To-Do List

Cow Udder Pink

/ wvfurandroot / 14 Comments

toilet paperIf I were going to channel the writers of Sex in the City, I might begin this post with “Can a toilet paper holder make a woman happy?”

I finally got around to painting the guest bathroom. Trust me, it needed paint like my 401K needs funding. Whilst buying the paint, I picked up the toilet paper holder of my dreams – black wrought iron and cleverly designed so that toilet paper can be installed without disassembling the holder.

I am challenged when it comes to inserting toilet paper in the standard type of holder. I become all fumble-fingers and end up hopping around the bathroom with my jeans around my ankles trying to pick up the middle rod. It’s always an Abbot & Costello moment not that I think those boys ever changed the toilet paper roll.

[I’m generally opposed to jokes that bash gender, race or ethnicity, but I absolutely love this one: How many men does it take to change a toilet paper roll? Nobody knows. It’s never been done. OK. Got that out of my system.]

I’m pretty tickled with the holder. In fact, I’m pretty tickled with the whole bathroom.

I’m two-for-two on recent paint jobs. After the disasters of recent years, this is heady stuff. The lavender office and now the cow bathroom have been freshly painted with the color being right the first time. Right and fabulous.

Um, cow bathroom – yes.

happy cowsBack when black and white cow motifs were all the rage, I made the mistake of saying (out loud) that I thought they were cute. I’m not generally a “cute” person, but I live in a barn. I like black. And I do, now and again, enjoy a touch of whimsy which explains why Miss Piggy lives on my desk in my oh-so-elegant lavender office. It also explains the cow bathroom.

Since I had declared the cuteness of black and white cow stuff out loud in front of God and everybody, my entire extended family gave me such stuff for every gift-giving occasion. It got entirely out of hand. By the time I shrieked, “Enough already, people,” I had cow dishes, posters, photos, cards, plant holders, door stops, stuffed animals, coffee mugs, sweatshirts, socks, salt & pepper shakers, cleverly designed lotion dispensers, Christmas ornaments, soap, stools, canisters, soup tureens, cookie jars, and, I’m not kidding, perfume.

cowsSurreptitiously, I had been getting rid of the nastier stuff as the years rolled by. A few years ago, I got rid of 90% of it. During the cow purge, I discovered that I like cow images. I saved those. I also saved the 4,327,643.5 greeting cards bearing cows that I received along with the cow gifts. I also cut out and saved particularly amusing cow cartoons. (No, really, they do exist – Far Side, for example.)

Over the past ten years or so, I’ve been putting some of these things in frames. I actually hung some of them, but most of them were languishing in a box pending painting.

While recovering from what was probably swine flu, I woke up with a powerful urge to finally paint the bathroom I’ve been trying to paint since 1998. I decided, after ten years of pondering, that cow udder pink would be just peachy – although I wanted a cow udder pink that veered towards orchid rather than peach.

I skipped-to-my-lou’d over to the Lowes and picked out paint in less than 5 minutes which left me plenty of time to snag the black wrought iron toilet paper roll holder. It was a good day. Those of you who know me know how out of character that is. It took me 3 hours in the paint aisle once to choose a white paint. There’s something to be said for buying paint in the wet-noodly-stage of flu recovery.

It was even better when the molding came off without cracking. Spackling went enormously well. Primer was easy-peasy. Paint went on like a dream AND the painter’s tape didn’t pull off the edges of the new paint when I pulled it off the wall. Really, it was like someone else painted the bathroom. (Of course, there’s paint in places there shouldn’t be and I’ll eventually get around to fixing that.)

sinkAfter all that, I painted the vanity and medicine cabinet, spray painted some stuff black and begun the onerous task of hanging stuff on the walls.

One wall has always borne three of Jennifer O’Meara’s “American Barns” prints. I love these things and I could flay myself for not having bought more when they were on the market – they weren’t particularly costly. My goal was to complete that wall with a ton of barn images and cow images and touches of whimsy as well as the other three walls. I have two thick file folders of images suitable for framing (some blatantly stolen from Flickr).

People in bifocals with a significant astigmatism find lining up photographs and prints on a wall to be challenging. I got about half of it done when I ran out of frames (and energy).

barnsMy to-do list now includes the purchase of more frames (from Dollar General and similar fine framing establishments). I also must deal with the ceiling and the floor, but significant progress has been made.

And so? Can a toilet paper roll holder make this woman happy? Well, no, not in and of itself. But I’m tickled cow udder pink with the progress of the bathroom. If memory serves, I think pink is one of those colors that is said to provoke a feeling of happiness. And then there are the simple conveniences like being able to put toilet paper on the holder one-handed that do make me smile. But I’m especially happy that it’s all gone so well.


[And, in other news, I’ve replaced my stolen camera with an exact replica! In fact, for all I know, it could be my stolen camera. I mean do we really know? Is E-Bay just a giant fencing site?]

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.

Routine (or the New Normal)

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

I’m working part-time at a group home for teenagers. The kids are there because of stuff they did or because of stuff done to them. In most cases, though certainly not all, these kids have lived a life of routine that does not have a discernable pattern – or in other words – no routine.

For years, I viewed the concept of routine as a Great Evil to avoid at all cost. I was, and perhaps still am, convinced that routine stunts creativity and turns us into automatons. But more on that later.

Anyone who has been charged with the responsibility of taking care of a three-year-old understands the importance of routine in a child’s life. Toddlers without a routine are some of the most miserable beings on the planet. More importantly, they know this. If you change a toddler’s routine for any reason, in most cases (aside from holidays, vacations, etc.), the toddler will scream blue-bloody murder.

When Chef Boy R’ Mine was that age, any deviation from the weekly routine turned him into a hyperactive monster prone to tears, rage, and publicly embarrassing behavior. Being sufficiently enlightened, knowledgeable about child development, and having examined all of my parents’ shortcomings as parents, I, like nearly every other parent, was convinced that my child would always be happy and well-adjusted. It’s such a rude awakening when enlightenment, knowledge and introspection does not, in fact, make a damn bit of difference as to whether or not the child is going to have a tantrum at the Kroger.

Anyway.

The older the boy got and the older I got, the more I realized that routine is not just important to toddlers, it’s important to everyone. It’s not the blanket evil I was once believed to be true.

My first day of school.

My first day of school.

The beginning of the school year was always a time of relief and rejoicing. Staples used to run a commercial with a happy, frolicking father tossing school supplies into the basket with great glee. His two disgruntled children watch. I laughed every time I saw it and said Amen! I thoughtfully provided the commercial at the beginning of this post.

The start of school signaled a return to routine. After a couple of months of flexible bedtimes, erratic meals, impromptu outings, and any number of unscheduled activities, we were all worn out from too much deviation.

Now of course, school brought its own challenges, but there was a carved in stone routine that was only interrupted by Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Valentine’s Day, Easter and Memorial Day. Those interludes provided needed respite from the grind, but like the first day of school in August, I always looked forward to January 2nd when the holidays were officially over and we could get back to the routine.

At the group home, the first thing we do is put these kids on a schedule. They have standard mealtimes, standard bedtimes, and a daily rhythm that doesn’t vary too wildly. They chafe at first, but like the toddlers they come to both expect it and need it. The minute something gets off-kilter, they get hyperactive and there are tears, rage, and the occasional tantrum. Routine is good.

As the years went by and I began noticing how much I looked forward to the first day of school (and January 2nd), I realized that routine was important in my life too. While it does inhibit my creativity and does, to some extent, turn me into an automaton, the emotional equilibrium that routine provides does mitigate the downside. For the most part.

Several years ago, I became disgusted with my routine and made some sweeping life changes. I do not regret this.

Can you see John Lennon's head?

Can you see John's head?

However, these sweeping changes punctuated by some disasters of varying importance have left me, metaphorically, in the cereal aisle at Kroger having a tantrum. Everything is in flux and while I can envision the goal line, I cannot see it. (I can’t believe I’m using a sports metaphor, but there you have it.) I had a plan and I have goals, but I don’t see the plan being executed for another 5 to 7 years which means attainment of the goals are going to take even longer. I have resisted looking that truth in the eye.

I am emotionally exhausted and prone to rage and tantrums. I am simply tired of not knowing what I can expect from the next day, the next month or the next year. I’m fond, perhaps too fond, of quoting John Lennon’s “Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.” It’s good to have goals, but that doesn’t preclude having a routine or abandoning a plan that can’t be executed under the circumstances. Muttering “This too shall pass” has been comforting. It may very well be passing, but the movement is so slow as to be imperceptible.

I have chafed at the routine that is trying to emerge, because it is in direct opposition to my goals and expectations. I had a major setback yesterday. I’m still reeling. I do know that the chafing, the grumpiness, the rage and the tantrums have not changed one damn thing. I need to embrace the latent routine and accept my New Normal.

So. My task for the day is to try and fine tune the routine that I think circumstances are dictating; and tweak it enough to insure I don’t become a bitter, old woman whose creativity is limited to seeing what happens when she substitutes Campbell’s Cream of Celery soup for the Cream of Mushroom in the tuna casserole.

The New Normal I’m trying to talk myself into embracing is so far outside my realm of experience (and not in a good way) that figuring out how to turn it into something that’s going to work for me is daunting. I do know that viewing it as temporary is not working. For years now, I’ve hung onto arbitrary timeframes uttered by doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs that have proved to be complete fiction. There is no goal line in sight. (Damn it, did it again.)

So, channeling the sentiments of many sages, the goal is to be right here, right now with a routine, day in and day out, that doesn’t ignore the future, but doesn’t treat the now as the aberration. The now is the future. I will resist discussing quantum physics to make this point.

And this all seems much grimmer and whiny than is my intention. I’m more at peace right now than I have been. Years ago when the New Normal began, I would have told you I couldn’t have gotten to this day without losing my mind. While my mental health has ups and downs, I have not worn a strait jacket or been prescribed haloperidol. While I’m not dancing around singing “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” I am also not railing at the universe.

Now then. If you’ll excuse me, I have a set of chores that I’ve previously allotted 9 hours to, but which the New Normal dictates must be done in 45 minutes. I need to get cracking.

Ch ch ch changes . . .

/ wvfurandroot / 11 Comments

My life is about to change. Since change is inevitable that statement is always true, but in this case the change will be swift and awing.

I have decided to win the lottery tonight.

Sunday’s projections were that tonight’s Powerball drawing would be worth $245 million with the cash option coming out at $122.6 million.

I’m not sure how these things work, but I would certainly take the $122.6 million cash option. A bird in the hand and all that. Even if that number is reduced by half to satisfy Uncle Sam, I should clear $61.3 million.

I can live on that.

Now there have been a host of social scientists studying lottery winners and the conclusions are grim – Jack Whittaker is a case in point. Most (yes, most) big lottery winners end up in worse shape financially than they begun. Interpersonal relationships suffer. Many wish they’d never won.

Us poor folk wonder how that can be, but I think I have a clue.

The biggest problem is that in order to collect the money you have to agree to be publicly named and paraded around in the lottery horse and pony show. This leads to developing a host of relatives you’ve never known. Couple that with endless solicitations from charities, friends, co-workers, etc. etc. to wit and tut tut and you have a private life that is not private and the significant stress of trying to enjoy the windfall while sifting through the requests.

Most winners go into this state of events with intentions of altruism. Many think their life is not going to fundamentally change outside of quitting their job and ceasing to worry about money.

Foolish people.

I have a plan.

Said plan recognizes that my life will fundamentally change in most respects.

I think that gives me a leg up on the odds of crashing and burning.

Given the low population density of West Virginia and the slow news days of August, it’s a given that I’d be swarmed with media within moments of announcing my win on Thursday. Hence, I have no intention of announcing my win on Thursday.

Now I know that the Lottery Commission knows where a ticket was bought which means the media and local residents will convulse themselves into a frenzy trying to decide who bought the winning ticket at the Little General. I imagine there will be signs and banners all sorts of nonsense. This should be good for giggles.

If memory serves, I will have a year to claim the winnings. I think 3 to 6 months of preparation will be sufficient. If by mid-November I can announce the win, I’m thinking most of the frenzy will be over with by Christmas.

I’m shooting for a grand holiday season when I will finally have time to send out Christmas cards and bake cookies.

My first order of business (after dancing around the living room and drinking the bottle of champagne in the fridge) will be to hire an attorney with a specialty in estate planning as well as an accountant. I’m still dithering about the need for a PR person. Along about mid-October, I’ll get one of them internet phones with a new number. I have this notion that those are the ultimate unlisted number.

It goes without saying that I’m not telling a soul (other than the attorney and the accountant) that I’ve won.

By the time I’m ready to claim my winnings, I will have an “undisclosed” location well in place. And no, I’m not going to disclose said location here. Shortly after doing Good Morning America, I’m going to disappear from everything except my contractual obligations with the Power Ball people.

The next few months are going to be really tough. Going to work every day and suppressing this news is going to take extreme discipline. I’m not good at policing myself, but I’ve made great strides since running across a quote that paraphrases as “Discipline is remembering what it is that you really want.”

I’m hoping my enjoyment of joining in conversations at the gas station and grocery store about who won will act as a pressure relief valve. I expect to chortle a lot.

So, yes, my life will change. I will quit my job. I will buy the biggest remote tract of land in West Virginia that I can find, hire a surveyor to pinpoint the exact middle and build a fortress of privacy. I will donate to charities and I will ease (not eliminate) the financial insecurities of family members and good friends.

I’m pretty sure I won’t hand out money to strippers, develop a drinking problem, or squander it all on Elvis memorabilia. I won’t lose sight of the fact that all of my newfound friends are only in it for the money and their willingness to be grateful is not true friendship.

My shoe collection is likely to grow.

I won’t use the money to punish people I think have mistreated me (okay there’s one I might set out to ruin and, no, it’s not who you think).

I have a pile of change on the dresser and I’m going to use it to buy the ticket on my way to the office. During the 1.1 mile commute between my house and the gas station, I’ll decide whether I’m letting the machine pick the numbers or if I’m using ages and dates.

If my blog postings of the next few months are a little giddy and disjointed (more so than normal), you’ll know why.

And, dammit, I’m buying a camera even before I announce.