Just Do the Dishes

 A friend was feeling swamped at work, not an unusual situation with what we do.  One day, she was feeling particularly overwhelmed and asked, "What do you do when there's so much to do that you don't have any idea where to even start?"

I said, "Wash the dishes."

She looked at me like I was nuts, as there are no dishes to wash at work.  We do a lot of office work.  There are piles of papers and lots of computer stuff to do, along with handling the interruptions that are often the essential nature of our job.  What does dishes have to do with anything??

I tried to explain how things are at home.  When there's so much to do that you don't know where to start, "just wash the dishes" is a good first step.
a) You know it needs to be done, and sooner is better than later.
b) It's quick.  Probably ten minutes or less.
c) It doesn't take any thinking or decision-making.  It's easy on the brain.
d) It provides obvious results in a short amount of time: the counter is cleared off.
e) It provides space to do another task.  Can't make supper if there's no counter space, so washing the dishes and thus clearing the counter makes it possible to tackle another job.
f) It gets you over the hurdle of NotDoing, from which you can (perhaps) build on the momentum and do the NextThing.

But when you think about this, doesn't the concept apply to many situations?  

If you have so much to do that you don't have a clue where to start, pick a quick little job that takes no decision-making and which will provide obvious improvement with little effort.  Then maybe you'll be able to attack a slightly bigger job, and keep progressing from there.

The Saga of the Gottesdienst Plaque

When the plaque was originally made, there were 15 individual name plates.  The last name was added in 2010.  It took me a few years to make plans with the Gottes-editor to rearrange the plaque to fit in more names.  This spring I took it to the guy who makes trophies and plaques, the same guy who'd been doing a perfectly decent job of updating each year's name-plate.

Start: "Do you need this finished this week?"  Oh, no, I answered.  Two weeks is fine.  If you have other, more urgent jobs, that's okay too.  We don't really need it until the beginning of June.  "Okay, I'll have it for you in two weeks then."

Two weeks later -- no phone call.
Another two weeks, I called him to find out if I could pick up the plaque.  No.  It wasn't done.  "Another week," he said.
Two weeks later I called.  Not done.
A week later I called.  Not done.
A week later I called.  Not done, but I could fetch it next Monday.



Part 2:  I picked it up.  Hmmmmmm.

In place of individual names on the original tiny plaques, I had requested five plaques to go on the board, each plaque containing one column of eight names.  What I got back was three wide plaques, two columns on each one, with eight names per column. 

I had requested that the names be printed in lower-case letters with appropriate capitalization at the start of names.  What I got back was all-caps.

I had requested a font-size such that the capital letters be 1/4" tall.  What I got back was lettering 13/32" tall.  (Even though that's only a tiny amount of space, it's more than 60% taller than I requested.)

I had requested a font-style for the names that would match the rest of the lettering on the plaque.  What I got back was a vastly different type-style, as well as the names in bold.  It was as different as This is from This. 

Oh, and there was a name misspelled.

And one of the plaques was slightly askew.



Part 3:  Pastor took the plaque back and requested that it be fixed.  He didn't ask for everything to be put right.  He just asked for corrections to the misspelling, the font, and the lower-case letters.  And we still need it by June 1.  It wasn't ready by June 1.  It wasn't ready the next week either. 

We finally picked it up less than 48 hours before our symposium began.  Hmmmmm.



Part 4:  The font was smaller -- a nice size.  (Hooray!)  But now there were eleven names per column.  This means the plaques were less than one-third full; it looked very empty.  And it means there's currently room for 45 more years of Sabre bearers' names.  That's a bit excessive at this point.

The previously misspelled name was corrected.  (Hooray!)  But a date was changed from 2012 to 1012.  And "gallantry" was spelled with an S.  And another word was misspelled. 

And the font was still in the unmatched style, and still in bold.

When I called the shop owner, he told me I could bring it back and he would fix it for me by the next day.  We had plenty to do in preparation for symposium and didn't want to take time to run the extra errands.  Besides, based on previous promises of "This is when I'll have it ready," I was skeptical as to whether the repairs would be done.  I told him I would bring it back the next week. 

He questioned the misspellings.  He told me he proofread it three times after I complained about the errors, but he could find no misspellings. 



Part 5:  When I returned the plaques, I told him I wanted the font for the names to match the font on the rest of the plaque.  We weren't going to demand that, but as long as he had to remake the plaque because of the spelling error, we might as well make the font right.  "But then it won't be in bold."  Right!!  I told him we never wanted it in bold.  We had asked for the fonts to match.  He insisted that no one had asked for that.  I did when I first came in.  And it was written down in the instructions I gave him.  Pastor did.  And Pastor saw him jot down a note in response to the oral instructions. 

Then he told me, "If I do this the way you want, it's going to be hard to read.  It won't be bold anymore.  I don't want you looking at it and being unhappy with it, because I am NOT going to change this for you again for free." 

Funny, I never thought that
his fixing his own errors
was the same as
his making a new sign for me for free.



Part 6:  He did the work right away.  It was ready when I arrived to pick it up.  The corrections were made.  (Hooray!)  And the matching, unbolded font looks great.  As I left, he wished me a good summer ... because he didn't want to see me back with any more complaints.  I suppose that was intended to be good-natured and funny.  But it hit my ears as though it were blame, and that he was a pretty good guy for humoring us in our pickiness.



Next year there will be yet another name chosen to bear the Sabre of Boldness.  At that point, I will take the plaque to a different engraver.  I want to start fresh and remake it according to the original plan in March. 

Old Navy

I have a pair of jeans.
I would like another pair of jeans.

I am tall.  My legs are so freaky long that it's hard to buy pants.  I haven't had to buy pants for quite a while because I had been wearing dress-up clothes for work and church.  Every few months I've been doing some online shopping, trying to find a pair of jeans. 

Why is it so difficult to find jeans without spandex?!
Why doesn't anybody make plain old sturdy jeans, cotton jeans?
Jeans that you could wear in the garden or in the woods or on a hike?

Because of the ridiculous shoe heights that are popular right now, apparently the jeans are extra long right now.  My daughter told me that Old Navy sells really long jeans.

I hate shopping.
I hate clothes shopping even more than other shopping.
But I bit the bullet and stopped at Old Navy yesterday.

The background music was loud.  It was awful.  It had songs with the f-word.

The store was over-crowded with customers and not enough staff.

The clothing was in disarray.  It took forever to find something to try on: jeans in size 4, size 16, size 12, size 14, and size 8 were all in one stack.  It made me wonder if some trouble-makers had come in and surreptitiously spent hours rearranging the jeans to make all the stacks completely chaotic.

I finally resigned myself to buying jeans with spandex.  When the gal rang up my bill, it came to $31.68.  I didn't have a ten or the correct change, so I handed the clerk $42.  She was confused and handed back $1.  "It's only thirty-ONE sixty-eight."  Right.  I tried to explain about the 68 cents.  She argued with me.  She did not understand.  I finally told her, "Just type $42 into the cash register.  It will tell you how much change I should get, and then maybe you'll understand."  She then figured out the $10-bill easily enough, but she had trouble figuring out how to make the 32 cents. 

Left the store.
Noticed a men's clothing store next door -- a store that specializes in work clothes.
Went in.
Sure enough, they carry a few women's jeans.

Dang it -- they're all spandex too.

Decided to start trying on men's jeans. 
Because men's jeans come in durable COTTON.
Bought a pair.
They will need to have tucks in the waist.  But if that's what it takes to get real jeans instead of silly little fashion jeans, then okay.

Went back to Old Navy to return the spandex jeans.  Stood in a long line for the cash registers again.

Two twenty-something girls were in front of me, killing time on their phones, laughing and joking together while they waited.  One of them came across a video on her phone that she wanted to show her pal.  Held it up between the two of them.  It so happens that everybody in line behind them could see clearly too.  It was a porn video. 

I ought not say I will never set foot in an Old Navy again.  Something may force me to shop there one day.  But right now I can't imagine what level of desperation it would take for me to shop there again.  It was a cruddy two hours.

And some people think shopping is FUN.

eShakti

I'm done.  We haven't been fully satisfied with anything we've ordered from eShakti.

First dress (for Maggie) -- Too narrow in the shoulders.  Cannot be worn at all.

Second dress (for me) -- Fits okay but not quite right.  Definitely wearable and attractive.  But really should have a couple of alterations.

Third dress (for Maggie) -- After a long wait, they notified us that they were out of that particular fabric.  They credited us for the dress.

Fourth dress (for Maggie) to replace the third which never came -- We paid for a customized (more modest) neckline than the standard one, but the dress arrived very lowcut, with virtually no cloth in the shoulders.  That results in an ill fit, so that even with a scarf or a tube-top for modesty, the dress falls off her shoulders.  After three weeks of calling, leaving messages, waiting for responses and not getting them, I finally heard back.  They say the dress is exactly what I ordered.

I quit.  If I return the dress at this point, my refund will be too small to purchase another dress without handing over yet more money.  No use trying. 

I thought, with eShakti, I had found a solution to the problem of sewing for Maggie.  Supposedly they have all the information already gathered to customize a dress to a person's measurements.  I thought I would no longer have to create a pattern, sew a mock-up, adjust and build a new pattern, sew another mock-up, and then readjust the pattern before sewing the real dress.  Nope.  Back to the hard way.

Lettuce, Orthaheels, and Hair

Planted lettuce yesterday.  It's the wrong time of year to plant lettuce.  I don't think the weather has noticed, though.

My apple trees, which haven't been bearing, grew some baby apples this year.  The tree with only two apples lost them.  But the other tree has a small crop we're hoping for.

My hair is long enough now that I occasionally have to brush it.  That's not really saying much, though, as my dad-who-always-had-a-crewcut brushed his hair every day.  But it's a step in the right direction!

My shoes -- my awesome shoes that are the only thing which make my feet not hurt -- my beloved shoes which are better than prescription insoles -- my shoes have been discontinued.  The technology for them was bought by another company, but customer reviews report that the support is just not the same.  So I bought all the rest of the old version that Amazon still had in my size.  Also, the new company doesn't make any versions without the toe strap -- in other words, none that I can wear to work when my current work-pair finally is no more.  I'm trying not to let this sink into my brain; it would be far too discouraging to realize what this means.  I can only hope that these shoes will be manufactured again before my new stash wears out.

Without Electricity

Can't clean. 
Too dark to dust or pick up.
No electricity for the vacuum.
Can't mop or wash; no water.

Can't call Mom or Paul to chat; phone needs electricity. 

Can't watch television or videos.
Can't chat with friends on the computer.
Can't write blog posts.

Can't soak in the bathtub.
(Can't flush either.)

Can't go for a walk (because it's still storming outside).
Likewise, can't do anything with the garden.

Can't play board games because it's too dark.
Can't play piano; it's digital.
Can't do baking-chores.

Can't work the garage-door opener.
Can't run fans or air-conditioning.
Can't get snacks or cool drinks from the fridge.
Can't leave the porch light on for the one still at work.
Can't have him microwave his supper when he gets home.

CAN read next to the west window, until the sun is closer to setting.
CAN talk to the other people in the family.
CAN go to bed early.

Hoo-boy -- we are dependent!

Thanks be to God that we had no damage -- only inconveniences.

What Do Patients Know, Anyway?

So I'm visiting my mom in the hospital.  She's tired and needs an uninterrupted nap.  I sit out in the hallway, blocking her door, to make sure she has 15-20 minutes without anybody disturbing her.  I work on my Sudoku and tune out the conversations in the hallway.

Then a voice breaks through.  An unidentified nurse is exasperated.  "She keeps insisting that I check her blood sugar levels.  It's like she thinks I don't know how to do my job!  Why does she keep reminding me?  I am the professional here.  I've been trained.  She's just a patient."  Another nurse commiserates. 

I understand they have quite a few people to care for.  I realize not every patient can have the attention they want, exactly when they want it.  (That's one of the reasons I think it's important for patients to have someone there with them, someone to fix the pillow, to get a glass of water, to help get out of bed for a trip to the bathroom, etc.)   BUT ...

medical care is not just about science.  It's about people.  Different people have different needs.  A medicine that works for Joe may not work for Bob, even if they have the same illness.  Patients who live with chronic conditions know what's necessary.  They know what pills work better at what time of day.  They know what routines their bodies need.  They often know these things [gasp] better than the professionals do.

And then ... there is an ugly truth.

Sometimes nurses DO forget.
Sometimes they DO need to be reminded.
Maybe it's because they're truly busy and overworked.
Maybe there was an emergency in another room.
Or maybe they got too busy talking with co-workers about cute new Easter dresses.

Then add in that a patient endures the fall-out of a few doozy screw-ups, or a patient struggles to explain why something that's a minor problem for most people is a huge problem for her.  The doctor had told the patient to insist on proper care and to ask and to be pro-active and to remind the nurses.  A nurse protests that she "doesn't need to be reminded."  And somehow, we aren't so sure about that.

The Neighbors Moved Away

So they played loud music.  Music that I wasn't fond of.  That's not too big a deal.

But first impressions?  Boy, when they were checking out the place prior to moving in, and those kids were running through our yard, across our deck, and making leaps off our deck onto the grass below, that did not bode well. 

But, hey, I was impressed when the dad sent the kids over with an apology when the boys' party guests ran through my garden and trampled strawberry plants.

We were surprised last November when we arrived home after work to find Christmas light in OUR tree.  And a mega-ugly job of lighting up our huge old maple trunk.  It's hard to find Christmas lights done in an ugly way.  But these were!  And these lights were burning for three months, pouring light into our bedrooms at night.  In March, when the neighbor finally took down the lights on his eaves, we were hoping the lights on our tree would be removed too.  No such luck, though.

And then they moved.  The landlord apologized to Gary for whatever trouble this neighbor had caused: apparently other neighbors had been complaining for quite a while.  We saw that these people left a mess for the landlord to deal with, tossing garbage out at the back of the property rather than leaving it for the garbage pick-up.  It seemed characteristic....

So we headed out to remove the lights from our tree.  How did he accomplish this "decorating"??  The lights strands were STAPLED to the tree.  Fifteen feet high.  We have a huge ladder, and the only way we could remove these light-strands was with wire cutters and the extended-handle pruning saw.  There's still garbage up in the tree that we couldn't remove.  When we put lights on the indoor tree, we usually have one person standing on each side of the tree, passing light-strands back and forth.  HOW did this guy wrap lights around a 4' diameter, 15' in the air?  No wonder he didn't want to remove the mess!

We have a better feeling about the new neighbors.   Hooray!

Futility

The dress I bought for the wedding could use some slight alterations.  When I sat down to tackle that, it didn't work out as planned.  And I couldn't put the dress back as it had been before, because the sewing-machine needle had put some snags in the fabric.  Wasted money; wasted time.

Twice last week I tried renting a tiller.  It didn't work.  The first time I didn't even get it home and had to change plans for the day.  The second time, I brought it home, tilled about 6', and then it stopped and refused to restart.  Therefore, everything that's been done in the garden has been done with a hand spade.  Suffice it to say, the work is not yet done.  And there was lots of unnecessary running back and forth to town.

Very little of what I've planted in the garden has germinated.  One batch of greens and herbs was planted 10 days ago, the other batch four weeks ago.  Several heads of romaine have gotten to be 2" tall.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Wasted time.

Maggie and I spent hours on the phone and filling out paperwork to apply for SSI for her so that she would have health insurance.  The money wasn't important, but the insurance is.  Her claim was denied.  Now we have to figure out some other avenue of taking care of her special needs.  Wasted time; loss of money; need for lawyers to help with guardianship issues and dependency.

In the space of 24 hours, there were three whammies, saying, "Why do you even bother to TRY?"

Is He Telling the Truth?

When one of my co-workers asked a few weeks ago, "So, did anybody try to get in while I was gone?" and "Did you see the bad guys anywhere in the neighborhood?" it sounded to me like he was joking.  But he persisted.  I was confused.  He then informed me that there had been a robbery at a bank in the area.  I didn't believe him.  I thought it was a stupid joke.  He insisted it was real.  I was skeptical.

So a little later, I asked the supervisor.  She confirmed that there had been a robbery at a nearby bank.  She was a bit confused that I didn't believe what I'd been told, and that I wanted to check on the story.  That's when I realized something kind of unsettling -- I no longer assume I'll be told the truth.  I've heard too many lies. 

That's sad.




By the way, for those in the metro area, the serial robber was caught.

Comfort Foods

Oh, they tell us not to give a kid a cookie to cheer him up.  They say it's bad to find comfort in food.  Depressed?  Don't you dare have a bowl of ice cream.  In a cranky mood?  Don't find your solace in making your favorite supper.  M&M's when life seems overwhelming?  Shame on you.

BAH.  Humbug.

Personally, I like taking comfort from comfort foods.

But then you get older.  Pizza may make your mouth happy and lift your spirits.  But your stomach says, "Excuse me?  Pizza?  It's 9:30 in the evening, you fool!"  Snickers make you feel better for 10-20 minutes, but then you pay for it later.

So where do you find comfort when you know that you really really really ought to exercise self-control, and not have that rum&coke, not have that 8 oz bag of candy bars, or not have that third slice of pizza?  (Did I say "third"?   Uh... I meant "second."  Well, no.  I meant "first."  Shoot.  You're never going to believe me, are you?)

The chocolate cookies on the counter are calling my name.

The Customer from Hell

It was me.  I know the salesmen were talking about how horrible I was, how unreasonable, consoling the poor dude who got stuck with me.  I'm sure the salesman's wife got an earful tonight when the guy got home from work.

Philip has been car shopping.  Late Saturday he found one that looked like a decent prospect.  He asked me to check it out with him on Monday after work.  But with my work schedule, it seemed better if I checked it out Monday morning when I went that direction for groceries anyway.  If it looked good, I could take it to our mechanic to check over.  Then we could discuss it Monday evening and, if all things panned out, he could go ahead and buy it. 

The trouble started when I asked to take it to my mechanic.  Now, understand that this is one of the biggest car dealers in the metro area.  The salesmen assured me that their cars are all perfectly safe, sound, solid, reliable. They wouldn't sell anything less. 

Yeah, right.  He's a SALESman.

I talked to our mechanic to see if he was available this afternoon.  I asked him about the guy's claim.  He actually busted out laughing.  Truly.  He did.  Which confirmed my resolve.  After finishing my errands, I went back to the car dealer and said I would like to take it to my mechanic.  The salesman assured me that it was unnecessary but that they had nothing to hide, so we'd go ahead and arrange it.  He said all I had to do was put down a $100 deposit and sign the sales contract.

Excuse me?  Sign the sales contract?  I didn't say I wanted to buy it.  I said I wanted to have the mechanic check it over, so as to gain information that would help us decide whether Philip wanted to buy it. 

Well, he couldn't just let me take a car.

Understandable.  But he wanted me to sign a sales contract?  With a price agreed upon?  And everything filled out and signed?  I told him I'd have to read it.  Thoroughly.  And that I wasn't okay with it.  Wasn't there any other way?  Nope, there wasn't.

So I'm reading the contract.  Slowly.  Carefully.  He's getting frustrated.  I'm getting frustrated.  I asked if they could drive the car to my mechanic, because I understood they might not trust me to take the car off the lot.  Nope, they couldn't do that either.  I had to sign the sales contract.  When I got to the bottom of the minute-print contract, irritated, near tears, frustrated, I saw the line that said everything in fine(r) print on the back of the contract was being agreed to too.  WHAT?  I said aloud, "You mean I have to read the whole back of this thing too?!"  And I heaved a huge sigh. 

The salesman told me repeatedly, "You're overthinking this.  You're looking at this too deeply.  Just sign the paper, and you can take the car to your mechanic."  And I kept responding, "This is a legal document that obligates me to pay you X-thousand dollars.  This is not a minor deal."  The salesman assured me that it was no such thing, that they wouldn't hold me to it if I didn't want the car, yada yada yada.

Hey, what is a contract then? 

In exasperation he finally threw up his hands and said, "Well, fine, if you don't want the car, just leave."  Boy.  Salesmen don't do that.  I responded, still near tears, "That's just what my husband told me when I phoned him about this situation." 

He talked to the manager, came back to the desk, and told me to just take the car.  Just take it.  Just go.  Here are the keys.  Just tell me where you're taking it and what time to expect you back.  And remember, since there's no contract signed, I could bring the car back, having decided we want it, and find that he's already sold it to somebody else.  He intimated that was a risk I really did not want to take.

Really?  Hey, I was way more comfortable with that risk than with the risk of signing a contract that this SALESman claimed wouldn't be binding. 

Unreasonable of me to not want to sign the contract to buy?  Gary didn't think so.  Gary asked some co-workers, and they all seemed to think it was unreasonable of the dealership to want a signed contract before having the car checked out by a trusted mechanic.  But that is not what the salesmen thought. 

So I was the nasty one.  The one who wanted to read the contract before signing.  (How unreasonable of me!)  The one who didn't want to be arm-twisted into making a commitment that they insisted was no commitment.  How rude of me.

Y'know, I'm not likely to meander through their lot the next time we start looking for a car.






Nearing the end of the day, it appears that Philip is buying that car.  Our mechanic pointed out that the car is in pretty good shape overall but would need rear brakes.   So presumably the dealership will be checking out the brakes tomorrow.  If the brakes were missed in the safety inspection, the business will fix them.  If not, and if the car is legally able to be sold, they will give him a voucher for brake repair to be used later, at their cost, with no profit to them.  But we have to wait another day to see if this is how things actually pan out.

The Nice Thing about My Job

My real work --the work at home-- is never-ending.  It's nigh onto impossible to catch up on the cooking, the cleaning, the homeschooling, the laundry, the repairs, the errands, the gardening.  Sometimes I'm caught up, as it were, in one of those areas.  But never all of them.  Never even most of them.  Oh, let's get real, I can't even remember being pretty much up-to-current in more than two of those things at once.  That gets wearying.

The easy thing about going away to a job is that it's clear-cut.  You go punch the time clock.  You do your work.  Sometimes there you get everything done.  [gasp!]  And then you might be able to twiddle your thumbs or surreptitiously flip through a magazine until the next customer arrives and you snap back to efficiency again. And at the end of the day, when you're done, you're actually done.

So after a week of going to my paid-job every day, now that I'm home again, I'm overwhelmed.  Where to start?! It's especially hard to make decisions and to get motivated when you're being overwhelmed by some other things in life.  And come the end of the day, even if I zip and zap and work like a maniac, the undone items on the to-do lists will still stretch before me. 

So have any of you found solutions to this?  How do you live with the perpetual knowledge that you're not doing what needs to be done?  Or is the only real solution to reduce the amount of jobs you're trying to do?  (Such as ditching the garden or quitting the job or hiring a maid?)

Learning Munchkins

The kids loved the game Munchkins.  Several years ago they arm-twisted invited me to join them.  "Oh, it's easy, Mom.  It's not like those strategy games you don't like.  You can learn this!"

So we sat down to play.  They were trying to teach me.  But there was all this stuff about elves and ogres and trolls and different kinds of characters -- vocabulary that wasn't part of my daily life, that's for sure.  I remember how the kids patiently explained the rules, the cards, the characters.  I remember how they patiently walked me through the game, as a big sister might do for the 3-yr-old who's learning to play Candyland. 

And it made no sense.

Granted, at that point, things were a wee bit stressful in life.  And this was too much.  I didn't understand anything they were telling me.  Not about how the game worked.  Nor about the kinds of creatures that were part of the game.  Nothing.  I ended up putting my head down on the table and crying.  I thought my head would explode with all the details that were a jumble in my brain. 

I think I spent an hour lying on my bed and crying, distraught that I was simply unable to comprehend.  "What's happened to my mind?  I used to be able to do anything I determined to do.  This is just a game.  A game that kids can play.  And it's entirely beyond me!"

We moved.  Things have become more stable.  A year ago, I was capable of learning the procedures at work.  Even in the upheaval of moving, I managed (eventually) to learn where the foil and the mixing bowls were tucked away in the new kitchen.  This past Christmas, Matt & Rachel bought our family a cool board game that I enjoyed playing.  It is conceivable (!) that I might be able to learn Munchkins now. 

But I don't know to.  The memories are bad.  The fear of failure remains.

Plowing Ahead Blindly

It's one of those days where the failures seem insurmountable, and I wonder why I even try instead of just lying on the couch, watching movies, drinking.

Usually life passes and I'm content enough to keep plowing ahead.  Just do the laundry, put the food on the table, keep the cluttered pigsty from becoming too dirty or too cluttered, go to work, squeeze in some school for Maggie.  No thinking.  Just doing.  And no stopping. 

But today.  For some reason, today I'm thinking of all the other things that need doing.  How will I ever manage any garden work?  What about real cleaning, like shampooing the carpet or fixing the drywall on that one spot in the ceiling?  I want to play piano.  I want to watch movies.  I want to go for a walk.  I want to lie in the sun and read some books.  There are a couple of projects for church that I'm itching to do (one that needs to be finished in four weeks).  And somehow, this kind of mood always makes me unhappy with the shabbiness of my rugs and my old-fashioned storage spaces and the ugly paint in the bathroom and the cobwebs draped across undone projects tucked in the corners of the basement.

Today I spent a couple of hours with Maggie, trying to put together a gift for someone, and it turns out that it won't work and we're back to square one.  We still need to find a gift, and those hours were for naught.  I need to go to a meeting with Gary tonight, and I need to put on my non-introvert facade.  I need to do a grocery run for soft foods, so that Little Miss Swollen Cheeks will have ice cream and sherbet for her sore jaws tomorrow.  Because of an overbooked calendar (a calendar that is so empty of events that many of y'all would covet it) for these few weeks I have three days at home to do all the regular work that I usually struggle to accomplish in eight days. 

Plus, right now there are thinking things to do.  I have to be prepared for a meeting with the school psychologist on Monday, as we have asked the school for an evaluation for special education services (anticipating the need for transition services and some sort of government-provided health insurance for Maggie someday).  Also, Gary has applied for a different position at his company, which would be a significant change from what he does now.  These and other matters require thought, deliberation, planning, and research.  And you can't just squeeze that in around the edges as you plow ahead blindly.  And yet, if you stop (!) and think and give something serious consideration, all that other daily stuff isn't being accomplished. 

I feel whiny.

Well, the living room was cleaned.  And next week we go back to having chapel every morning.  Now maybe I should see if I can find the bedroom under the piles of papers and herds of dust bunnies.

All Those Political Phone Calls

Insanity!  Several robo-calls a day from one of the candidates for the presidential nomination.  The answering machine keeps filling up with messages.  We keep interrupting our chores and our school-reading to jump up to answer the phone, only to discover that it's a Republican-paid computer again.

I'm going to have a hard stomaching voting for anybody on the ballot.  My inclination at this point is either
1) to not vote, or
2) to vote for the guy endorsed by the one man I actually want to vote for.

Conundrum: The guy who's making all the phone calls is the guy endorsed by the man I want for my president.  So do I vote for the pesky phone caller?  Do I want to reward that sort of obnoxious behavior?

Mildew

When house hunting, we looked closely for mildew.  Our realtor couldn't believe how many times I found tiny signs of mildew.  And when we did, we refused to consider the house.  We lived with enough mildew in our previous house and wanted to be away from it. 

Fetching the rocking horse out of the attic yesterday, I noticed one small spot on the roof boards with some signs of mildew beginning.  Argh!   A box (with no signs of mildew) that had been in the basement of the old house was now in the attic, shoved right up against the inside of the roof, and it spread.   The box is now in the garbage, and the inside of the roof has been scrubbed well with a bleach solution.  I've washed my hands at least a dozen times throughout the day, and I can still smell bleach on them.  Hopefully that's strong enough to kill kill kill that nastiness!

I guess we need to check other spots in the house to ensure adequate airflow.

Rescued Pizza

Let's say a pizzeria was going to trash a pizza because the person who ordered it didn't bother to pick it up for hours and hours, and it was finally time for the restaurant to close. Which emotion rules? Gratitude that you are allowed to dumpster-dive the pizza (before it splashed into the garbage can)? Or disgust with the people who would do that to a business owner?

Few people would use a gun to threaten someone into handing over 20 bucks from a cash register. And yet it's very common for people to steal from a businessman by requesting services and then not coming in to pay for it.

Dirt Devil Hand Vacuum

One of my Christmas gifts was a hand vacuum for making it easier to clean the upholstered furniture and vacuum out the vehicles. 

What a bust!

The air filter clogs in a few minutes.  The filter can be cleaned and reused, but it cannot merely be tapped to knock dust loose.  I had to use a dry toothbrush to remove dust from the folds of the filter, and every time I used the machine, I spent as much time cleaning the filter as I did vacuuming.   The owner's manual says to change the air filter every 3-6 months.  It seems like changing it every hour would be the outside limit.  And these filters are $8 each.

When I asked for a refund, the company told me that I only had 30 days to return it.  A Christmas present that is purchased in early December means you have only a week or two to discover the problem and request your refund.  So now I have a machine that is fit only for the trash can.  I'd hate to take it to Goodwill and inflict it upon an unsuspecting customer there.

I spent half a year looking at Goodwill for a used Dirt Devil.  I finally stumbled upon one two days after buying this one online.  I didn't buy it.  Now I wish I'd nabbed that one anyway.  Those old ones actually worked! 

Craigslist

Wariness reigns.

We finally took care of the hauling job that's been on hold until after the holidays. So the van is now expendable. We cleaned both the van and the old car. I posted them on Craigslist. And now I have to wonder.

Several people offered to buy the van, sight unseen. Suspicious? Yes. Some of them were from other states, and not even neighboring states. Even more suspicious? Yes.

Because people often wonder why a car is being sold, I mentioned that we bought a newer vehicle because our two were very old, and now one of the old ones has to go. I had three offers to buy both my Camry and my van. "Excuse me. Did you people read what I wrote?"

The van was totaled four years ago. We bought it back from the insurance company. I made sure to state clearly that the van had a salvage title, and why. I had people from Illinois interested in the van, even though you can't license a salvaged vehicle in that state. Fishy? Yes.

I feel rude, but I haven't responded to most of these people who claim to be interested in my cars. I don't want to give them my email address; I don't want to give them my phone number. I called one from my tracfone which is nearly always turned off and which has no voice-mail. I set up a new hotmail account which I used to respond to another inquirer. I hope my suspicions don't prevent me from recognizing when a normal person from around our normal area is looking for a car for normal reasons. This fishy stuff gives me the creeps.