Let's try it this way...

I have a monster writers' block. Thankfully writing isn't my gift or my passion, but STILL. So it's twitter. Maybe I can find a minute in my busy day to come up with 140 characters. Or a picture, like this:

Or this:

Because nothing brings joy like rocks with grass.

Cats, work, and revenge served cold

I've reached kitty détente, found gainful employment and I'm going to war with Chevron.

The cats make me happiest, both for their choice of sleeping spots (extra bedroom and not on my black work clothes) and because I felt like an evil, very bad leader for forcing Donna to put up with Alonzo. As far is Alonzo is concerned, I put his beloved person in a van and sent her away, but his wrath is still less intense than Donna's almost 2 month long quest to make me feel like the worst person alive. All the while she was sneaking in the back window late at night.

I have my 5am-2pm job (or as I like to call it, my night job) to thank for foiling the cat caper. Given that every job I've had since that horrible turn at McDonald's at 17 has been with a company that closed, or with myself as supervisor/owner, or stretching it, as a caregiver with dead clients, getting an interview has been difficult. Too many people that do have a good paper trail out there. I swore I'd take this first offer that wasn't part of the scam vortex of marketing/insurance/work at home. I did, I'm a retail merchandiser and I'm having a blast.

My one sided war with Chevron will not end well, but it should be good for some goofs. My Dad worked for one company for 35 years, but it tended to sell off parts and regroup, and the end result is that he,then Mom got four pension checks. CononcoPhillips was supposed to handle the lesser companies, and took my word that my Mom died. I would think that fiends don't often call to stop all money coming to old ladies, especially fiends with all the right information, including the bank account the money was being put into, but you never know.

Chevron had a tiny slice, and has been sending $50.85 a month. I called them directly today when the second wrong check was deposited. It started promisingly enough, a friendly voice after a few minutes of phone bank hell. I was mellow. They had no record, so I gave the cheerful woman all the information. She then warned me to get a pencil and paper and rattled off addresses and phone numbers and announced I would have a specialist, a Mrs. Tira ____. I had to take special notice of the spelling, and the Mrs. Since I wasn't getting any Mrs./Ms. or Miss love, I wasn't too interested. Why was I being given all this info? My cheerful woman was losing her cheer. I was to wait 48 hours for Tira to investigate my situation before contacting her, and I could go ahead and take the address to mail my packet. Contact her? Packet? Situation? Well, yes because they need a certified copy of the death certificate, forms, and probably a hair sample and death mask. That did it.

I told her I wouldn't be sending a certified copy of the death certificate because I had no more, and had no intention of spending another $12 per.(A lie, I have two.) The shocked silence was priceless. "But you HAVE TO!" she finally spit out.
"Nope."
"But we can't stop sending checks until you do!"
"I've notified you, and Mrs. _____ can contact me if she has any questions."
"But we can't do anything until you send the death certificate."
"Fine with me, it's going to be a long time coming. You have a great day."
"Chevron would like to extend their sincere sympathies for your loss, and have a nice day." Click.

Stupid? Probably. Four years ago Conoco/Phillips/Chevron/BP screwed their legacy retirees as vigorously as they possible by continuing to offer group health insurance as required by union contract, but replacing well known companies like Kaiser and Blue Cross with Mystery Medical, knowing that oldsters wouldn't drop their coverage or leave their doctors. Nothing like saving a few bucks, huh?

Living high, boonie edition

I was jonesing for my hot tub something fierce. Yesterday I did something about it. Tonight, I'm going to wallow in it.

Back tracking: my folks lived a simple country life, and part of that country life included a hot tub. They were on the second one when I moved back to the ranch, and I just smiled when they encouraged me to use it. That was their private place, and the thought of running into a naked parent was not where I wanted to go. Dad was forever messing with it-the heater had to be turned on at a certain time to get the right temperature at the right time, the ph was constantly whacked, it leaked, the whole nine yards. A lesser man would have said to heck with it, I'm taking a bath. Not him.

My Dad's health was going downhill when his hot tub finally died, and I urged him to get another one. He wasn't sure-he was thrifty, and his health was an unspoken constant. I promised him I'd use it too, and keep it up. He didn't care about the upkeep, but the fact that I would use it too sealed the deal for him.

I can still remember walking into the showroom with him after a doctor's appointment. He was frail, had broken a hip not too long before and walked so very slowly, but straight up and shoulders square, always. He was horrified with the giant party pits for ten that were front and center and would have taken off if he could have. I pointed out the simple model that would suit his needs and he lit up like a Christmas tree. It had a thermostat! It was low to the ground, and had an insulated lid besides. "Can we afford it?" he asked. I assured him I could write a check there and then (check cards bewildered him and credit cards were the devil's own hand tool.) We bought a new tub.

The thrill that man got from that hot tub that day, and most every day until he died 9 months later is indescribable. It was quiet, always at the perfect temperature, and the fancy new chemicals (no chlorine!) made the water smooth as silk. He was always cold, and probably always in pain, but that hot tub just outside the door made it better, even if for just a little while. And he never had to use the thermometer again.

After he died, I used it for a time where it was, but the neighbors let their big dogs roam, no one was in his little house, and it was spooky. And it reminded me too much of my Dad. Mom moved in with me, then into the big house that had been vacated by the death of her brother. I had friends help move the tub to a central spot where Mom and I could both use it, and it was great. Four years ago she was knocked flat by Sarcoidosis ("It killed Bernie Mack!", She would say much later, but then it was a mystery to most.) When she got a little better, or at least well enough to get demanding, she conned me into switching houses with her, and moving the tub next to her front door.

When I moved in with Mom to care for her, no matter how bad it got, I knew I could sit in the hot tub to get away from it all. She's been gone 5 weeks and my nerves are a little less raw. Liam hatched a plan to get the hot tub up to my house. The family mania for fences, trees and the fact that rolling it could easily turn it into a very large bird bath required a good plan or a lot of labor, preferably both. We just had the reasonably good plan, the two of us and a lot of coffee. I went Scissorhands on a laurel bush, moved some tomato plants, leveled the ground and we were good to go. Liam took apart the fences,did most of the heavy lifting and was diplomatic about my efforts. We moved that puppy on rollers out of his yard, onto the golf cart (after much experimentation and many tools) down the driveway and up into my yard.


It was meant to be. When we got it in place I whipped out the level, and to his great shock (and mine) that thing is as level as they come. The house leans in every direction, but not the tub.

I'm going to grab a glass of Amaretto, have a good soak, and hope my folks know I'm doing okay. After all, I've got the tub.

Owls and bikes, oh my!

I don't get bored. Maybe it's where I live, on the border of two very different worlds. Last night was a great example.

I was beat, and by 10 I couldn't keep my eyes open enough to read. Around 11, Terry starts barking like Charlie Manson was at the front gate. I wobble up and out onto the front porch. It was dead quiet except for two owls screeching at each other. Then their friends and family kick in. It was West Side Story in the high trees. I sprawled myself on my trashy front porch couch, Alonzo perched on my head, and I just took it in.

Five minutes into the dark side of owls, the motorcycle races began. I live about 450 feet off the road, and my bedroom is on the other side of the house, so I'm usually and purposely oblivious to the fun. Sometimes we're the start line, sometimes the end. Last night, we were the end. Usually this drives me nuts. I want to go into my yenta mode and do some serious talking at these kids. I've played Death Yahtzee-filling up my card with all the different ways someone I love can die. I've got the motorcycle stupidity death slot filled, and I bet most people by a certain age do too. But last night I didn't even twitch, just listened as the bikes started up at the bridge, and floored it (or whatever they do) as they got near. Then a sedate ride to the light, and back to the bridge. It sounded like fun.

The owls sorted out their problems, someone spooked the cyclists, and soon all I heard were frogs and a little purring cat. I found Terry on the back porch glaring at Donna-she was what started the whole thing and she knew it as she lolled on top of my car to spite him. I called them both in, and laid in bed listening to the frogs until I fell asleep.

Getting squared away at Happy Acres

Today was clean the carport day because someday I might want to put the car/tractor or a pony in it. I don't seem to have a clean the carport because it's a pigsty day, but there you go. I'm not sure how so much stuff migrated out, but Liam likes to line things up, and I tend to set things down and wander off. Terry the dog doesn't really care. I am responsible for the odd orange doors- thankfully most of them are off until winter. A friend said it looked like I went nuts on some unsuspecting Buddhist monks. I prefer to think of it as an homage to pumpkin pie. Free paint is usually free for a reason.

Since we are cleaning out the main barn workshop,and it's hot and has little electricity and way too many memories, we're slowly moving tools and whatnot into the carport. That's a nice way of saying we've been dropping them there on the way to someplace else. I went on a sorting binge and while the pictorial evidence is stingy, I do have a wildly organized workshop/carport. For this week at least.

My next project is cleaning up my yard, which around here is defined as the fenced area around the house, all other grassy areas being the yard. Liam does the yard like a madman. I've got potted vegetables all over my yard, and he doesn't want to mess with them. Wish Terry and the poodles felt the same way. They see something they don't like, and the cherry tomatoes go flying. I've got a yen of wood chip walkways, and I have wood chips. In a perfect world they would be easily delivered to the yard, but who needs easy? (Me.) My resolve is strong now, but I can be turned soooo easily.

This is a result of my mind being elsewhere this summer. The front three chickens got in a mood, and laid some communal eggs that I didn't get to, and thus we have Heather has Three Mommies. I don't know why no one wants me to write a positive, life affirming group marriage book for children, but I can't see it happening. There are actually four Heathers, three Mommies, and an aunt in this picture. They watch me like hawks. It's unnerving.

Dealing with the big dogs

This is why I don't have time to get down. Terry has the loudest, the saddest sigh I have ever heard from man or beast, and I'm starting to think he knows it. To get him out of this pose, I just cracked a boiled egg for him.

The great Happy Acres pet rotation is going better than expected, and most of it based on the fact that Terry and Tony hate each other. Except of course when they don't, but that's only in neutral territory when they are both in the mood. I'll be working on desensitizing them over the weeks and months, but it will take time. The both behave frostily if I'm with them, but in a yard together alone-it may never happen.

So I had to make the big decision: Tony moved in with the big Cous(aka Liam because of confusion with the original Cous)and they are both thrilled. I got Tony when he was a year old, and it's always been obvious that he loved men, and he probably had a man before me. I miss him terribly though, but it's best, and it isn't like I don't see him every day. But he sure switched allegiance awfully quick. Mom's poodles decided they liked their house and whoever came with it, so they are with Liam. Howard the cat saw a sucker he could control and is pleased as well. Alonzo the little cat took a few days, then moved in with his dog Terry, and me. My cat is miffed, but it hasn't changed her appetite. My poodles have paid little notice, but then they rarely do.

Just took Terry for a ride in the golf cart. He's happy again, and so am I. Sometimes it is that easy.

New me, same as the old me

Picture this: first day of the rest of my life. Expected temps well above 100, so have to get everything done by early afternoon. New me, efficient, organized and pulled together. Go downtown to file paperwork, then across town for more. In and out, everything cool. Stop by The Depot for high octane wasp spray, come home and dewasp the house. Do 3 loads of wash, box up stuff for Annie's church, and research the price of a much hated carousel horse. Pretty pleased with my fine self.

Last project for the day: wash sheepskin mattress pads at the laundromat. Pretty easy, and a great way to get reading in without animal/family interference. Walk in, chat with a guy about washers, load up, buy a soda, wander around, read, move pads to dryer, and go out to unlock the hatchback. The same guy is standing outside with a big grin. "Hey, did you catch your pants on something?" I reached back, and my jeans had ripped in such creative, mortifying way they could have PASSED AS CHAPS. But not in a Folsom Street sort of way, no. I was wearing black on white POLKA DOT underpants.

A woman watching the two of us laughing our asses off(what else could I do?)(and mine was planted pretty firmly against the wall) took pity and gave me a burp cloth to drape about my problem while I waited. And she laughed. Seeing us crack up, the few other people in the laundromat started laughing, too.

I just bring joy wherever I go.