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Damn that Stephen King

/ wvfurandroot / 9 Comments

Damn that Stephen King!

Back in 1983, I found myself living in my parents’ house in a suburb of Milwaukee. The parents had moved back to West Virginia (and boy was I jealous) and I was in the house so as for it not to be empty while it was up for sale.

The Ex and I had just started dating. My mom had met him briefly before heading out for Country Roads.

It was a harsh winter, but then all Milwaukee winters were harsh.

It was a sort of big house and I wasn’t used to being in that house alone. It groaned, it creaked, snow fell off the roof – all those things that can be a bit spooky even if you don’t spook easy.

I was pretty fearless. (I’m older and wiser now, my fears are substantial.)

It was me and my two cats living in that house. My cats, who’d been indoor cats, were frolicking in the freedom of living where they could go outside. Periodically, Ting would bring me a frozen, dead mouse. So frozen, it would clink when it would hit the floor. This was the extent of their hunting ability – already dead mice. Or so I thought.

The Ex and I had only been on two, maybe three dates. It’s another story to tell, but I couldn’t remember his name and when he’d call, he’d say “Hi! It’s me!” and I’d hold my breath waiting for the first name to follow. No such luck.

So.

I’m living in this house alone and I’m reading Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. I’m at a crucial part in the book and it’s way past my bedtime, but I can’t put the book down. I hear the cats at the door.

I get up, reading the book, and I walk to the door, still reading the book, and I brace myself for the cold, still reading, and open the door, still reading, feel two bodies brush against, my leg, still reading, close the door, still reading, and return to my chair where I continue reading.

[You only think you know where this story is going.]

Finally, I reach a point where I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. I put the book down, turn off lights and head into the kitchen to turn off those lights when I discover the two cats and a NOT QUITE DEAD RABBIT.

It looked like a scene from Dexter in there.

I got a tad hysterical. Just a tad.

It’s like 1 a.m. or so. It’s well below O outside.

And I’m, well, hysterical.

Poor bunny - and stupid if Ting Tong, the Great and Mighty Frozen Mouse Hunter, got her.

I call a few friends, but nobody’s answering their phones. It was Friday and they were probably still in the bars. Not knowing what else to do between shrieks while watching my two, fluffy kitties torture a rabbit, I called the guy whose name I couldn’t remember.

Sobbing. Shrieking. Periodically shouting, Ting! Ashley! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

He told me later he couldn’t understand a word, but figured I needed help. It was a 30-40 minute drive not counting the time to shovel, scrape, and warm up the car. [He is and was quite a guy.] He told me he was on his way.

I went and sat in my car. I just couldn’t watch. Damn that Stephen King! I’d have handled this with my usual aplomb had the circumstances been different.

The ex shows up. By then I’m calm enough to explain what’s happened. Just barely calm enough. He went through the garage, grabbed a shovel on the way, and went through the kitchen door.

I stayed where I was. I just couldn’t watch any more carnage.

I think he finished the rabbit off with the shovel. I know he cleaned up most of the gore, tipped his hat, and said ‘Night, Ma’am and off he went. I learned later he had to be at work in two hours.

A rabbit can bleed a lot. I cleaned up a lot of blood. My cats looked very proud of themselves. I’m not sure I finished the book.

A few weeks later, I go in to take my morning shower and there’s no hot water. I go to the basement and peer at the hot water tank willing it to produce. No such luck.

I shower at a friend’s. I also talk to a guy at the hardware store who tells me it sounds like my thermo-coupler. I replaced that thermo-coupler all by myself three or four times before reason set in and I realized something else was going on.

No way am I getting The Ex involved. After the shameful rabbit thing, I’m trying to reassert my reputation as a strong, independent, resourceful, brave woman.

For the life of me, I can’t remember the part name now, but a friend’s husband declared definitively that I needed a new thingmabobbit. He offered to put it in. So, I toddled off to the hardware store asked for a thingmabobbit, gave them the make and model of my hot water heater, and tapped my shoe waiting for the guy to go get it.

No thingmabobbit in stock and he can’t get one because in water heater years, mine had been the oldest living water heater in the western hemisphere.

I tell the friend’s husband this. He says, balderdash. Off he goes to the hardware store with me in tow. We’re walking around the store and he shouts the equivalent of Eureka! There’s the exact right thingmabobbit sitting on a shelf with no price tag and a torn box.

We carry the thing to the register and Friend’s Husband says, “How come you told her you didn’t have any of these?” One thing leads to another and we can’t buy the part I need because it’s not on the inventory list, it’s obviously ancient, and they don’t know if the box was open because the part was returned defective or even if what’s in the box is what the box says it should be.

We go rounds and rounds with this guy. I say to him, “You can’t sell it because you’re not sure what it is and it’s not on your list. How about I give you $20 and I walk out of here with the thingmabobbit which isn’t on paper anywhere and you do anything you want with the $20.” Such a deal, I think. He says no.

We all go sit in the car and I’m nearly in tears with frustration. I’d like to shower at home, ya know?

A couple hours later we send another friend over there who shoplifts the damn part which Doofus had put back on the display floor.

Well. Friend’s Husband is not the home repair person he claimed to be. He had no more idea than I did of how to go about any of this. Part of me is convinced that thingmabobbit was the only hot water heater part he knew, so that was the problem.

In the end, I ended up calling, once again, the guy whose name I couldn’t remember and he wouldn’t tell me, and he ended up putting in a new hot water heater. There was great drama involved.

[We still had 4 or 5 dates to go before we went to an office party where he had to wear a nametag. My relief was palpable.]

Playful Spirits; Vindictive Spirits

So while Chef Boy ‘R Mine and Girlfirend O’ His were here a couple of weeks ago, we blew a circuit and the dishwasher refused to work as did the outlet and light connected to the same circuit.

The barn is built on an ancient burial ground and the spirits like taunting me.

I replaced that circuit myself. (And I did a fine job.) Still no dishwasher. Still no juice to that outlet.

No, I didn’t call The Ex. I called Dad. He came and did all the same things I did and said, “Huh? That shoulda worked.”

I told him to forget it that I’d just call the Burl, The Handyman Extraordinaire, and be done with it. Two hours later, a propos of nothing, the dishwasher came on as did the light.

Those spirits can be playful.

And vindictive. The hot water heater went out about the same time the dishwasher came on.

Ancient burial ground.

So. I’m talking to another handyman today and I tell him this story minus The Ex part and he asked if I’d hit the reset button. Huh what?

So I came home tonight, took off the panel, took my pencil and hit the red reset button and sparks flew out of the top of the hot water heater.

I’m pretty sure that’s not good.

Oh good grief. Yes, I turned the circuit breaker off.

I have two hot water heaters. This one runs the kitchen and the laundry room. I can shower, but I still can’t wash the dishes in the dishwasher. Nor can I wash them by hand. 

Them spirits have a sick sense of humor.

Did I mention I’m reading a Stephen King collection of short stories? No? Well, I am.

Damn that Stephen King.

The 1988 Toothbrush

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

The 1988 Toothbrush

1988 was an interesting year. If memory isn’t tricking me this morning, ’88 was the year we moved into the barn as our residence.

It was rough – both the barn and life in the barn.

We had electricity and one working toilet. That was it.

I cooked in electric fry pans, crock pots, and a silly little portable burner. We trooped down to my parents house, towels and toothbrushes in hand, to shower.

The 1988 Barn

Eventually, we had water, but still no bathtub. I washed dishes in a tub outside on the picnic table.

Eventually, we had a tub. Sheer luxury.

We had no phone. [That proved to be rather nice. In fact, well after we could afford it, we lived sans phone.] We had framing and insulation, but no walls. There was no kitchen to speak of, though I did have a stove – an ancient thing that we bought used somewhere. The ex’s work bench served as the dining room table and it was a plum pain in the ass to move the table saw every time it was time to eat.

The barn was slow going. We were trying to do it without incurring debt. The materials we needed at the beginning were expensive. Winter was coming, so we needed a furnace. The barn was in danger of slipping down the hill, so we needed a stone retaining wall.

We picked up some kitchen cabinets somewhere – they were beat up, ugly and not well-made. I danced in joy.

The 1997 Barn

In 1997 – 9 years later, we gave up and procured a construction loan. We hired a contractor. Then the fun really began. It was a nightmare; it was a dream come true; it was frustrating and, finally, the not-quite-finished barn was a not just a loved home, but a real house. It looked like a badly-built California Contemporary, but I adore every square inch of it – still do, worrisome warts and all.

Except for recent projects, nothing has been painted since 1997. The barn has been in desperate need of interior paint and exterior stain. The exterior is daunting, so I’m concentrating on the interior.

The most annoying part of paint prep - getting things out of the way.

The family room is now underway for a new paint job – Wellspring Blue. The color is dark, maybe too dark, but right now I love the color in the can. As part of paint prep, I removed the books from the top of the semi-built in bookcases and found a toothbrush still in its packaging up there.

Puzzled, I carried the oral instrument into the kitchen. While I don’t clean often, the top of the bookcase has been cleaned at least once a year since 1997 when it was installed. The most recent cleaning was about this time last year.

The flattened package was a major clue.

I peered and found a 1988 date on the packaging. Truly, a WTF moment. We didn’t have bookcases until ’97 and the top has been cleaned, while not frequently, at least often enough that missing the toothbrush was unlikely. The toothbrush package was flattened, but clean and dust free – an important clue.

Old Webster gets more of a workout than one would think.

 

[The barn is a retirement home for dirt and dust – truly, Jehovah could create an entire metropolis of people from blowing on the dust of just one room.]

I have deduced that the toothbrush fell out of a book. The ex used to use all manner of strange things as a bookmark. That’s the only reasonable explanation. I thank him for that habit – 1988 has come flooding back. To quote Dickens; it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . .

These times are also the best and worst – the yin/yang that life always seems to be. I’ll probably keep the toothbrush. De-junking is one thing; but little memory provokers here and there keep me grounded and cognizant of the yin/yang.

The Art of Doing Nothing

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments
Nope. Not gonna do it.

Nope. Not gonna do it.

Just as our bodies need downtime in the form of sleep, our bodies need downtime during our waking hours.

I’ve had a drought of downtime both asleep and awake.

Today, when the alarm went off, I silenced it, rolled over and went back to sleep. I clocked something like 10 hours. It wasn’t enough to eradicate my sleep deficit, but it was enough to provoke a feeling of well-being.

Yesterday, I did just enough housecleaning that I didn’t curl into fetal position when I went downstairs this morning. [It’s still a mystery to me how the house can become a Super Fund site when I’m never here.]

I plopped my ass on the sofa. After a few minutes, I arranged myself in a supine position. A few minutes later, I pulled the blanket over me. The dogs and I reacquainted ourselves there on the sofa.

I announced, firmly, “I have things to do.”

I got up, poured another cup of coffee, and stared out the window at the kitchen garden – looking at the mess I never had time to get to.

I forced myself to take clothes out the dryer, put the clothes in the washer into the dryer, and put the last load of laundry into the washer.  Drudgery, pure drudgery.  The inner adult had wrestled the inner child into submission, but neither were happy.

I poured another cup of coffee and stared out the window some more.

I announced, firmly, “I have got to motivate.”

Deciding that perhaps some sunlight on my pineal gland would help, I toddled out to the garden and plopped my ass in a lawn chair. From that seated position, I willed the calla lilies to bloom. I noticed that the morning glory had wrapped itself around the gate making ingress and egress impossible.

I contemplated getting up and whipping the morning glory into submission.

Stating clearly and audibly, I said, “Fuck It.”

Without getting too technical, the FuckIts are that state wherein no matter how hard your inner grownup spanks the inner child, nothing on the to-do list is going to get done without a change of strategy.

Nothing.

Facing this knowledge, the person with the FuckIts will develop a great sense of peace and sometimes giddiness. I am not going to do a damn thing and you can’t make me. It’s not rebellion, obstinacy, defeat or disobedience.

It’s very nice. It’s a lot like when you have a killer headache and you notice, suddenly and with pleasure, it’s gone.  The to-do list evaporates.

In my Geek Girl persona, I equate it with rebooting the computer. When you’re holding too many tasks in memory, sometimes you just have to reboot. (You Mac people can just shut up now.)

I trundled back into the house and heated up leftover tuna casserole. I settled in with a book – a bite of casserole, turn the page. Bite, turn.

Self permission to do nothing is energizing.

mmmmmm book and a nap

mmmmmm book and a nap

I’ve wandered about the house with the book. With no hurry, no agenda, no sense of looming responsibilities fixin’ to fall on my head and destroy me, I’ve managed to do even more cleaning between chapters. Paid some bills. Found and removed the source of the gnat problem in the kitchen. Readied my clothes for the following week. Put the jewelry back into some order. Cleaned off the desk.

I’ve actually done more than was on the to-do list to begin with.

People who are into meditation talk about this phenomena all the time. Quieting the chatter of your mind, either through counting breaths, repeating a mantra, or giving yourself permission to do nothing allows you to accomplish so much more. The essence is simply doing, or not doing, without thought of the past or the future. Without haste.

I had a fledgling meditation/yoga practice going that I abandoned when the to-do list got daunting. Big mistake. I haven’t been on the exercise bike (white noise and muscle toning all at the same time) in weeks. Another big mistake. I haven’t been reading well-crafted novels or listening to the music that makes my heart soar.

No wonder I’m a cranky bitch.

Doing nothing is both a luxury and a necessity.

I’m going back to my book now. I’m kinda thinking that napping in the guest bed in the afternoon sunlight after reading some of the book would be nice. If I do that, I’ll probably put clean sheets on the bed and vacuum – after watching the dust dance in the air for awhile.