
"Not sure, I'm really behind."
"Is there only one of you?"
"Yep."
"Do you think you could call the obese woman in the DMV and she might be able to come out?"
He was silent.
"My point is," I continued,"in a few weeks it will be snowing and no one wants to dig a trench in the snow."
"Yep, sorry."

So once again I am forced to break the law. We have no permits on our barn's electricity and pity the poor person who buys our home (like that's going to really happen) and it burns down.

I really would like to follow the rules (okay, okay, those of you who know me are probably snickering or possibly loudly guffawing at this statement) but THOSE PEOPLE make it impossible.

So I will continue to steal library items (I always bring them back) and when my horse and trailer get to Oregon, I'll try to buy a license plate and when we build our new house (like that's going to really happen) I hope the people who build it know all about permits, because I'd hate for it to burn down.

On Forcing Ian to be Successful in School

I love college bookstores and office supply stores; they both carry useless products deemed to make you finally organized, successful, happy and sometimes lose weight. I buy lots of these organizational products for Ian since I am convinced, even after 14 years of Ian, that if he just becomes organized he will be happier, get better grades and comb his hair.

I have taken to rifling through his pack when he's not home. I have a very good reason for "invading upon his privacy" (his words), I want to make sure he doesn't forget to turn his homework in. This is not working since he keeps telling me he doesn't have any homework because he gets all his work done in class and I can't find anything in his pack. All his papers, whether they are graded or informational ones from his teacher or small bright yellow slips that allow him to show up late....end up wadded up at the bottom of his pack. Last night I pulled a handful of mess out and started smoothing them out on the floor (remember, we don't have a table) and he walked in. I ignored the fact that I was "snooping" (again his words) and in a kind motherly voice, asked if he wanted me to go to the college bookstore and buy colored folders, colored notebooks, colored pens and these really cool colored teeny tiny sticky notes to help him stay organized. He informed me that when I do things such as that he only gets more disorganized. He may be right. Ian is the kind of kid who can find his clothes only if they are scattered on his floor, not in his drawers (when he had drawers.) He can find his latest project only if it's stuffed under his bed (when he had a bed) not displayed in an organized manner on the shelves in his former room that I insisted he have.

We have a plan for his new room - it will consist of the following: a bed on the floor, a standing lamp and a closet. That's all he says he wants and I'm good with that; this will give me at least $150 more to spend on the house we will never be able to afford or borrow money for until someone burns down our home in Granby.

His older brother Jordan is very organized and neat, in fact most of Jordan's teenage years we all spent calling him a girl because he does have those qualities. This has allowed Jordan to do well in school, travel to foreign countries and become a fire fighter, okay, maybe not the last two but my point is, is that's it's amazing that two kids can have the same mother and father and turn out so differently. But let's be honest, Jordan is like Mike and Ian is like me - bless his soul.

Apartment Living - Chapter Two

No one in this apartment complex works. No one. They sit around outside and because there is no smoking in their apartments, this is where they do it. The family across from me sits outside all day and smokes and texts. The lady next to me smokes and walks her wiener dog. The lady down one more smokes and takes her baby for walks. The lady next to me never comes out and I've been able to steal cherry tomatoes off her vines because of this.I'm trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong...why do I have to work to pay my bills and no one around me does? I think this kind of attitude is probably why we have such a welfare state of affairs. I think I need to move so I don't quit my job, have another child and begin smoking.

Last Friday my big adventure was to try a new Laundromat. I've decided our apartment Laundromat is a huge rip-off because they don't have a change machine and people are beginning consider restraining orders against me and my begging for quarters.So I went to the one next to WalMart, which should have been my first clue. WalMart, Tattoo Parlor, Ed's Always Cheap Tires and Beer (that's all the sign said, Beer.) The reading material consisted of Jehovah Witness Come-to-Jesus tracts and a People magazine with Princess Diana on the cover...before she died. Laundromat and bus stations have a lot in common and I'm not sure I want to keep hanging around either one (not that I've been hanging around the Greyhound Station, but it could come to that.) The kind of people who don't have their own washer and dryer at home are either over-worked Hispanic mothers, young grimy men who are seeing the United States, women whose husbands ran off with their sisters and me.

I've started looking for a house since it looks like we might be renting for a long time. No, our home in Granby has not sold and I'm trying to rack my brain with someone I might have known from my past (or my family) who could burn it down. Mike and I are plan F-he moves out here, we rent for years and years and years and finally our house does burn down, we are able to collect the insurance money for it and we can finally buy a 500 square foot bungalow.

On the good news front - the library has finally alphabetized their DVDs. I'd like to think it had something to do with the note that I stuck in the suggestion box that said "What kind of a library doesn't alphabetize their DVDs? Signed, Julie Horn."

On Apartment Living

We've lived in our lovely apartment now for two weeks and I hate two things about it; no washer and dryer and no furniture.

I went to Walmart and bought two cheap chairs for Ian and myself. Mine broke after a couple of days and, if I had read the tag, I would have known that the chair was not built for someone of  my weight. Ian still has a place to sit but I don't. I've moved the air mattresses that we use for floating down the river into the house and I'm thinking of starting a new line of furniture that can be used indoors and outdoors. I have to pump up my bed every night and again, I think this has something to do with my weight. My friend Dana suggested I go to garage sales and buy other people's furniture but I don't even like staying in a motel knowing other people have been there...who knows what they've done on the bedspread.

I'm starting to ask complete strangers in the library if they want their quarters; I need 25 quarters every week to do laundry and even then I have to hang my underwear on the cheap Walmart chairs to completely dry. I'm trying to convince Ian that he can wear his shirts more than once and that socks can always be worn two days in a row.

My neighbor Zelda (yes, that's really her name) has a Wiener Dog named Boo Boo(or maybe it's Poo Poo) that she walks every morning and every evening. She has a sexy, husky voice from smoking and insists on sitting under the tree right out our back door and smoking in the evenings. The neighbor on the other side is Lacy and she has a darling one-year old named Annabella, although her other son, Stephen (who came in one day, uninvited and told me he loved our house BECAUSE there was no furniture) is being raised by her grandparents for some reason that I hope she never tells me. The manager is a personal trainer who spends a lot of time in the tanning booth and if I was a really mean person I'd tell her that she will, one of these days, look older than God if she keeps it up.

We don't have cable so we spend a lot of time watching and watching and watching Season One and Two of Reba. As I've told you before, the library here has a really crappy, un-alphabetized selection of movies so I bought two DVDs at Walmart for $5.00 that each have 10 movies on them. No, I've never heard of them, but that's 40 hours of TV watching for $10 and yes, after watching two of them there is a reason for them being on a DVD being sold at a Walmart out of a gigantic cardboard box. There aren't even any stars in their first movie on them just actors that I hope were able to find another job.

On the good side I love my job and my office and my supervisor and the campus and what I'm supposed to do there and even the daily hot lunch in the campus student union (last Wednesday it was stuffed pizza and Cesar salad for $3.95). I'm in the newest building on the campus and it takes full advantage of the views of the Three Sisters. All the walls are painted very, very cool colors of which I'm taking my dress cues from. When I met the Vice-President of the college last week my shirt was the same color as one of her walls. She loved it and then took me next door to another office and told me that she's been looking for a shirt this color, which was a beautiful purple...I like her.

I'm off to visit twelve different stores to trade in my dollars for quarters so I can do wash. Then I'm going to sit in my living room and read one of the dysfunctional novels that I love (it's always nice knowing there are crazier families out there than mine.)

Last Night at the Trailer Court

It's our last night at our lovely abode at the Desert Terrace RV Park. We will soon join the millions of apartment residers. I am looking forward to going to the restroom at 2 am in a bathroom, not squatting outside our trailer. I am looking forward to cooking more than tomato soup, spaghetti and Trix. I am looking forward to laying down on our newly carpeted floor, even though I won't have any furniture.

Last night Crazy Doug stopped by. He was wearing a wedding dress and actually looked quite good in it; he's thin enough to pull something like that off. This morning he was taking his cat Boo-Boo for a walk in an orange stripped jumpsuit, purple knee socks and plastic heels.He told me that some friends of his gave him Boo-Boo back in the 70's; I figure that was the last time Doug had a sane thought.

Our neighbor, the one who is married to the rather voluminous woman, told me I should probably avoid Doug; he's weird. This from a person who probably hasn't brushed his teeth since the 70's and is married to a 300 pound woman with purple hair who wears sheer clothing and trust me, you do not want to see this woman's flesh.

I entered a WalMart last night for the first time in seven years; it was a cultural shock. I spent $200 on two plastic chairs, four towels, pans, silver ware, a toaster, two plates and bowls and air mattresses to sleep on. I think there were more people in WalMart than the total population of Grand County. It's a large, cavernous, noisy place full of overweight, broke and uneducated people all buying cheap stuff. What was I doing there? Buying cheap stuff. Let's face it, WalMart is "inexpensive" and you just can't be a snob about that. Hopefully I'll never have to return, although the sweet, harried checkout girl told me I should come the first week of the month when everybody has just been paid -she said it's crazier...I'm not sure why she thinks I would want to see that.

The library here is not as good as the one in Granby. They only let me check out eight items at a time. They send me emails when stuff is overdue. They charge me if stuff is overdue. They don't have a very good movie selection and THEY DO NOT ALPHABETIZE  their movies...what the hell is that all about? I ask a different person everyday about that and they give me the same vague, completely unsatisfying answer of "We all kind of know where stuff is." KINDA? I said, "What if you have a request for a movie, how do you find it? "We all kind of know where stuff is." KINDA? My friends Julie and Tess at the Granby Library know how much this lack of anality will upset me. One time Julie decided to arrange the non-fiction DVDs by subject and I started arranging them by color; I figured both arrangements made about the same amount of sense. I'm thinking of writing a complaint  but I'm not sure I want to be banned from the library quite yet. Since living in the tent trailer it's the only place to go to spread out my mail on a table, it's air-conditioned and until I get a computer it's the only place to write my ever popular blog.

On Having a Job and Still Living in a Trailer Park

After twenty-three different cover letters, applications, numerous versions of my resume and twelve different references I actually, truly, really, seriously have a job. A real job. One with benefits and more than ten dollars an hour (sorry, but that's the truth in Grand County) and one where I can use my brain. My biggest problem now? Clothes. I know, I'm still stuck on the whole clothes issue. My mother says I need to "build a wardrobe." There are no books in the library on this subject so once again I've contacted my only stylish friend, Five Star Sam, who is sending me an email with detailed instructions on how to build a wardrobe. My foray into Kohl's last week only landed me one outfit for the interview - I'm assuming I can't wear this outfit every day or I will soon be the kid on the block whom everyone laughs at because her parents are too poor to buy more clothes or her parents also don't know how to "build a wardrobe."

I was at Big R buying a gift for a friend (a horsey friend, thus the shopping spree to Big R). I looked for "work appropriate" clothes (another term I'm unfamiliar with) at the feed and tack store but no luck. I really wanted this pair of pink cowboy boots with yellow flowers but I didn't think they would go with my gray slacks that I already have.

We are moving into a town home next Wednesday. My friend Dana had to explain to me that a town home has two floors whereas an apartment only has one. A condo designation has something to do with the structure of the walls. My husband started explaining this to me and even over the phone my eyes started to glaze over.

We will have no furniture although I've been told I can buy blow up furniture and mattresses at Target. I'm thinking our new home will look like something out of "Brave New World." I have visions of myself getting stuck to some sort of rubbery sofa and walking around the 640 square feet with something red and enormous stuck on my rear.

The new home will have a bathroom with no code lock on the door. It will have a refrigerator which means food will stay at the temperature it's supposed to be and I will no longer need to worry if the mayonnaise is still safe to eat. There will be an oven and a stove with more than one burner so I can make meals with more than one ingredient. Don't  tell me to get a cookbook on stove top cooking or one pan meals - that would mean chopping (no knives) dicing (no knives) and mixing (no spoons)...I never thought I'd miss cooking but if I have to eat one more rice and chili dinner I may move back to Granby....

Ian and I try to do some sort of touristy thing every other day or so. Yesterday we went to Peterson's Rock Garden which apparently is famous all over the world (or at least in Central Oregon.) Basically it's a few acres of weird small structures built out of bazillions of rocks that people, like myself, walk around and take pictures of and then delete off their camera wondering "Who in the heck took all these pictures of rocks?"

Our latest adventures are to float down the river (not sure which one yet, might be the Deschutes or maybe the Crooked) on cheap inner tubes bought at Bi Mart. This is really fun for Ian since he weighs less than 100 pounds and can float over the rocks. Not so for me since I weigh more than 100 pounds and my butt hits all the rocks. So far I've popped two colorfully cheap inner tubes and ended up hyperventilating from blowing them up over and over and over again. 

Wednesday we move into our new digs. It's right next to the skate park and the high school and the city bus picks up for COCC in front of the complex. I'm off to Big R to vainly attempt to buy something more of my style that I can wear to influence young people to come to COCC, come to COCC! Tomorrow we're off to somewhere that looks rather hot and deserty to find Thunder eggs - these are rocks that look like rocks but have a secret inside...okay, not really sure what they are but we have a pamphlet on them and we're going to go hunting.

Hopefully we'll make it back.

My New Neighbors

We have settled into the trailer park and Mike left this afternoon to return to Granby. His only jobs when he gets there are to: sell the house, move the horse, move the two dogs, catch the cat in order to move him, move all the furniture 1,019 miles and try to keep my flower gardens alive until we sell the house.

Our neighbors are rather, well, let's say interesting. Very few of the people here are on a temporary basis or maybe they thought they were here on a temporary basis and now it's more semi-permanent. God help me if that happens to us.

Across the gravel road from us is a rather large woman whose wardrobe consists of either sheer shirts or leopard stretchy pants. It's rather alarming and I try not to laugh when I see her because I think she might be nice or she might be schizophrenic and if I do laugh at her she may put a hex on me. Next to her is "C2" where a faint aroma of pot is always present and the man who lives there has purple hair and black fingernail polish. There's also Doug, who for the first two or three days, I wasn't sure if he was a she or a he. He always dresses in pink and has long gray hair. He leaves early in the morning on his bike and always has on a silver ski coat (it was 91 degrees today) and has an orange cat that he walks on a leash. Last night I brought him dinner and he gave me a handful of Ruffles potato chips - kind of a trade of sorts but I slowly dribbled them out of my hand as I strolled to my lovely abode. I didn't want to insult him; again there's that fear factor going on. One of the people who runs the park is from New York and has plates in his face from a drunk driving accident, so he had to move to a warmer climate so his face wasn't cold all the time. The other woman who works here has always run RV parks; she even goes to conferences (who knew there were conferences on running RV parks??) and her husband finally died last year after multiple illnesses. There is also Mike who was a trained chef and grows squash in pots by his door but now works on apartment maintenance.

There's also a large, really, really large spider who lives in the bathroom. You have to press a code to get into the bathroom and then turn a timer switch on for the lights. The spider is usually in the middle stall or under the far sink. She's very scary, although not as scary as the woman in see-through clothes, but I think we've come to an understanding in that if I leave her alone, she leaves me alone.

I had my interview and besides the eleven or so stupid things I said and the fact that my neutral colored shoes gave me blisters, I think it went okay. Maybe. I hope so since Ian already has my first check spent on an apartment, a small flat screen TV, new running shoes, school clothes and some new violent game for his X-Box. I'm starting to understand how Mike feels; he does all the work and I get all the money.

On Becoming Trailer Trash

We have settled in to our new digs; a 12 foot pop-up trailer immediately adjacent to Hwy 97 in Redmond, Oregon. Suffice it to say that there was so much noise that two Tylenol PMs did nothing to put me to sleep. That and the fact that I imagined everything that could possibly go wrong with this move: no job for me, house in foreclosure, working at Burger King, repossessing my car, repossessing Ian.

Ian has settled into his room. Last night he demonstrated how he could "slam his bedroom door." This entails un-tieing the curtain and flinging it shut. Unfortunately he pulled the curtain off the cheap plastic rod and now he has no door to his room; I should have thought of this when we lived in a house. No door could have eliminated many slammed ones. He was distraught because we couldn't get the electricity to work which meant he couldn't watch a DVD which meant he had to READ - it was a tragedy. I thought this was all funny until I got up this morning and realized that no electricity meant I couldn't get my Latte machine to work (the only thing I brought with me from our house). This was a tragedy and I wished there would have been a door for me to slam.

Mike is worried. He is worried some crazy trailer person will break in. He is worried we won't sell the house. He is worried our house will go into foreclosure, I will have to work at Burger King, they will come and take my car and/or Ian. Mike is a worrier because he is an ultra-responsible person.

Usually my nonchalant approach to life holds me in good stead, but that's when I have Mike by my side. He balances my tangential personality. If it wasn't for Mike I'd probably never own a home or a car to repossess and my children (wherever I got them) would be thumbing their way on I-5 to a Rainbow Family Gathering. I am forever grateful to Mike that he rolls his eyes a lot at me and then brings me back down to earth.

We will miss our 28th Anniversary - this is first time we haven't been together. I say we sell the house cheap, maybe throw in a horse or two, and get to Redmond by the seat of our pants.

We are in Oregon....

We have finally made it to Oregon. We left Granby Sunday afternoon, it started raining then snowing going through Walden. Was this some sort of sign?  I told everyone I ran into, even those I didn't know, that I was never coming back. And then I went to say goodbye to Skip and Roselle and Roselle made me promise that if she called me for their yearly BBQ, I would come back. She said I could park our tent trailer next to their reservoir. She said she never writes anything anymore, but she does like to talk on the phone, so she'll call me. Skip then proceeded to tell me a story about panning gold that included a potato, mercury and somewhere up 125. Her daughter Kim told me later that she'd never camp at the reservoir since bears hang out there at night. Her son Ben said I could turn my horses out there when I left and they'd probably be fine all winter. I'll miss them but I'm not going to promise anyone that I'll be back, even if Roselle does call me.

Yesterday after we left the snow of Walden, we went through Riverside, which is still in Colorado and has one of the spookiest abandoned houses I've ever seen. I've always wanted to stop but I'm too afraid. Stayed  last night in Evanston, Wyoming next to 1-70 and took two Tylenol PMs in order to get to sleep. Wyoming is one of those states that people shouldn't live in but antelope and rabbits should. We then skirted through the top part of Utah, another state I will never live in, mainly because I'm afraid of the Mormons, We're in Vale, Oregon which doesn't seem a whole lot better than Granby, except that they have two restaurants both of which close at 7:30.

I told Mike that I think something is wrong with me since no matter how hard I try, I can't conjure up much to miss about Granby. In another two months it will begin snowing and never stop. This kind of weather is not good for a person such as myself who does not like: to ski, be cold, wear a lot of clothes, snowshoes, ice and the color white. I told my friend Sam that we'd be in Redmond in a couple of days. She laughed hysterically and told me that I chose the coldest spot in Oregon to move to. I asked our realtor how cold it gets and she said really cold, sometimes thirty degrees. "Thirty below?" "No, thirty above." That's not cold. In Grand County if the sun is out and it's thirty degrees, we take off our ski clothes and wear shorts and sweatshirts, we really do. So Sam can go ahead and laugh, but I know that if I can make seven winters of Rockie's weather Redmond is a piece of cake.

Spiraling into a State of Panic

Day before yesterday my biggest concern was what to wear. Then THEY sent me my presentation question. I'm supposed to pretend I'm in front of a group of Native parents and students and in twenty minutes tell them what they need to know to enter college. Then they said I could use a whiteboard, smart board and/or computer for my presentation. I panicked. My first thought was that I needed to do a PowerPoint.

I'm one of those people who if there is something going to go wrong, it will with me, especially if it concerns some sort of electronics. Don't get my wrong, I love computers...as long as they work. The computer geeks at SOU knew my extension by heart since I called them on a weekly basis. Their first sentence to me was always, "Gina, move your hand away from the mouse." They would fix my computer remotely, which is kind of weird in a Twilight Zone kind of way. And then they would explain what happened. I did not care, I just wanted it to work. In some respects I'm like the Seniors in the Senior Computer class here at the library who get confused when the icons are not in the same spot on our computers as they are at their homes. I hate cell phones and am constantly flinging it at Jordan and Ian desperate to make it quit ringing.

So I called my friend Laura whose first sentence was, "Breathe."

She advised me to do screen shots about the website and use this as a medium to show my intelligence, passion and dedication and hopefully keep me focused to not show my sarcasm, wit and quick rebuttals. I said no problem, I can do screen shots...I really couldn't, then, but I was at the library and of course, someone always knows the answer at the library.

So my presentation is with hard copies of screen shots and their computer and their website and I'm sure it'll go very, very, very well. Mike is bringing his laptop along on our twenty-one hour journey to Redmond, so I'm fairly confident that in that amount of time I will get to know the website. If not, they probably shouldn't hire me.

My friend Sam finally called me back and gave me the low-down on what I should wear. At first she said I should wear whatever makes me comfortable. Sweats, pajamas and jeans and cowboy boots make me comfortable.

"Okay, then you should wear a gray pair of slacks, camel shirt and neutral pumps."

The gray pair of slacks I get. Camel? I saw camels in Texas and they were all different colors of brown. Does she mean beige or tan or even ecru? I hope the label says "camel." Neutral shoes? Is that like Switzerland?

I'm going to shop at Macy's because there I know the salesladies are older than 17 and aren't wearing things in their noses and having their bra straps showing. I refuse to take wardrobe advice from someone like that. I want someone who is older and can tell me what the colors camel and neutral are.

At this point all I have to do is finish my presentation and buy clothes. Piece of cake, right?

This will be my last blog from Grand County. Next time I'll be writing from Oregon living in a tent-trailer with my 14 year old son. This could be interesting.

Yeah, a Job Interview

A community college in Oregon, who will remain nameless at this present time, called me yesterday for an interview. I was just telling a friend of mine, who is also on the job search walk, that I can no longer write a cover letter to save my life. I used to think I was a fairly adept writer and...I actually like to write. But no longer. My cover letters, if read all at once, would show me to be a schizophrenic, bi-polar, highly educated but flighty and in transient person. I guess that last one worked. I don't even remember what it was about except some vague thing about showing up to college with no money or something like that.

At any rate, it worked. They called and without jinxing my chances at this job, I think I would be perfect for it. Of course, at this point in my life, I think I'd also be perfect serving coffee at a drive-thru.

It's an all day interview. Really. Starting at 9:30 and going until 2:30. I even have to eat lunch with them. My friend Laura advised me to not eat soup since I'll probably spill it. My friend Linda said not to order anything with tomatoes since if I do spill it, it will stain. My friend Jean said to not drink any water or I'll have to go to the bathroom.

I'm extremely concerned about having to be polite and interested and considerate and smart for five hours. On a long term basis, I don't have those qualities. On a long-term basis I have sarcasm, cynicism and arrogance. This is going to be a long day for me.

I also have to do a presentation which they promised they'd send today, but they haven't. So now I'm in a state of panic. Maybe they've changed their mind? Maybe they read my cover letter again and realized I'm a rambling idiot? Maybe they found someone who is not a sarcastic cynic? Maybe they only called me because I filled in the box that said "Race? American Indian" and they decided they had enough Indians hanging around and they're tired of us all?

My friend Alicia said I need to visualize myself on the job the first day. My first day visualization is that I won't be able to find my office.

I don't know what to wear. My friend Laura said I should wear slacks since I'm going to be walking around the campus and if I wear heels I'll probably trip and break my ankle and then they'll have to hire me so I won't sue them.

My friend  Alicia said I should wear a dress with a small print, not pastel, and wear pumps and a 3/4 linen jacket (what's a 3/4 linen jacket?) She says she wishes she was there to help me pick out the appropriate outfit. I do too.

I have an emergency call in to my friend Sam who is extremely knowledgeable in all things stylish (again, I have no idea why she's my friend.) She hasn't called me back, but I'm going to take Sam's advice, no matter what it is, since she always looks good, even in her zebra pajamas.

Think good thoughts for me since I'm pretty sure I'll blow it by laughing and having food come out my nose or getting my skirt stuck in the chair or going to the bathroom and getting toilet paper stuck on my brand new pumps.

If I can make it through this I know I'll be great for this job!