Yesterday I spent an hour and a half on the roof. Long enough so that the owls who live in the poplars next to our house started hooting. Long enough so that my ankles started tingling. Long enough so that my pants which were slightly damp from washing the windows were freezing to my legs.
I am terrified of climbing trees, ladders and Ferris wheels. I start shaking when I think I may have to go more than two feet off the ground. Last summer when we replaced some windows in our house in Granby, Mike made me climb up on the scaffold and hold them; my knees were shaking, my heart was beating FAST and I almost started crying with fear. Instead I held one window, carefully climbed back down and ignored Mike as he yelled from the safety of the inside of the house.
I let our sweet half-grown orange cat outside onto the deck yesterday. Then forgot about her as I washed the windows in our rental. I went back to our house, called for the cat, saw our dogs who looked rather suspicious and looked up. There was the cat. Stuck in a poplar tree looming about another twenty feet higher over the roof.
Plan A- call sweetly up and believe that she will jump 60 feet down into my arms.
Plan B- throw rocks at her and hope that I will actually hit her propelling her into a free fall down into my arms.
Plan C-Ignore her and let her figure out how to get down.
Plan D-Get a ladder and climb on the roof and get her down.
Plans A,B and C did not work.
Plan D unfolded into a typical Gina fashion.
I asked Mike where the ladder was and told him the cat was stuck in the tree. This was a hint to my husband that the cat was stuck in a tree and he needed to go get the ladder, climb onto the roof and get the cat down.
Did not happen. He was watching the Weather Channel...can't he just look outside and see what the weather is like?
I got the ladder. I figured out what the rope hanging on the ladder does (it moves the ladder up and down - really quite ingenious.)
I put the ladder up against the roof.
I climbed up the roof.
I reached up into the tree and grabbed the cat (after prodding her gently with a limb I violently yanked from the tree to move her down...basically I stuck her with the stick and she fell down another three feet and got stuck closer to me) stuck her inside my jacket and, feeling quite satisfied that I hadn't vomited on the roof with fear, walked over the ladder.. which was no longer there.
The same two dogs who had chased the cat up the tree had knocked the ladder over.
They were staring up at me, wagging their tails.
Plan A-start yelling for Mike.
I periodically yelled for Mike for the next hour and a half.
The sun began setting.
The owls began hooting.
The temperature began dropping.
The dogs were still staring up at me. Bodie, who is a Collie, is NOT, I repeat, NOT like Lassie. I said,"Bodie, go get Mike."
"Bodie, go onto the deck and scratch the door until Mike comes."
"Bodie, go bark frantically and tell Mike there is Danger!"
"Bodie, go swim across the river, bark with intelligence and get Timmy's father to come rescue me."
I thought about stomping across the roof, but we're in the midst of replacing the roof so I was afraid something might cave in and I'd land in the middle of Ian's room.
So instead I waited and tried to enjoy the sunset and admired the views from our roof and then it got dark.
Still no Mike.
Did he have a heart-attack?
Did he have a stroke?
Did he knew I was on the roof and he was glad for an hour and a half of peace?
Finally he wandered outside, saw the ladder on the ground, came around the front of the house, looked up and said, "What are you doing up there"
I was frozen and I hated him so I did not answer.
Finally I yelled back, "I was getting the cat."
And this was what he said to me, "Why didn't you call me on your cell?" (I'm still on the roof, it's dark, the ladder is still on the ground and THIS is what he asks.)
He propped the ladder up, held it steady while I climbed down and then I, with frozen lips replied, "Do you really think that IF I had my phone I would NOT have called you?"
"Well, you really should carry your phone all the time."
That's true. I really should carry my phone all the time. That way I could immediately call a divorce lawyer.
Moral of the Story - you cannot count on dogs or men.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
What I'm Learning About Myself
I'm learning a few things about myself and I'm not sure I like them.
I think I may have a touch of OCD, I think I may be a tad anal and I think there is a small part of me that suffers from ADD.
The OCD has come about with the continuing saga of the book shelves. Mike told me that his design is that the larger books will be on the bottom shelves, regular size books in the middle and paperbacks on the top shelf.
This cannot be.
I have to have my books arranged alphabetically AND in the correct genre. Thus...if there is an oversize book written by Louise Erdrich it must be in the Native American author section after Michael Dorris and before Craig Lesley. It cannot, under any circumstances, be placed randomly on the bottom shelf. I calmly and with great presence explained this to Mike as he showed me his shelf diagram. There are many times that Mike looks at me like I'm crazy, this is the first time that I think he truly believed it.
Why do I think I'm anal? I'm giving Mike lessons on how to stack the dishwasher. Knives must be placed upside down. Plates on the right side, small plates on the left, bowls on the top rack. What happens if Mike does not follow this "rule?" I don't think anything happens except that I wake up at 2 a.m. obsessing over the dishwasher.
Why do I think I'm ADD? Well, for those that know me, that's fairly obvious. I can read an entire book in one sitting, but can't sit through a half hour sitcom (22 minutes counting the commercials). My mind wanders dangerously when Mike and Ian talk to me. I decide I need to rake the yard, go to find the rake and end up moving some rocks I find along the way. I am capable of only brushing half of Bodie before the boredom threatens to kill me. And the more interruptions I have at work, the more I accomplish.
I pity Mike. I pity my children. I pity anyone who works with me and is subject to my yawns of boredom. I pity the person sitting next to me on the couch when I have the remote.
I'm trying to resolve these issues. I'm taking deep breaths when I see my books out of order. I slow my heartbeat when I unload the dishwasher and notice that there is a bowl on the bottom rack. I've decided to hire a groomer for Bodi and a landscaper for the yard. I've decided to check my emails at work only twice during the day AND ignore the little ding that lets me know another email has arrived.
I'm giving myself six months to become a better person. After that, forget it. Everyone around me is just going to have to deal with it.
I think I may have a touch of OCD, I think I may be a tad anal and I think there is a small part of me that suffers from ADD.
The OCD has come about with the continuing saga of the book shelves. Mike told me that his design is that the larger books will be on the bottom shelves, regular size books in the middle and paperbacks on the top shelf.
This cannot be.
I have to have my books arranged alphabetically AND in the correct genre. Thus...if there is an oversize book written by Louise Erdrich it must be in the Native American author section after Michael Dorris and before Craig Lesley. It cannot, under any circumstances, be placed randomly on the bottom shelf. I calmly and with great presence explained this to Mike as he showed me his shelf diagram. There are many times that Mike looks at me like I'm crazy, this is the first time that I think he truly believed it.
Why do I think I'm anal? I'm giving Mike lessons on how to stack the dishwasher. Knives must be placed upside down. Plates on the right side, small plates on the left, bowls on the top rack. What happens if Mike does not follow this "rule?" I don't think anything happens except that I wake up at 2 a.m. obsessing over the dishwasher.
Why do I think I'm ADD? Well, for those that know me, that's fairly obvious. I can read an entire book in one sitting, but can't sit through a half hour sitcom (22 minutes counting the commercials). My mind wanders dangerously when Mike and Ian talk to me. I decide I need to rake the yard, go to find the rake and end up moving some rocks I find along the way. I am capable of only brushing half of Bodie before the boredom threatens to kill me. And the more interruptions I have at work, the more I accomplish.
I pity Mike. I pity my children. I pity anyone who works with me and is subject to my yawns of boredom. I pity the person sitting next to me on the couch when I have the remote.
I'm trying to resolve these issues. I'm taking deep breaths when I see my books out of order. I slow my heartbeat when I unload the dishwasher and notice that there is a bowl on the bottom rack. I've decided to hire a groomer for Bodi and a landscaper for the yard. I've decided to check my emails at work only twice during the day AND ignore the little ding that lets me know another email has arrived.
I'm giving myself six months to become a better person. After that, forget it. Everyone around me is just going to have to deal with it.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
How I Am Turning into My Mother
I have become the kind of parent I swore I would never be. I am saying things to Ian that I swore I never would. Phrases such as "because I said so," or "You want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about," or my all time favorite, "just do what I say now or else."
When I was a child I never understood the "because I said so." I thought that it didn't seem like a very good answer. What if my mother was telling me to jump off a bridge? Would I jump off the bridge because she said so?
As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand her. What she was really saying was "Do not ask me any more questions. Do not talk to me. Do not even look at me." When Jordan was born I read boxes of books on child rearing. I was NOT ever going to be the kind of parent my mother was. I was always going to be interested in everything he said. I was always going to be patient even after the thirteenth question on why dogs are named dogs and cats are named cats. Never happened - you become the parent your parent was.
My grandfather was the one who used to say "You want something to cry about, I'll give you something to cry about." Why would we want something to cry about? And what was he going to give us? A new pony? A shiny red sports car? I don't think so.
As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand him. I want my child to quit whining and pleading and in all honesty, quit talking and possibly move away. I was following in my grandfather's footsteps - the man who once told me after my first horse died, "Things die."
My mother was a single mom, so she used the phrase "just do what I say now or else" frequently. Usually this was in reference to setting the table, making our beds or quit fighting with each other. I always wondered what the "or else" was. If we didn't do what she said, would she: send us to live with foster parents, give our dog away or hand us a million dollars?
As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand her. She wanted us to do what she asked in complete silence, complete obedience, complete adoration and then ask for more chores.
I remember once my mother actually pulled the car over, flung open her door, flung open the back door, pulled my sister and I out of the car, slammed the back door shut, got in the front and drove off, gravel spinning. My sister and I had violated all her rules: we didn't do what she asked, we didn't quit whining and we certainly didn't do what she said so.
We were in front of the drive-in movie theater. It was hot and it didn't look like she'd be coming back soon. So what did my sister and I do? We started throwing gravel at each other so by the time my grandfather came to pick us up we had red welts over any patch of skin that was not sheltered by clothing. We didn't say a thing. He didn't say a thing. We climbed in the front seat of his truck, he took us home and we set the table and started dinner and cleaned out the kitty litter box and dusted. We were really, really good for 24 hours.
There are days that if I could get away with dumping my teenage son off on a road somewhere I would.
But until then I'm going to resort to the tried and true methods of my mother: Because I said so, you want something to cry about I'll give you something to cry about and just do it now or else. It won't get me Parent of the Year, but it might get me some peace and quiet and a little less eye-rolling.
When I was a child I never understood the "because I said so." I thought that it didn't seem like a very good answer. What if my mother was telling me to jump off a bridge? Would I jump off the bridge because she said so?
As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand her. What she was really saying was "Do not ask me any more questions. Do not talk to me. Do not even look at me." When Jordan was born I read boxes of books on child rearing. I was NOT ever going to be the kind of parent my mother was. I was always going to be interested in everything he said. I was always going to be patient even after the thirteenth question on why dogs are named dogs and cats are named cats. Never happened - you become the parent your parent was.
My grandfather was the one who used to say "You want something to cry about, I'll give you something to cry about." Why would we want something to cry about? And what was he going to give us? A new pony? A shiny red sports car? I don't think so.
As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand him. I want my child to quit whining and pleading and in all honesty, quit talking and possibly move away. I was following in my grandfather's footsteps - the man who once told me after my first horse died, "Things die."
My mother was a single mom, so she used the phrase "just do what I say now or else" frequently. Usually this was in reference to setting the table, making our beds or quit fighting with each other. I always wondered what the "or else" was. If we didn't do what she said, would she: send us to live with foster parents, give our dog away or hand us a million dollars?
As a parent of a 14 year old boy, I finally understand her. She wanted us to do what she asked in complete silence, complete obedience, complete adoration and then ask for more chores.
I remember once my mother actually pulled the car over, flung open her door, flung open the back door, pulled my sister and I out of the car, slammed the back door shut, got in the front and drove off, gravel spinning. My sister and I had violated all her rules: we didn't do what she asked, we didn't quit whining and we certainly didn't do what she said so.
We were in front of the drive-in movie theater. It was hot and it didn't look like she'd be coming back soon. So what did my sister and I do? We started throwing gravel at each other so by the time my grandfather came to pick us up we had red welts over any patch of skin that was not sheltered by clothing. We didn't say a thing. He didn't say a thing. We climbed in the front seat of his truck, he took us home and we set the table and started dinner and cleaned out the kitty litter box and dusted. We were really, really good for 24 hours.
There are days that if I could get away with dumping my teenage son off on a road somewhere I would.
But until then I'm going to resort to the tried and true methods of my mother: Because I said so, you want something to cry about I'll give you something to cry about and just do it now or else. It won't get me Parent of the Year, but it might get me some peace and quiet and a little less eye-rolling.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Mike's Decorating Style and Why He Needs to Get a Job
Because Mike is home now more often, way more often, way, way more often, he is now compelled to offer suggestions regarding decorating. For all intents and purposes, our marriage has worked for so long because we know our place in the house. I made the decisions and Mike carried out the work.
Now Mike is actually poring over decorating magazines and watching HGTV. It's really annoying. Especially when his comments on HGTV are more along the line of "How many square feet do you think that walk-in closet is?" "What do you think that tool is that they are using to square off the new counters?" "Is engineered wood floor a better choice than bamboo?"
When my friend Betsey and I used to watch it, these were our comments: "What an idiot, doesn't she know she can paint?" "He's such a moron of a husband," or "I really like David but I think he's gay." These are the kinds of comments that should be made while watching HGTV.
Mike spent ALL day Saturday drawing out plans for the house AND he made me go through the whole house with him. I wanted to kill him at the end of the day, or at least hire a couple of cousins I have that would for a small fee. At two in the afternoon I started drinking, which was a good thing since by then he had gotten to our bedroom and wanted to know if I wanted the entrance to the TajMahal closet here or there? I felt like Sam I am - "I don't, I don't, I really don't like green ham." I told him I want a place to hang my clothes and put my shoes. He looks at me like I have no imagination.
Here's what's bizarre, all these years I looked at HIM like that. I figured that's why he stuck with the Forest Service for thirty years - he had no imagination. Now I realize that with retirement his imagination has surfaced and I am being punished for not giving him credit for his long-buried creativity. I feel like he did when I would talk to him about paint hues and fabrics and ambiance. My eyes glaze over and I start thinking about going to the kitchen to get something to eat (or in Mike's case, and all husband's cases, he started thinking about sex.)
I appreciate my husband, I really do. But what happened to the man I loved and adored who nodded absent-mindedly when I chattered endlessly about the bathroom remodel? I used to think that my move to Granby, Colorado was a punishment for something horrible I did in another life, but now I may have to reconsider that finally, after all my years of talking (read "nagging") he's finally listening to me and his decorating interests are my true punishment.
Seriously, you have to be careful what you wish for.
Now Mike is actually poring over decorating magazines and watching HGTV. It's really annoying. Especially when his comments on HGTV are more along the line of "How many square feet do you think that walk-in closet is?" "What do you think that tool is that they are using to square off the new counters?" "Is engineered wood floor a better choice than bamboo?"
When my friend Betsey and I used to watch it, these were our comments: "What an idiot, doesn't she know she can paint?" "He's such a moron of a husband," or "I really like David but I think he's gay." These are the kinds of comments that should be made while watching HGTV.
Mike spent ALL day Saturday drawing out plans for the house AND he made me go through the whole house with him. I wanted to kill him at the end of the day, or at least hire a couple of cousins I have that would for a small fee. At two in the afternoon I started drinking, which was a good thing since by then he had gotten to our bedroom and wanted to know if I wanted the entrance to the TajMahal closet here or there? I felt like Sam I am - "I don't, I don't, I really don't like green ham." I told him I want a place to hang my clothes and put my shoes. He looks at me like I have no imagination.
Here's what's bizarre, all these years I looked at HIM like that. I figured that's why he stuck with the Forest Service for thirty years - he had no imagination. Now I realize that with retirement his imagination has surfaced and I am being punished for not giving him credit for his long-buried creativity. I feel like he did when I would talk to him about paint hues and fabrics and ambiance. My eyes glaze over and I start thinking about going to the kitchen to get something to eat (or in Mike's case, and all husband's cases, he started thinking about sex.)
I appreciate my husband, I really do. But what happened to the man I loved and adored who nodded absent-mindedly when I chattered endlessly about the bathroom remodel? I used to think that my move to Granby, Colorado was a punishment for something horrible I did in another life, but now I may have to reconsider that finally, after all my years of talking (read "nagging") he's finally listening to me and his decorating interests are my true punishment.
Seriously, you have to be careful what you wish for.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Scaling Down My Library
We have moved into a smaller house with no bookshelves. One of the few things I liked about our home in Granby were the floor to ceiling bookshelves downstairs. When we moved from Oregon to Granby the mover commented that I had three boxes of clothes and 63 boxes of books - I think this was some kind of moral judgment (or maybe it was a style judgment.) When we put our house up for sale in Granby our realtor asked me to pare down the books on my shelves - I had.
I'm not sure how many boxes of books we moved from Oregon to Colorado. I just know that I am having to reduce them.
This is emotionally difficult for me. I'd rather put the cat to sleep.(Okay, not a fair comparison if you read the blog before this regarding The Cat from Hell, but you get the point.)
When I first started my rule was "Only books written by Native American Authors." Okay, not a problem since the first seven boxes I opened contained those particular books. And then I opened four boxes that contained books about horses. Okay, I have horses so I have to keep these. Then I opened two boxes of books from my childhood. Okay, I have to keep these because they are Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon and ALL of the Black Stallion books (which technically fall under the second rule also). Then I opened the three boxes of books I collected for my boys which they seldom read. I have to keep these since they may eventually marry and have kids and my grand kids will need books to read. Then I opened six boxes of classic authors such as Faulkner and Hemingway and I have to keep these because they are, well, they are Faulkner and Hemingway.
So far I've put into the LIBRARY DONATION box the following: all the books about Colorado (as if I care about that state anymore) "Hiking the Bigfoot Country," "An Introduction to Literature," "50 Nature Projects for Kids" and three of the four books Mike owns.
I still have thirteen books of boxes to open. The only solution is for Mike to build more shelves, otherwise I may have a nervous breakdown.
I'm not sure how many boxes of books we moved from Oregon to Colorado. I just know that I am having to reduce them.
This is emotionally difficult for me. I'd rather put the cat to sleep.(Okay, not a fair comparison if you read the blog before this regarding The Cat from Hell, but you get the point.)
When I first started my rule was "Only books written by Native American Authors." Okay, not a problem since the first seven boxes I opened contained those particular books. And then I opened four boxes that contained books about horses. Okay, I have horses so I have to keep these. Then I opened two boxes of books from my childhood. Okay, I have to keep these because they are Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon and ALL of the Black Stallion books (which technically fall under the second rule also). Then I opened the three boxes of books I collected for my boys which they seldom read. I have to keep these since they may eventually marry and have kids and my grand kids will need books to read. Then I opened six boxes of classic authors such as Faulkner and Hemingway and I have to keep these because they are, well, they are Faulkner and Hemingway.
So far I've put into the LIBRARY DONATION box the following: all the books about Colorado (as if I care about that state anymore) "Hiking the Bigfoot Country," "An Introduction to Literature," "50 Nature Projects for Kids" and three of the four books Mike owns.
I still have thirteen books of boxes to open. The only solution is for Mike to build more shelves, otherwise I may have a nervous breakdown.
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