It's My Nature

Yes, I know it's 2:00 PM.

My husband is flying home today and I should be dressed for his arrival. Why am I still laying around in pajamas and a bathrobe? Because it's my nature.

I have been on the phone with my favorite cousin in Oklahoma for the last three hours. Her name is Kelly and her mother is my late mother's sister. They had bad tornadoes near where Kelly lives last night but that wasn't what we talked about. We talked about our restless natures. She and I are very restless women. There's this weird dichotomy of boredom and anxiety that messes us up. Both of our mother's had the same affliction.

We both are very moody and very flighty as well, sometimes literally. We have gotten on airplanes to meet up numerous times, with no particular plan at all. When we run away from home, we run to each other.

Now I'm feeling stressed because my husband is on his way home and I'm not dressed or made up. (Not that I really need the war paint since I am so naturally cute and all.) I have pulled nothing out of the freezer for dinner because I don't want to. When my husband travels, I get mad about it. I know he has to work, but the anger is just there anyway.

If I ever get reincarnated, I hope I can come back as a cow. I would love to have a cow's nature. I would love to be placid. I would love to move slowly and just wait to be milked. And I could be nice and fat and everyone would think I looked great. (Wait, I am not skinny now. Never mind.)

I feel like a fat female tiger who has been put in a cage and I don't like this feeling. I'm angry, nervous, tired, sloth-like, depressed, anxious, unhappy and fat.

It's my nature.

Abandoned By The Rapture?

These two dogs have been at this gate all day long.

The dogs belong to my next door neighbor, Mary, and her new husband, Chris. My neighbors are very religious people.

Now most of you know I am not religious. I answer to "agnostic" or "atheist" or "lapsed Catholic". I was brought up Catholic, but we all know that Catholics don't really read the bible, so I never really gave a lot of credence to this "Rapture" business in the first place.

(In fact, I thought the word "rapture" was used exclusively to describe something about one's sex life until very recently.)

But now I'm a little concerned. I have not seen hide nor hair of Mary or Chris all day. Their cars are in the driveway. The dogs have been standing at the gate forlornly since we got up this morning.

I realize that the predicted earthquakes and such have not occurred, at least not as of now. There was a blip on the screen today about a volcano getting ready to erupt in Iceland and that could be related, but I'm not sure. There were also exploding watermelons in China last week if memory serves and that also could be a sign that things are getting ready to pop, so to speak.

Mary has spoken to me about the Rapture in the past. I did have to tell her that I really wasn't religious so it wasn't a concern to me. Sweetly, she offered to pray for me and for Alex too. (He may even be more of a heathen than I am, by the way.)

I have seen all of my other neighbors around today, but most of them are relatively sinful people as far as I can tell. Actually, I have no way of knowing how sinful they are or aren't, but I'm just projecting my own failings on to them. I'm not proud of myself for wondering if I could help myself to Mary's gorgeous sterling tea service if she's gone. I mean, it would be a sin to have it just sit there in an empty house, wouldn't it?

I wonder if I should go next door and feed those dogs.

Hair

There is nothing scarier than a trip to the Beauty Shop.

You are putting your head literally and figuratively in someone's hands. Now believe me when I say that naturally beige platinum hair can be hard to come by, particularly if you want it cut to perfection. Perfection is a funny word. To me, it means, short, but not too short. Styled but not too styled. And sassy, but not too sassy.

My hairdresser, Sandra, a young Mexican woman, is good. I really like her and consider her to be an interesting and talented woman. Sandra married a guy from Mexico recently. She met him on-line.

When Sandra is happy with her bridegroom, I get the perfect color and the perfect cut. When Sandra and her new husband are having issues, there's no telling.

I have ended up with hair that had a purplish tint, a greenish tint, and a bluish tint from time to time. (Oh not to worry, it washed out after 7 or so shampoos.) I have had the perfect hair cut, I have had the Marine Corps boot camp coiffure, and I have had the country western, whoop de doo! It all depends on what is going on in Sandra's life.

Lest you think she is a flash in the pan hairdresser, I've been faithful to her for 10 years or so. (Longer than my faithfulness to some husbands I might add.)

In any case, Sandra did right by me today. And that always make it a good day, considering the alternative.

Remember the 8th Commandment

My husband Alex has been on a business trip.

As a matter of course, some of his trips, including this one, involve time at military bases. I'm not always sure where Alex is, and I frequently don't have any idea what he's doing.

Alex came home this evening. He was telling me about going to an honor bar at the base and picking up a bunch of candy, nuts, chips and such for the troops he works with. There was a sign over the honor bar that said "Remember the 8th Commander" and Alex was cool with that. He wasn't sure who the 8th Commander was, but that's not the point.

He put his money in the cash box and took the stuff into the guys and ladies and said "Here you go!" Everybody appreciates some free snacks when they are working hard.

Alex is Navajo Indian, a veteran of 25 years military service, and a very hard working guy! He understands all too well what the military people are up against.

Today, Alex went in and got a candy bar for himself, and picked up a handful of snacks for the troops and took another look at the sign. All at once he realized it said "Remember the 8th Commandment!"

His reaction was "Mutha Fucker! What do you mean? You stole my country and my land! Fuck you, Mutha Fucka!" Alex grabbed up big handfuls of candy bars, chips and nuts and took them into the troops. Did he leave money in the box? Oh hell no!

Not a dime!

One Clarification:

Alex was at a "defense contractor" location inside a military base. No troop will be responsible for the loss of candy, but an in the workplace, Ten Commandment quoting defense contractor might.

The Bride And The Prejudice

I am totally and thoroughly disgusted with myself.

Alex and I went to my neighbor's wedding on Saturday. I had prejudiced opinions over this wedding well ahead of the actual event.

My neighbor Mary's husband died about a year and a half ago. Mary is in her mid-60's, quite attractive, and she was left in a very comfortable financial position when her husband passed away.

I understand not wanting to be alone, I really do. When she came and told me she had met a man and they were getting married, I said "Good for you!" but I really didn't mean it. I was lying through my teeth. I didn't want her to throw herself into the funeral pyre, but after only a year and a half, I thought she was rushing into something. (Right, like that is any of my business!) I asked Mary how she had met the new man, and she told me "on the internet" which set up loud alarms ringing inside my head.

I had really liked Mary's husband. He was a great guy. Mary introduced me to her future husband, Chris, a few days later. He seemed like a nice enough man. He was recently divorced from his first wife. Mary mentioned that Chris was living with his parents for the time being (which set off more alarms in my head). There was also Chris's disapproving 19 year old daughter in the mix.

(Of course, I was comparing Chris to her late husband and the new guy came up a little short, literally and figuratively.)

When Mary came to see me and talked about her plans for the wedding I was frankly taken aback. She was planning a formal wedding, with bridesmaids, a matron of honor, and a long bejeweled white dress and veil. There were about 150 people invited to attend the wedding and reception which would be held at a very exclusive hotel in the Bay Area.

I "oohed and aahhed" appropriately, all the time thinking to myself that this was the tackiest thing I had ever even heard of. (This was Mary's third marriage. You don't do the dewy eyed 21-year-old type wedding bit when you are in your 60's and it's your third trip down the aisle!)

I sent in our RSVP note accepting the invitation to the wedding but I had a little trepidation over it. Since I was being critical in my head, I questioned that I should attend at all. Finally, I determined that as long as I kept my mouth shut and my negative opinions to myself, we should be fine. After all, she is my next door neighbor, and not to go would be insulting.

The wedding ceremony was to be at 4 PM, with the reception and dinner to follow. We arrived on time and admired the 5-tiered elaborate wedding cake before the religious service. I whispered to Alex that a family of four could eat for a month on what that cake must have cost. So much for my open mind.

When Mary walked down the aisle escorted by her brother, she looked lovely. The service was brief, but rather charming and not nearly as religion-heavy as I had feared. The reception and dinner were both great.

A couple of people I know made somewhat catty comments to me about the appropriateness of a formal wedding at Mary's age, but I immediately cut them off because the comments actually offended me.

Here they were at Mary's wedding being wined and dined on her dime and being critical! How rude is that? I felt that anyone who was critical of Mary or her wedding was a total jackass.

Okay, what does that make me? I'll answer that. I was a jerk, a hypocrite, a snark, and a jackass too. I've always considered myself to be open minded. Hah! Self-delusion is the worst kind of delusion!

When I watched Mary walk down the aisle with her pretty face glowing happiness and hope, I realized how very wrong I had been.

I had to ask myself, was I jealous for some reason? I really don't think that's the case. I've had weddings too. I always chose to have much more private marriage ceremonies because that is what I preferred for myself.

I felt ashamed of myself because in truth, I was just being a bitch.

He Called Me Blondie

My husband Alex's Dad was a Marine.

I first met Fred at Alex's sister's wedding. I had heard a lot about him, but I didn't know what to expect. Fred was short like most Navajos, brown as a walnut, and nicely dressed in a suit and tie. When we were introduced, he grinned at me and immediately christened me "Blondie"!

Right after the wedding ceremony, Fred went inside to change into his jeans and a long sleeved flannel shirt, despite the heat. He came out with a smile announcing "I'm Fred again!"

Fred was already sick with cancer when I met him, but he was a tough bird. Fred walked everywhere in the 100 plus degree Arizona heat because he didn't have a car. If there was a cold beer waiting for him, he could and did walk 20 miles for it.

I'm not sure that Fred ever knew my first name was Linda. From the time he met me, he always called me "Blondie". Fred had an innocence and a sweetness about him, but he was very smart too. I see a lot of him in Alex.

Fred and his brothers (there were 5 of them) all joined the Marines at the same time. Alex was born at a Military Hospital in San Diego. A few years later, the military deployments were too getting too difficult for a man with a growing family, (by this time, Alex had 2 younger sisters), and Fred decided to get out of the service.

He went to work for the Police Department in Phoenix for a time, working in the animal control division, and in later years, Fred worked as a security guard.

Fred was quiet and usually reserved, but had a great subtle sense of humor. When he liked something, he would smile and say "horses", but nobody ever knew exactly what that meant. Fred was also a self-described "red apple", (red on the outside, white on the inside), and his wife drove him crazy because she clung to Navajo culture and "magic". She had a bag of "fetish shit" (Fred called it), and he would periodically try and throw it in the trash. Alex's mom always caught him though and recovered her "treasures".

Fred was undergoing chemo treatments for stomach cancer. We invited him to visit us in San Francisco. Between chemo sessions he overcame his aversion to flying and came up to see us for a long weekend.

We took Fred sightseeing and took the ferry across the Bay to Sausalito. He seemed to really enjoy it, but Fred tired easily. When we got back to the house, he and I sat on the front steps and shared a beer and a cigarette and talked while Alex did some homework.

Fred talked to me at length about being a Marine and what it had meant to him. He really loved the Corps. Fred also shared his feelings of great pride in his son because Alex was in college and getting close to earning his degree.

Fred was not formally educated, but he was an avid reader and had a very sharp intellect and a wealth of life experience.

That night after dinner, Fred was tired. He had a few beers before and during dinner. The beer with the lethal chemo cocktail in his system wiped him out.

My mom was at our house that evening. She and I waited until Fred was settled in bed, and we went in and sat with him.

Mom had a great voice and she sang to him for about an hour and Fred loved every moment of having both of our attention. We talked and laughed, my mom on one side holding his hand, me on the other, until he was ready to sleep.

I went to see Fred in the hospital during the last week of his life. Although he was drugged, he was the same funny, smart and serious man! Fred said to me "Blondie, if I had met you first, things might have been very different!" I kissed his lips and left the room as he fell asleep.

That was the last time I ever saw Fred. I still dream about him though. I still see him sometimes too when I look at my husband's face.

I Have A Theory

I have a theory.

When my bathroom looks like this at 1:00 AM on a Tuesday morning, something has gone terribly amiss.

It all started on Sunday. I told Alex the upstairs toilet wasn't flushing completely. He looked up from his computer and said "really!" so I realized this was a job that I would have to do myself. I grabbed the plunger and went upstairs.

I plunged with all my might and flushed about 10 times while I continued to try and get the toilet cleared. Finally, it seemed to be all right. (Now I might mention that although our home has 4 bathrooms, only one is located upstairs where our bedroom is. Because I am a woman "of a certain age", it is likely I will get up in the night at least once to use the facilities.)

I spent the evening engrossed in CNN and forgot all about the earlier problem with the toilet. Osama bin Laden being killed was strongly on my mind. I didn't feel jubilant, I just felt sad, (or maybe sadder than usual), as I am always sad when my husband is leaving on a mission.

This morning I noticed the toilet bowl was overly full of water. I ignored it and came downstairs to perform my ablutions, figuring I would deal with it later. While having my morning coffee and watching CNN for updates, I learned that Osama had not only been killed, but he had also been buried at sea in less than 24 hours after his death. This is apparently in conformance with Islamic religious law. It made sense because while the US was not honoring the man, the country was showing admirable respect for the Muslim faith under the circumstances.

I went upstairs about 8 PM and remembered that the toilet had been hinky so I grabbed the plunger and tried again. This time, I miscalculated and water poured on to the floor at an alarming rate. I tried to pull the thingy up to stop the flow but to no avail. It finally subsided but not until the entire bathroom floor was flooded. There is a faucet under the toilet and I turned it off.

The clean up took about 3 hours and 25 towels. I brought up the mop and the Lysol to finish the job. I turned on "Nurse Jackie" and settled in my favorite chair to watch a couple of episodes although I was very tired. Hauling the wet towels downstairs was a lot like hard labor since they weighed a ton, and I really am not a fan of carrying heavy things.

Perhaps and hour later, I heard water. At first I thought it was the cat using the litter box and didn't pay too much attention to it. Then I realized if that was the cat using the litter box, I'd better get him to the vet right away. I cautiously approached the bathroom only to see a tsunami coming toward me.

The bathroom floor was covered in about a half an inch of water. Oh shit oh dear! I grabbed the remaining 20 or so towels, two terrycloth robes, and the contents of the laundry hamper and tried to soak up the water, but it was flowing out as fast as I could sop it up. I finally threw caution to the wind and yanked every tube in the tank out. What do you know! It stopped! Just like that!

I got a pail and started bailing water out of the bowl and the tank. I hauled the water out to the sink in the family room, making about 100 trips. I was still not confident it would not rise up again but so far it hasn't.

The law of political thermodynamics says that for every action, there is an opposite and inequal reaction (or something like that). I think tossing Osama in the drink is what caused the toilet to flood my house.

I can only hope nobody else is buried at sea in the near future.