To-Do List

A Man Deserves a Place for His Togs

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments

Note the look of horror on my
Guardian Angel's Face.

I’ve known since mid-January that HMOKeefe might be moving in with me. I’ve known since early April he was definitely moving in with me. Starting quietly, Closet Panic grew to a crescendo.

For weeks, I was in denial with a severe form of that brain itch that occurs during times of intense procrastination. One gray, rainy, cold weekend in late March, I began the task of emptying the little closet in the master bedroom for the Good Doctor to put his togs in.

the Little Closet Complete with Feather Boa and Gold Lame` Cowboy Boots

I planned on giving him the little closet as he is now retired and, presumably as such, would need a less extensive wardrobe than I. Hah! The man is addicted to shirts the way I’m addicted to shoes. He has dozens and dozens, possible hundreds.

Nonetheless, it was a plan. Not much of a plan, but it was mine. I’m not good at planning and tend to avoid it, but when I do hatch one I hang on for dear life. The little closet it was.

The little closet was intended to house the boots, belts, purses, evening wear and other clothes I’m not likely to wear on a normal day. However, the big closet was so jam-packed with stuff that the overflow to the little closet was, um, tsunami-like. To clean out one required cleaning the other.

I was an anthropology major.
What can I say?

I donned my pith helmet and went in on an exploratory mission prior to the planned excavation. Oh, the horror!

Within minutes, I was in the kitchen scavenging in the chocolate cabinet for stress relief.

Throughout that weekend, I weeded and winnowed the closets. I tried to invoke the “if you haven’t worn it in a year rule” and was, at times, successful. I got rid of everything I didn’t absolutely love. I couldn’t bear to part with the stuff I absolutely love, but am too big (at present) to fit into. That “someday I’m going to drop 20 pounds and wear this again” vow renewed itself.

Lord, I tried. [Tried to organize the closet, not lose weight – it’s not a good idea to start a diet under stress.  The chocolate cabinet got a good workout.]

The socks are probably a no-go.

I was easily distracted – particularly by the shoes.

In 2007, I was involved in a car accident that messed up my right foot in a sort-of minor way, but which, nonetheless, required three surgeries. My foot was sore, inflexible and downright contrary for nearly 4 years. At the time of the closet excavation, I had just started wearing cute shoes again. I had reveled in the boots – pink suede, black silk, embroidered, tartan plaid, brown leather, red leather, black leather, beige fuzzy, rabbit fur, pom poms, granny, hooker, gold lame` and wine.

But spring was a whisper away and the sandals beckoned. Trippy grass green, tranquil aqua, cobalt blue, coral, orange, blue, turquoise, beaded, jeweled, thonged, strapped, ankle-wrapped. I was distracted.

Ooooooooooo. Teal!

Still and all, I managed to drag out bags and bags of clothing and shoes. Some I trashed, some went to Goodwill and some went to Dress for Success.

And, yet, it wasn’t enough.

I really tried.

I probably neglected to mention that the big closet housed only the winter clothes. The summer clothes were crammed into the only part of The Closet I Am Afraid Of  that I can get to. While I planned for HMOKeefe to use the small closet, I intended both of us to use The Closet I Am Afraid Of  (and that he will be afraid of when he opens that door) for off-season stuff. (We both have far too many clothes.)

Since spring was just a whisper away (or so I thought – it was the winter that wouldn’t end), I felt it prudent to deal with ALL the clothes. Weed and winnow the heavy wool of weeks past as well as the linen and silk of weeks future.

Lord, I tried.

Even now, there’s a bag at the top of the stairs waiting to go to Goodwill.

I did. I did. I really tried.

The winter clothes are in TCIAAO, but so is all the stuff I’m still afraid of. The boots won’t fit in either that closet or the big closet less I part with more shoes.  In fact, I’ve procured a few more pair of shoes since this frenzy started. (I’m particularly enamored of the strappy black patent leather sandals with faux pearls I bought in Massachusetts executing the move to get HMOKeefe down here.)  I could, I suppose, buy shoe racks, but then there would be less money for shoes.  This is a conundrum.

Anyway.

So the good doctor has been here nearly two weeks and is still living out of a suitcase.

I’m a terrible person.

Yes, it is an addiction.
But it's cheaper than cocaine.

This weekend, I swear, I’m going to empty the boot/evening wear/accessory closet and organize a closet for him. That’ll bring the total of organized closets in this house to (ta da!) one.

Hopefully, it will be really hot so I won’t play with the boots. Except maybe the hooker ones – HMOKeefe is rather fond of those.

Rain on Roses

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

Well, the vinca is doing great!

Well, it’s no Gardenpalooza – more like Gardenpifflefizzle, but it feels good. I finally got Quality Time in the garden this weekend. Quality Time being less than an accurate description. More later.

After having disappeared for so long, it’s a bit difficult to try and figure out where to begin.

In January, HMOKeefe decided to finally consolidate zip codes and he began the process of early retirement. He has some health issues related to a bone marrow transplant for leukemia (CML, to be exact) and the preparation for the move was, um, involved.

The man really does deserve a closet, but what am I going to do with all this stuff?

Besides trying to find a closet for him to put his togs in, I have been busier than a one-armed paper hanger on a unicycle in a tornado at my job. Frequently during the past few months, I have muttered, declared and yelled, “Hell’s bells, we don’t have to schedule everything for the same time. There are 12 months in the year.

He still doesn’t have a closet.

[Speaking of tornados, boy, do I have a story.]

HMOKeefe has been ensconced in Chez Barn for a little more than a week. Well, sort of.  Following the VERY EVENTFUL move from Massachusetts to West Virginia, I contracted a nasty something that turned into viral pneumonia. At present, I am quarantined and he is staying with my folks. Is it a big ol’ goofy world or what?

I'm sick.

My doctor tut-tutted and reminded me that if I don’t slow myself down, my body will do it for me. And then she prescribed prednisone which winds me up like caffeine-laced cocaine. I’m supposed to be resting, sucking on one of my two inhalers (yes, two!) and drinking lots of fluids.

I still feel like the nasty crud at the bottom of the garbage can, but I’m strangely energized. I’ve restored some order to the house, processed a few loads of laundry, unpacked suitcases from the Massachusetts sojourn as well as those used for attendance at a conference last week.

[Oh, yes, I bring HMOKeefe to West Virginia and then abandon him. And then I arrive home with news that I’m contagious with a nasty and he’s got to go stay elsewhere due to the immune suppressants he takes. He had viral pneumonia years and years and years ago. It took little to persuade him to go stay with people he doesn’t know that well.]

And as if restoring order to the abode wasn’t enough, I summoned the wherewithal to finally mow the backyard.

The harsh winter, rainy spring and summer heat has not been kind.

I’ve been so flipping busy and it’s rained every weekend for months, I couldn’t get the lawn mowed. Folks tell me it’s been kind of dry the past couple of weeks, but my yard still squelches when I walk on it. Nonetheless, enough is enough. I tackled the (small) yard with a temperamental lawn mower yesterday. While hacking through the jungle that arose with the wild, wet spring, I hacked, coughed, sneezed and gagged – sometimes all at once.  Viral pneumonia, even tempered with prednisone, is no fun.

Today, I weeded, cleaned up debris and finished chopping up last fall’s leaves with mower.  [I was busy last fall, too.]

The one rose bloom I got to see. Is that pitiful or what?

The garden is in a sad state. We had a late freeze that seriously damaged some of the newer perennials. Then we had nonstop rain. And then we had sudden deluges punctuated with high heat that effectively boiled a bunch of stuff. The stuff that did well – some of the roses, the wisteria, the peonies, the mock orange and the vinca all decided to bloom and blow while I was conducting a move worthy of a David Lynch film.

I feel cheated. But I also feel as if my equanimity is returning. Mucking about in dirt is a very effective antidepressant for me. And gardens do provide immediate gratification at times. After a harsh winter and soggy spring, the before and after of a couple days of prednisone driven frenzy is a sight to behold.

The hostas are happy. But they're always happy.

If you don’t look too close.

The garden is in a state and I’ll be the rest of the season nurturing and repairing damage.  There’s nothing left to bloom, except maybe the peony.  It’s a new one and I can’t tell if it’s bloomed or not.  The buds don’t quite look like buds and might be what’s left after a bloom.  I can’t quite figure it out.

Anyway, I need annuals.  Lots of annuals. Petunias.  Impatiens.  Shasta Daisies.  Morning Glory.  Moonflowers. And some creeping juniper to replace that which died.  And Boston ferns to hang by the door.   Chocolate mint to grace the table.  So much to do. But, damn, it’s good to be back in the garden..

Blogging, too, is an emotional balm for me.  Damn, it’s good to be back.

Rain on Roses

[Did I mention the laptop hard drive crashed spectacularly and I’ve been without the little darling for nearly 4 weeks?  HMOKeefe put in a new hard drive.  I finished loading software and copying backup files and things are almost normal.  Since I don’t have a picture of this spring’s roses, I’m using an older one for my desktop.  Rain on roses seemed a fitting metaphor for the past few months.]

Nuffin ‘Bout Birthin’ No Valances

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

I love windows.

One of the great pleasures of being down to one job is the time to nest in my home. Another is having time to blog.

One of the great pleasures of living where I do is I don’t have to cover the windows with hundreds of dollars of fabric to keep the creeps from peeping in. When living in various towns and cities, intellectually I understood the need for curtains and draperies, but I hated them. I particularly hated them in my first house – the house with leaded glass and ornate molding. And I hated them during the winter when frugality dictated they be closed to keep the heating bill within the realm of payment possibility.

The last set of drapes I remember really liking were those worn by Carol Burnett during one of her more memorable skits.

Nobody suggests "window treatments" here!

When I landed in the barn at the end of a dirt road on top of a hill, I gloried in having lots of uncovered windows. I flaunted my bare windows. I’m a window junkie, so there was much to flaunt.

After twenty years of fabric-free flaunting of glass and molding, it seems I’ve gotten over the illicit thrill of naked windows. For the past few years, some of the windows have begun to look bare – unfinished – improperly accessorized – and, well, being the trendy chick I am, I began looking at what are now known as window treatments and used to be called drapes.

[Not all the windows, mind you. There are some that I’ll never cover and you can’t make me.]

Window treatments have silly prices. Window treatments should not cost more than the window. They shouldn’t cost more than major appliances, my first car, a root canal or the yearly vet bill for three dogs. People pay this kind of money? Hand me my smelling salts.

Still and all, some of my windows, particularly those in the kitchen, began looking a bit forlorn.

Mmmmmm

Kitchen curtains are hideous. I don’t want prancing chefs, embroidered tea kettles, frolicking kittens, or fruits and vegetables. The Great Kitchen Curtain Search was further complicated by my chosen and much loved color scheme. I am inordinately fond of the combination of dark brown, blue and white. That trilogy comforts me, inspires me, and was the first to teach me the power of color.

My very first kitchen was blue, brown and white and the last kitchen I’ll ever have is blue, brown and white. One wouldn’t think that would be such a rough combination to accessorize with a bit of fabric. One would be surprised. One was surprised.  For that first kitchen, I found a set of tiers in the three colors and, since, country was all the rage, they worked.  It helped that I had only one window in the kitchen.  [Raging or not, my patience for ruffles can wear thin.]

What can I say?

In a fit of country kitsch brought on by low blood sugar (or possibly a hangover), I bought some white eyelet valances with blue embroidered flowers for the current (and last) kitchen. They weren’t totally hideous, but they were totally too short and looked flippin’ ridiculous. Think Jethro in pants and sleeves that were never long enough. I took them down to wash them and never put them back up. That was, hmmm, five years ago?

Yup. That's a sofa throw if I ever saw one.

The compulsion to partially cover kitchen windows ratcheted up a few months ago. I looked and looked. Surfed the web. Haunted clearance sales. I found the valances I thought were the ones of my dreams – Indian batik with a lotus motif and beading. Valances were my preferred covering because they don’t really cover, but do solve the oh-my-god-what-do-I-do-with-the-windows problem. $250 for cotton strips of fabric? People pay that? Really?

So. I found some Indian batik on the web (sans beads) and decided to sew some valances. The fabric arrived and it’s gorgeous, but I decided it would make a better throw for the sofa than window treatments. Besides, I didn’t have time to learn how to bead.

I just realized the blue swirls are actually the word coffee.

So, I toddled off to the fabric store and found some really spiffy cotton in all the right colors. I began haunting websites for instructions on how to make valances. Good grief they made it sound complicated. Let me just remind you of the great fear I hold for my sewing machine.

Both lengths of fabric have been sitting on the church pew for months. I’ve been trying to a) find time b) when I was motivated to c) tackle the Beelzebub of Bobbinhood. It never happened. That particular trilogy can’t be achieved without additives to my blood chemistry.

Now ain't they something?

One thing led to another and then another and another and, in short, while trying to find a Mother’s Day gift, I ran across the Most Beautiful Valances in the Whole Wide World. At 90% off with free shipping. I clicked, whipped out the debit card, and typed in my address quicker than you can sing the three verses of To Hell with Sewing Machines. (Lawsy, Miz Scarlett, I don’t no nuffin ‘bout birthin’ no valances.)

They arrived today. I figured there was a good chance my internal image of them wasn’t going to match their external image. I also figured there was a good chance I would be sending them back.

Yup. It's spring.

They’re perfect! They’re ridiculous enough to be mine. (Who has taffeta in their kitchen, hmmm?) They’re the right size. They’ve got enough ornamentation to make them interesting. They’re a tasteful, elegant white.  They’re washable. They’re peachy keen, cool beans, awesome, righteous, neato, and groovy. I love them. They don’t completely cover the windows, they’re sheer enough to have no effect on the ability of the sun to flood my kitchen, and my windows look like they just won the tiara in the Miss Window Treatment contest. (With any luck the complete prize package includes Windex and a Windex-er.)

It’s a good day to be me.

[P.S. I saw my first blooming daffodil last week. I am so excited about a lot of stuff these days and not least among them is the opportunity to garden with my nights and weekends free free free.]

12-Step Program for Refrigerator Magnetaholics?

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments

I have a thing for refrigerator magnets. I realize it’s hokey, bourgeois, tacky and a sign of feeble intelligence. But I love them. They make me smile and, sometimes, guffaw. My penchant for excess is clearly apparent by simply looking at my refrigerator. [I was sorely disappointed to learn my dishwasher door was not metal. That’s probably a good thing as I tend to dribble coffee down the door.]

I don’t even pretend they’re utilitarian. I don’t use them to hold notes, children’s artwork, grocery lists, or medical appointment cards. They are there because I like them. Although when Chef Boy ‘R Mine was little, I had alphabet magnets near the bottom so he could play with them. The magnetic poetry is not on the fridge because I like to sprawl on the couch with the nifty magnetic board and compose my pearls of verse.

Some magnets I bought as souvenirs and others were gifts. Some my son made and some were made by friends. Many were given to me by HMOKeefe. Some I bought just because I liked them or they spoke to my heart.

When I painted the kitchen several years back I packed them away. For reasons I don’t understand and certainly can’t explain, they’ve languished in the closet all this time. During the holiday housecleaning frenzy it occurred to me while cleaning the surface of the refrigerator that I ought to perambulate my lazy butt over to the closet, fish them out and put them back on the fridge. And so I did.

I feel like I’ve reunited with old friends.

Among the puppies, quotes, Wizard of Oz characters, tropical fish and goofy photos are the Unemployed Philosopher Guild’s magnetic finger puppets. If you’ve never seen these things you really must meander over to their website. My favorite is Freud and his accompanying couch. But then again I’m uncommonly fond of Frieda Kahlo. Not to mention Schrödinger’s cat and Pavlov’s dog.

My magnets are not confined to the refrigerator. I also have them on my filing cabinet at work. I haven’t added to that display for a few years now. It’s time to remedy that.

As for alternate locations at home, for years, I’ve been trying to find the right sized piece of sheet metal without grooves to cover one side of my antique filing cabinet so the finger puppets can go live there. I’ve explored the possibility of magnetic paint, but I’m not convinced it will hold the heavier magnets and, besides, we all know how I hate painting. [And if you don’t, please understand that I would rather clean the cat box with my tongue than paint. While cleaning the cat box in that manner is never necessary, painting is and the bitching and moaning that occurs is legendary in its intensity.]

I really do have to get the puppets out of the kitchen to protect them from grease and the occasional flying food spatters. And the cat. She likes to pull them off and play kitty soccer with them. I’m a little tired of finding Dorothy Parker under the church pew though I think if she were still alive she would have something really funny to say about lying under a church pew.

Somewhere I have a package of 50 magnets the size of business cards with adhesive on one side. Their reason for being is to turn business cards into fridge magnets. When I bought them I did so because I figured making my own magnets would be a big bunch of fun. I’m going to throw in the towel and just go buy some more. [Lost Things drive me crazy. It doesn’t matter if I want them or not, their status as Lost is a challenge that makes me feel like a failure when frenzied looking is of no avail.]

Frankly, I think we all have some silly thing we collect not because we need them, but because they make us happy. My shoe collection is another, but that deserves a post of its own as do the reading glasses and watches (all of which need new batteries). And of course there are the cow and barn images.

I have a friend who has a display of antique toasters – at least a hundred of them – that are stacked two and three high on the top of his kitchen cabinets. I have an uncle who collects clocks. Every wall in his house is covered in clocks. I believe they number in the hundreds. My brother and his wife have every movie released on video tape or DVD in the last 20 years. My father acquires old computers he works feverishly on to get them running. He does nothing with his successes as most of them are such old technology they are useless. My mother is into glass birds and painted birdhouses – both collections are getting completely out of hand. [I am so dreading dealing with my parents’ house when the time comes – they’re getting close to needing intervention for hoarding.]

So, what is your silly thing? And how to you justify it?