Scooby Doo and Mr. Magoo

Dude.

I miss Saturday morning cartoons. I remember sitting in front of the television drinking Carnation instant hot cocoa and wearing footed pajamas, watching Scooby Doo and Mr. Magoo in the early - mid 1970s. I loved Mr. Magoo especially. I think it might have been because I can't see for shit -- I can relate.

I've been wearing glasses since I was 4.

Over the summer, my lovely dog ate one of my contacts. Of course, this was a major tragedy, especially because I was trying to look cute for the rat man who was coming to check the traps in my attic. Because I can't see without corrective something, I had to put on my glasses. Them 'er some coke bottle lenses. Mortified, I hid in the house.

I have had no dates with the rat man.

This is a tragedy.

Because of this (and other incidents), I have determined: It's important to see if you own a house.

This I know.

REASON 1

You have to be able to see the hedge to chop it down. Random chopping = bad. You could lose a toe.

REASON 2

You need to be able to see the dust bunnies scattered around your home so you can DESTROY THE COLONY before they take over the world. Ask Tom Cruise for more information.

REASON 3

You have to be on the lookout for members of the rodent family. Hearing them is not enough. With keen sight you can WACK them if you so choose, or be a good Buddhist and simply remove them from your sight.

REASON 4

If men come to your house to fix things, you need to be able to determine if they are attractive, wear a wedding ring, or are within your dating age range. There's nothing worse than not being able to see and making a mistake, especially on the ring thing.

Bad.

REASON 5

And let's get serious for a moment...

In my previous house (in the lovely state of Michigan), some jackass broke into the house while I was trying to sleep. It was hot on that September night, and I was sleeping in the guest room on the first floor.

I heard someone open the door and creep around my house. He knocked over a plant.

Daisy slept through the whole thing. Even the crash of the pot. What a great fucking guard dog.

In this case, not only did my dog fail to protect me, but I could not see where the creepshow freakshow was and felt like I couldn't protect myself. For fear of being discovered awake, I was too terrified to reach out of my bed, feel around for my glasses, and put them on.

In my blindness, the dude could have come at me and I wouldn't have known until he was about an inch away.

Also, after he left (stealing NOTHING, by the way -- what the hell was he doing there?) I couldn't help the police identify the asshole. While I fake-sleeped and squinted my eyes desperately, I could make out the figure of a creepy dude, but besides that, I got nothin'.

THUS THEREFORE AND SOFORTH

This is why, friends, I think home insurance should cover Lasik surgery for blind single females.

Don't you think that makes sense?

Of course, my recent eye appointment revealed that even if I had Lasik, I would still have to wear glasses.

Sucks for me -- I'm screwed any way you look at it.

But I think there's a movement here somewhere: Sight for single gals! Sight for single gals!

Viva la revolucion!

Riddle me this...

Earlier this year, some folks at Clemson University published a scientific paper on the 5 second rule. They found that if you picked up food dropped on the floor within 5 seconds of the drop, you could still eat it without acquiring any additional bacteria from the floor. For more info on this important scientific finding, check out this NY Times article: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/09/dining/09curi.html

I say: viva the 5 second rule.

I wonder if it counts if you live with a dog that randomly licks the floor?

The five second rule popped into my head today as I looked into my back yard and saw the piles of apples underneath my apple tree. I wondered: could I pat them and roll them into a pie? They've been on the ground, um, for awhile. Does the 5 second rule apply? Or, could it be the 5 day rule? Dare I say -- the 5 week rule?

I asked myself: wwmd (what would martha do?)

I started doing some research. I googled "rotten fruit" and got the usual boring articles on how horrible my diet is, blah blah... and then I found a really informative article on how long and where to store fruits and vegetables to keep them fresh longer. I've been doing it wrong for many years... http://www.wildoats.com/u/health101104/.

And then I found an article by Mr. Bracey who writes an article for the education journal, Phi Delta Kappan. He created the Rotten Apple awards to acknowledge crappy education professionals, rewarding missteps and misguidance. This article made me chucklecry (you know what I mean). http://www.america-tomorrow.com/bracey/EDDRA/rottenapples2005.pdf

And then, in my quest to find out if I can eat my fallen apples, I found Christianity. Super Christianity in all of its glory, shared here in an inspirational tale about rotten apples. If you click here, you too can become a child of God: http://www.paversnest.com/inspirational33.htm

Maybe because I have a lot of rotten apples on my lawn I'm actually a prophet here to spread the word WORD Word WoRd.

What would Martha do?

There are many uses for a tennis racket...

This morning, after a grueling hour-long conversation with an insurance adjuster (oh the joy!), I heard some rustling coming from my guest room.

Rustling? What the...

Daisy began moving slowly towards the room, ready to pounce.. the sound was coming from the heating vent.

Could it -- rats? another flavor of rodent?

I was pissed.

Furious, I tell you.

I went to the hall closet grabbed my tennis racket and stomped (in the defiant don't fuck with me way) back to the guest room. Whatever it was, it was NOT getting into my house.

Once I got back into the guest room, I was ready for anything. I put on some gloves and my sunglasses, just in case. Daisy was at my side. The vent was silent.

In one swift move, I moved into my wack-a-mole stance (used primarily at Showbiz Pizza, thank you) and was ready to beat the shit out of whatever was going to come up.

Daisy sniffed.

About a minute later, rustling again. Without waiting for the appearance of the creature, I flew into a murderous rage! Smashing! The! Crap! Out! of! the! Vent!

The rustling stopped.

I felt victorious, even if I didn't actually hit anything. I might have scared it away for good.

But, you can never be too cautious.

Just to make sure nothing crept up while I was at work, I closed the vent, put some dictionaries on top of it, and went on my merry way.

I have to admit, I was half convinced that I would find rat carcae (carcasses? carcae sounds cooler, doesn't it?) all over the house.

All clear.

Daisy doesn't mess around.

The topic tonight, my friends, is dinner

I'm starving.

Just got home from work.
Fed the dog.
Checked my mail.
Opened the refrigerator.
Looked in the cupboard.
Got bored.
And now I'm sitting here.

And

I'm starving.

So what, pray tell, is this single gal to do? My usual solution is to whip up (read: microwave) some crap I bought at Trader Joe's.

There's only so much of that you can take.

There's always take out. Take out in my 'hood blows. And, I really don't want to get in my car again right now.

Whine whine whine.

I love the idea of cookin' up some tasteee vittles for my dinner ce soir. You know, using fancy shit from Williams Sonoma. Imagine the glamour, imagine the intrigue...

But, alas, I:

1. have no idea how to use the fancy shit from Williams Sonoma.
(oh, look, it's a list again)
2. am tired
3. am lazy
4. want someone else to use the fancy shit from Williams Sonoma as I mow my lawn
5. wish my dog could work so I could buy the fancy shit from Williams Sonoma

So, what's the single gal to do for dinner on a weekday night?

One of my friends came up with a brilliant answer to this question a few years ago. Every Sunday she would host a party. Each person would make a dish and put it in separate containers for each person at the party to take home. Then, you have a meal for a week.

I liked the idea. (Get ready, another list!)

Pros of Sunday meal exchanges
1. female bonding.
2. it's taking a village to raise a single woman
3. it prevents you from eating the same meal every night of the week
4. the meal is made with love
5. it's very kumbaya, very retro
6. you feel like you've done something nice for someone
7. if your casserole turns out gross you don't have to eat all of it
8. you might like something someone else has made
9. it makes life easier (except for Sundays)
10. after Sundays, your daily meal preparation involves a cooking contraption I think I've mastered -- the microwave.

I have to be honest, I think I went to the party once. Or, maybe I never went to the party at all. Maybe I dreamed it or read it in some stupid woman's magazine in the waiting room of the doctor's office.

(That last one seems the most likely)

Of course, this blog entry would not be complete without an:

Ode to the Microwave
Magic Chef you are
mastery of lights and heat
cooks my dinner fast

And with that, I'm off to find something to eat... maybe some nuts and berries and the rats' leftover plums.

Hope all is well in your part of the world.

-- This Single Gal

Monday, Monday

I remember fondly an afternoon driving in the car with my father. I can't remember how old I was. I can't remember where we were going. But, I do remember that during our journey "Monday, Monday" came on the radio and we both began to sing. We sang the entire song together and then went on with life like nothing ever happened. That's one of the things I'll always remember about my papa.

And...

scene.

The top 5 highlights of my day:

TANGENT

Why do we rank things? Is it our natural brain capacity to put things in order, in sequence, so that they make sense? I betcha Jung would have issue...

UNTANGENT

Here they are...

1. I had a massage. It was good.

2. A friend gave me a copy of Martha Stewart's LIVING -- I liked it. I learned about pumpkin carving and tree pruning and what to do with polenta. I still think the best use of polenta is for sculpting. With a big ass vat of polenta, we could make sculptures of George Bush and Georgia O'Keefe and the former governor of Iowa, Terry Branstad.

Handsome chap, no? We used to call him Terry Braindead... no lie.

3. I got some bills in the mail. Maybe I should create a polenta sculpture of those?

4. Daisy was excited to be let out after being indoors for nearly 11 hours. Now that I've admitted that, PETA will really be after me.

5. I noticed a pile of plum seeds on my front stoop. Varmits havin a partay. And, um, I haven't been invited. See what happens? You get old, you become the crazy woman at the end of the street with a maniacal dog, and your rodents start kickin' it old school in your front yard and noooo one lets you in on the haps.

So PRETTY IN PINK.

6. I saw the chap who offered to look at my fireplace today. I still haven't called him to set up a fireplace appointment. I don't know why. I want the fireplace to be working. Am I THAT lazy?

Perhaps.

But, I'm sooooo PRETTY IN PINK.

Or so they say.

Sick day

When I was 9, I relished sick days. I always liked going to school (except for those middle school years -- yikes!), but there was something almost taboo about staying home on a day when you were supposed to be doing something else. When you were sick, you got to watch school day television -- soap operas, good crap on PBS, and Card Sharks. AND, the coolest part (at least before Tivo and VCRs) was you got some inside knowledge on the day's episode of "The Young and the Restless."

Yeah, baby.

Well, my friends, my plague has continued another day. I want to frolick in the autumn breeze, but I am coughing up a lung and the sun told me to lay down. I hate being sick, and I hate having to stay home and bathe in my sickness. But, work tomorrow I must, so I decided to stay home today and have a proper sick day.

This is my mug. Shitty picture. Good mug.

I've had more tea today than I've had in years.

If you are sick on the weekends, it totally sucks. It's a given fact. Not only are you dying from the plague, but you are wasting one of the few luxuries you have as an adult -- a day off of work. Of course, I could use a sick day tomorrow, but that's a waste too -- spending them on days when you are actually sick -- I scoff!

So there.

I think this was the first day I spent the entire day at my house without leaving. And, I can honestly report that the house did me well. The house is a comfort for the sick. This is good.

I think part of the comfort comes in the colors I chose for the walls -- orangeish/creamish for the living room (it was once BRIGHT red -- and, oh, thanks jackass for using exterior paint... idiot), blue grey for the guest room, yellow for the dining room, mauve for the office (where I now sit) and purple for my bedroom. I like them all. All comforting. All subtle enough so they don't punch you in the ass when you are delirious from fever, but are this there, like a warm friend.

My living room, the hedge, and Daisy...

Ha ha! I got all Hallmark. I think it's the drugs... nice combo, antibiotics and pain meds. My arm and neck still hurt from the car accident, yo.

All is good.

I'm happy to report the Plum Posse has not ridden out of town. They have been outside today, riding their bikes, and getting into philosophical arguments about who told what to whom in 5th period math class. Love it!

And now it's Sunday and the weekend is coming to a close.

When I was a kid, I hated Sundays. It meant CHURCH (egad!), a chore (mine was usually the bathroom), eating my mother's pot roast (horrible every week), and going to bed early so I could be rested for school.

I don't loathe Sundays any more. I don't hate Mondays, and it does not pain me to get up and get ready for work on Monday mornings. I am very lucky. I love my job. I work with good people. And Seattle's the best place in the world. It's taken me a long time, but I'm finally in the city, house (whoo hoo!), and job that I like. All is good.

All I need is another box of Kleenex.

Invasion of the Dust Bunnies

Gross, huh? It's allllll stretched ouuuuut.

I have the plague. Some sort of nasty ass sinus infection plague. That, coupled with the fact that my family is driving me crazy and my arm is busted makes for a freakin' excellent Saturday. At least the sun is shining. What else do you need?

Life is grand. (Seriously! This is the BEST time of year. Dig it!)

In my snot ridden stupor, I decided today would be a good day to clean my house. Since I can't smell anything, I figure I have a lower chance to asphyxiate myself by accidentally mixing chemical vapors from cleaning products, and I need to "rest," I want to do something productive, and so...

I started my Saturday cleaning frenzy by dusting. I think dusting is my favorite household chore. Am I insane? It's all because of the Swiffer duster. If you don't know what they are, check it out: http://www.swiffer.com/swiffer/en_US/home.doww.swiffer.com/swiffer/en_US/home.do This site has coupons, too.

Swiffer dusters totally rock! and pick up pet hair better than most other contraptions or potions. They are relatively cheap, and you can throw them away when they get really nasty.

Of course, due to my in-bred (and oh, I don't want it any more!) Catholicism, the guilt comes pouring out when I use disposable products like these. How much room do Swiffer dusters take up in the county landfill? I like them because of their ease of use, but I don't like throwing the duster away. I'd like to find an alternative. Should I go back to using rags? Would you? Do you?

Truthfully, I'd like to use all organic cleaning products, soaps, and pet food. But, unfortunately, there is the other green factor to consider -- money.

Where's the balance?

It seems a bit strange to me, this natural products costing more money business. Shouldn't all natural products should be cheaper than products with toxic chemical mixtures? The mixtures have to be, um, mixed...

Last week on "Wife Swap" -- yes, I watch that drivel from time to time -- a woman from Iowa swapped places with a woman from southern California. The Iowan was pro-germ, pro-bacteria. She and her family eat only raw food (including raw CHICKEN) and rarely wash their hands and their home.

I found her argument fascinating (in light of not wanting to scrub my bathtub?), but she came across as a complete lunatic, so her lunacy outweighed, unfortunately?, her pro-germ cause.

I was concerned the woman was from Iowa -- my home state. Iowans totally get a bad rap -- they are oftenportrayed as naive, clueless morons who are unsophisticated and unintelligent. People say this, and a lot of people I know (who I was consider educated) aren't sure where Iowa is. In fact, I was amazed! shocked! horrified! that a friend of mine here in Seattle (who is a TEACHER) wasn't sure where Iowa was, exactly. Those middle states, you know, them are unimportant.

It was in Iowa that I became friends with the dust bunnies. My mother was not the best housekeeper, and neither was my father and their children. It was not until I became adult that I saw the value (and joy!) of cleaning. Dust bunnies begone!

Because Daisy lives at my pad, her hair is everywhere. Shocking to everyone who knows her, not only is she not allowed on the furniture, but she actually does not go on the furniture. So, the pet hair is regulated to the floor. A blessing.

So in my cleaning frenzy, I became intrigued with the dust bunnies themselves. Why are there rolls of pet hair and dander and dirt and crap? instead of a fine layer, like dust? Think about it... it's a fascinating question.

In my endless pursuit of knowledge (and to once again prove I am a nerdy mcnerd), I googled dustbunnies and found some facinating info on wikipedia --http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dust_bunny . Read it and weep.

Get out yer vacuum.

Trash day

Daisy is a bad ass.

One of the most poignant (?) memories I have of owning a house in Michigan was walking my trashcan to the curb on Trash Day Eve. I remember being filled with complete and utter joy (I nearly wept) as I walked to the curb at the same time as three of my neighbors... I felt deeply connected to my house, my trash, and the universe that night. How very zen.

Speaking of ridiculous zen references...

During my brief sojourn working as an intern at a HORRID theatre company (I got fired because I couldn't use a fucking crowbar) my boss, who donned a long, curly, shaggy mullet and wore peek-a-boo gold chains on his hairy, oft-exposed chest, told me I needed to find the (and I quote) "zen in stage mopping."

Zen this mo fo.

Ok.

On to my Trash Day incident...

Last night I heard my next door neighbor rolling his trash can to the curb around 9 o'clock. Sitting on my couch, I snickered -- it's the wrong day, they'll be sorry. A few minutes later, I heard more rolling -- they must have noticed it was the wrong day. I was convinced he was moving the trash can back to his house.

And I continued to sit on the couch and bask in my supreme knowledge of all things trash and cans and days.

I'm cool.

This morning, as I was leaving for work in the foggiest mcfoggery of a day (it ROCKED), I realized I was, indeed, WRONG about the Trash Day. In my couch relaxation euphoria (or was it the painkillers?) I thought yesterday was Friday for some reason. Idiot. The second roll was not a trash can retreat, but the RECYCLING making its way to the curb.

Damn.

So, my trash will fester for another week in its repulsive vat, a beacon for rats, yetis and other creatures. Come to reinfest my house, rodents! Come, the trash calls! My back yard will be a menagerie of creepy crawly grossness before you know it.

I need a nightcam, and the Dateline NBC people to hide in the bushes and spring out when a yeti comes to assault my house.

ई थिंक ई'ल राइट इन हिंदी नोव.

When I bought my house, I was really excited about the fruit trees (plum in front, apple in back). I had dreams of making all sorts of delectable fruit treats -- I'd make jam, freeze some, dehydrate others. I would become the inventor of a new fruit dish to die for, you know, all of that.

Now I hate them.

My plum tree is dropping rotten fruit. And, to prevent yetis from nesting, I'm out there, crawling on my hands and knees pulling the smashed fruit from the grass. Classy, that.

The apples are easier to pick up. They remain intact for the most part, except for the ones Daisy or the yetis get. There are just a lot of them. I'm astonished at the number of fruit that comes off of one tree. Amazing.

The weather here has cooled a bit and my house is a freakin' freezer. I will need to replace my single paned windows next summer (if I can afford it). I'll look forward to next winter when I won't be freezing my ass off. That is, if I make it to next winter without catching pneumonia.

And with that, I say tra la la.

-- This Single Gal

so I'm sensitive about the hedge...

I've had a bad day.

Look at this...

yes, my friends, it's the hedge...

I know some of you are really hoping that I will stop writing about the hedge, stop thinking about the hedge, stop having hedge on the brain. Well, I say, I will, when it is miraculously shorn.

Until then, the fucking hedge remains an eyesore, and a blot on my eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

This afternoon two things happened, both hedge related:

1. I went to physical therapy. I've had a relapse in my arm healing -- the dude thinks we did too much last week. I'm frustrated, but optomistic. It'll all get sorted out, this nerve thing... it will. I just want to be done with it. Um. Right now, thank you.

So, you may wonder -- why is she bitching about her arm when the hedge is the big problem here? Well, dear ones, I can't chop down the hedge because I can't move my arm.

Take that.

2. I saw my former boss who now lives in the same part of the city I do. She said, and I quote, "every day I drive by and your house is harder and harder to see." I nearly punched her. Like I don't know the hedge looks like crap and it's overtaking the world and is marring the beauty of my neighborhood. After I took a couple of deep breaths, I relaxed and explained the situation outlined in #1. Therein. Therefore. Thus.

Take that.

Wouldn't it be lovely if you could deal with hedge chopping merely by using your mental powers of intention as outlined in The Secret http://www.thesecret.tv/ (which I find to be a large piece of crap, by the way -- take THAT!). If that shit worked, I'd be a multimillionaire and be married by now.

Boy, I sound cynical this evening. Perhaps that's a symptom of #1.

Hope you are all well.

plums and rats and branches oh my

On Saturday, as I was having dim sum with my lovely friends Sam and Sam, I asked them if they knew anyone who would do yard work for the cheaps and, if they knew any arborists. I gotta tree, you know, that is honkin' and leanin' and is gonna break, yo.

Sam said that if anything horrible was going to happen with the tree (things like crashing branches, being impaled with a twig, etc.), it would have happened last winter when we had several ridiculous wind storms, ice storms, and general power outage mayhem. I felt comforted by his wise words and returned to bloating myself on tea and sesame seed balls (them 'er tasty).

Well, I am here to report that Sam was WRONG. Got home from work and lo and behold a branch -- a honkin'ly huge BRANCH - had not only fallen off of my beautiful maple tree but it was on the fence and leaning into my neighbors' yard.

These are the neighbors I have not yet met, and the only interaction I've had with them was smelling their lighter fluid as they were barbequing over the summer. I'm sure they did not want to be introduced to me as their yard was littered with my tree refuse.

So, in a panic, I pulled, I tugged, I prayed (all done with my semi-dead left arm) and hoped I could at the very least get the damn branch back on my property.

With much hysteria, the use of Physics I sort of learned in Mr. Kirkpatrick's class, I was successful. Branch. In. My. Yard.

Now I need to get a saw and chop that sucker up. It'll be great use in my fireplace (once I figure out if I can actually use it).

Sweet.

This evening I met a lovely gentleman named Chris who came to my house hocking internet service. Although I had a horrible divorce from Clearwire only a few months ago, with the construction of their new tower, I have four freakin' bars, man. I'm a customer again. Whoo hoo! Nice to have internet service at home again.

But then I started to think about this gentleman that I let into my home. What if he is not a Clearwire salesman at all but a lunatic with a machete? There was a bit of interior panic and I pulled my dog close. She would protect? me? if the machete was drawn. I'd throw her in front of it and book it out the door.

Now PETA is after me. I'm going to hell.

Hope all is well with you. Take good care.

Of fireplaces, yetis, and sleeper sofas

It's a rainy Sunday afternoon in Seattle and all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep until next weekend.

Wouldn't that be great?

Alas, I have to be an adult. I hate that...

Of fireplaces...

It's a very fire in the fireplace sort of afternoon. My house has a fireplace, but I need someone to check it out before I create an inferno in the middle of my home. The fireplace had a functioning gas starter component at one point, and I'm not sure if the gas has been completely disconnected.


Because of my rat infestation problem, I also want to make sure there are no creatures living in the fireplace. There would be nothing worse than starting a fire and having a milliion rats run into my living room or, maybe worse? a million rats plunging to their fiery deaths.

Ok, that's gross.


I found out the other day that a work colleague worked as a mason for 30 years prior to his career shift. Rock on! He agreed to come over and take a look at my fireplace. I can't wait. I want to build a fire and sit in front of it reading a book.

Screw my carbon imprint.

Ok, I don't really mean that...

Just kind of...

Insert PC statement here.

Of sleeper sofas...

I am hosting Thanksgiving at my home this year and, at present, 7 people will be coming, and all will be staying at my house. I'd like to get a sleeper sofa before the next hoard of guests invade. I just can't find the perfect one - -the one which says -- "welcome, but don't stay too long." I'm sure you know what I mean.

Of other random things...

I had a very strange weekend. I found out on Friday that my estranged grandfather passed away. Although I only met him once and am the only person in my family who has been in contact with him in oh, 50 years, he was my grandfather, and without him, I would not be here. I'm absolutely torn about how I should respond. I'd like to acknowledge his passing, but do not want to dishonor my family's disassociation with him (and it's absolutely for good reason). So, I feel confused, congested, and overall in a state of malaise. Thus, my desire to crawl into bed for a week.







On Friday, in an attempt to momentarily distract myself from the world, I went to the Puyallup Fair http://www.thefair.com/ with my pal Teresa. Oh, the joy! The splendor! The fried products! As a native midwesterner, I have to say that I was disappointed with the variety of healthy food available. These damn west coast health conscious people!









Of hypnotists...

A few weeks ago my doctor suggested that I try hypnosis to help me deal with the pain in my arm / neck / blah blah following my car accident in June. I have been considering it, until I witnessed a hypnotic episode at the Puyallup Fair on Friday.

Check out the dude's website and let me know what you think... http://www.travisfox.net/

Plum Posse where arrrrrre you?

Something is awry. There are beasts crawling around my yard.

BEASTS, I tell you.

Yesterday, I went outside and something freakin' bolted out of the yard. No, not a squirrel -- I am intimately connected to squirrels after Daisy killed one and ate its eyes out -- it was a BEAST.

The Yeti.

I'm sure of it.

I caught a glimpse of it this afternoon -- in the front yard.

Photos to come -- my computer is now up and running -- I can do shit again. Look out.

And it wasn't the Plum Posse.

Ever since school started, the Plum Posse is nowhere to be found. I sort of miss them. Perhaps their interest in plums has waned... I like to think they are studying about plums and working on a new plum theory and are plum tucker'd out (oh my God, that was hilarious!). At least that's what I'm assuming, when I think about it, and now seems to be the only time I've thought about it.

My neighborhood seems very quiet lately. I'm a bit surprised because the weather has been incredible, and the rainy season hasn't started yet. Has the hibernation begun?

I suppose the silence makes me miss the collegiality of the dog walkin' peeps at the park near my last apartment. There were regulars, we called it "the park" and the only names we knew were those of the dogs. More often than not, my social euphoria (?) would be abruptly interrupted with a dog brawl.

Daisy doesn't like Huskies.

The big question of the day is -- would I turn into that freaky lady living down the street if I had two dogs? I'm contemplating a second pooch.

Always lookin' for drama, that's me...

Hope you are all well!

The Single Gal

The Working Woman's Dilemma

I do not know how single people can work 9 - 5 (or more), keep their house clean, keep up on the bill paying, have time to DATE, and do the laundry.

I do not know.

Add to that yard work, rat trapping, and dog walking...

I'm too exhausted to do a damn thing this evening except type, eat bon bons and look at the pile of rat-attracting plums in my front yard. I need a plum vacuum.

I drove by my house today and thought -- shit, that hedge looks terrible. When I realized that I actually live there, I was mortified and thrown into a hysterical stupor, all at once. Each day it looks more and more horrifying. I can't bear it. I want it to magically go away, but I know I have to do something about it.

That's just it, folks, DOING something about it. As a single person, you have to DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT all by yourself. Of course, you can ask for help, but you can rely on your friends for only so much before they avoid you like the plague, and when your family lives thousands of miles away, and you don't have a fuckload of money to hire jobs out, you have to be resourceful.

There's only so much time in the day and so much energy a person has. I've found you have to pick and choose. Deal with the immediate, and when you have time and energy, play with the "needs to be done" list.

The HEDGE needs to be done. But not today.

I also just bought PhotoShop and I can't figure out how to upload photos from the program to the internet. What the...? I blame it on my brain injury. Sigh.

Despite my current (hopefully momentary) exhaustion, I'm happy to report I'm feeling a bit better. I had physical therapy yesterday and I nearly died, but I didn't backslide today. I'm so happy, I can't begin to tell you.

My doctors all say that I'm going to have to deal with chronic pain and nerve issues which blows chunks, but I'm hoping that we'll be able to get the edge off and I'll have a more realistic understanding of what that means. I'm thinking I will be hypnotized... why the hell not?

Someone asked me the other day if I had trouble driving now that I've had THREE fucking car accidents. I'm definitely paranoid and I am much more cautious. I'm very cautious about people turning left or people who are tailgating me. But, other than that, I'm out and about a lot. I can't imagine not being able to drive. My life would come to a complete standstill.

I'm also proud to announce (?) that I'm back in the dating pool. So, if you know any single men in the Seattle area, let me know. No insane freakshows, please. Must love dogs.

what the....

Okay...

Sigh.

It's been a week since I last posted... um... I had a little mishap with the computer...

Oh sure, sure, I could blame the dude who put the sucker together, the dude who just walked by, the rats, the Plum Posse, the HEDGE for taking revenge ... but, the mishap just happed -- and, oh, the aftermath.

Of course, you want a play by play...

The other evening, after a long day at work, I went into my home office to have a luxurious look at my photos, and lo and FREAKIN' behold, the computer started doin' the disco.

And, in an attempt to fix itself, it erased my entire hard drive. That's right, friends. The whole darn thing.

Five years of artistic work -- erased... dissertation, research, photographs, scripts, freakin' all of it.

gone.

I've been surprisingly calm about the whole thing. I'm too tired to do otherwise, I suppose; this summer has been filled with random acts of hell and I'm worn out.

So, after I laughedcried (you know what I mean) I tried to look at the positive.

In some ways, a cleansed hard drive is a new beginning. New words, new thoughts, new images. It's lovely, that. A new start.

And $300 later, my computer is operational again. Empty, but operational. For that, I'm thankful.

In other news...

My arm and neck are still bothering me post June 30 accident, but I've decided I'm going to be fine in a month. I am sooooo over this.

When I'm magically cured, I want to buy a new car, and then I'm going to train for a triathlon.
I know, I know, lofty goal, but shit, why the hell not. And, even if I can only ride my bike around the block for awhile, in my mind, I'm still training!

All joking aside, I really want to do a triathlon in 2008 or 2009 (depending on my recovery time). Stay tuned!

In other post car accident joy -- I saw my doctor again on Friday. She's the best, and one of the few doctors I have encountered in my life that I respect. She admits when she doesn't know something, and I feel like I have a partnership with her, rather than looking at her as some sort of fairy godmother who can whip out her magic wand and cure all things instantly.

Although I would love that. Wouldn't that be cool? Come on... admit it....

So my doc suggested I cut my meds down by half (oh, I'm thankful!), and I consider being hypnotized. She seems to think my pain will be a chronic issue, and hypnosis might help me deal with it. I think -- what the hell? Might as well try it. Sure beats being in pain. And, if it can help, then I'm 100% behind it.

Although, I have to admit -- I am scared. What if I start talking about something, um, private? Something that's been hidden in the recesses of my mind for years? That I forgot? What if she uncovers that I'm actually a fraud, know nothing, and shouldn't be working in my current job?

Um.

So...

I mowed my lawn yesterday (whoo hoo!) with my lovely Brill Lexus reel mower which I bought from www.drillspot.com. (I got a great deal). I love my mower. It's easy to push, cuts the grass well, and I don't have to worry about power cords, gasoline, or some random rock flying onto my leg and amputating it.

These are things I think about, I'm not going to lie.

I was never allowed to mow the lawn when I was growing up. My dad was injured mowing the lawn when he was a kid, and my grandfather (am I remembering this correctly?) lost two fingers while mowing the lawn. And, because I'm not the most graceful person ever, there was danger.

In my super feminist 20s, when I thought I knew EVERYTHING, I decided I wanted to mow the lawn. I didn't want to be sheltered from it any more. Women, take back the mower!

My brother, the Fruits, was visiting my parents the same time I was and it was his duty to mow the lawn. Knowing that my father wouldn't let me near it if he was home, I convinced him to teach me while he was at work. Let me tell you ladies and gentleman, it SUCKED. The mower was too heavy for me to push, and when I got it going, I couldn't control it to save my life. So, I was afraid of mowing.

But now -- it's the greatest thing ever (okay, exaggeration), but it's not bad. I feel a sense of accomplishment every time I finish the lawn. It looks good.

I still have done nothing with my hedge. It's been a week since I raked up some of the clippings -- that's right SOME. I know, I know -- totally uncool. I still have my neighbor's hedge trimmer. I have to admit, I've been hiding from him, and pray every day he won't come over and reclaim his trimmer. I should have just given it back to him when he knocked on my door last week. But, in a fit of machismo (or femchismo?), I wanted to prove to him, and the Posse, and to my neighbors that I could and would TRIM the hedge! Wounded arm et al. I would do it! and hell! it would look like a freakin' million bucks.

But, um, nothing has happened. It's truly embarrassing.

I did, however, have another proud home owner moment yesterday. I picked up plums. A lot of them. Crawling on my knees. Most of them were half eaten by the neighborhood creatures -- rats? -- and most were so mooshy they fell apart in my hands. Trying to get those out of the grass was a chore. I filled half of a brown paper garbage bag with them. It was sickly fun.

I think next year, when I'm feeling better, that I will create some sort of fruit tarp -- a fruit tree skirt, if you will -- which you put underneath the tree and it catches the fruit so it's easier to pick up than in the grass. It would be super cool if it disposed them too. I'll have to work on that... and make sure it doesn't kill the grass underneath...

Where was the Plum Posse when I needed them?

I saw the Posse today, riding their bikes down the street. They all -- ALL -- waved as I drove by. I felt like the cool kid on the block. I'm popular! I'm popular!

And -- does anyone know what kind of caterpillar is freakin' huge, fluorescent green with pink dots? I saw one on my deck yesterday -- photo to come.

Hope you are all well and enjoying the beginnings of fall. This is by far my favorite time of year.

Take good care,
The Single Gal

The Hedge Man

This morning, as I was enjoying the newspaper and sipping my tea, the doorbell rang. It was 10 am. I was still wearing my pajamas.

For a minute or two, I paced around the kitchen, trying to decide what to do. Do I ignore the bell? Hide in the refrigerator? Or be an adult and go to the door?

I decided to be the adult. Shocking, I know... oh, did I want to hide!

There, waving with exuberant glee (how could he at such an early hour on the weekend?), was my neighbor, the same dude who lent me the electric hedge clipper lo these two weeks ago. Yikes.

Seeing him peaking in my window scared the crap out of me, and I immediately started sweating bullets -- this interaction was what I feared -- the chap who had so kindly let me borrow his hedge clipper was coming!to reclaim! his goods!, and I had barely used them.

I was embarrassed, dirty, I hadn't yet brushed my teeth, and Daisy was going crazy. I was in no state to interact with humankind. Or other dog-kind. Of course, the Hedge Man didn't come to the door empty-handed, he brought his dogs with him. Yes, that's right DOGS, plural.

Great.

In an anxiety-ridden moment, I started to explain (too much information?) to the Hedge Man that I was really appreciative of his generous lending practices (please note, as a friend pointed out, I didn't ASK to borrow said clipper, he just showed up and shoved it in my face), but I had been in a car accident, my arm was totally screwed up, so the progress was moving slowly.

He was somewhat understanding, but a little put off. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to get rid of the freakin' clippers and be done with this whole heinously awkward interaction. I asked if he wanted the clippers back now, he said no, I asked how I could get them back to him, he told me where he lived, I said thanks thanks and more thanks and I would get them back to him in a few weeks. At least we have a lending agreement. And now I want to hide in my fireplace.

I have GOT to get the damn hedge done. It's a sign! It's a sign! My arm is still in mega amounts of pain (but, I'm convinced --or convincing myself -- that I am getting better). Maybe I'll beg my friends to help me with it on Monday. I need help (obviously) and it is now crunch time.

Such went the first part of my Saturday...

A friend commented that once you own a house no one leaves you alone. I might agree -- the Plum Posse and the Hedge Man are reeking havoc on my privacy.

Gotta do something about it...