I want a cleaner house. I'd like to be able to go to a bookshelf, as I did all my life before I was married, find a book, read it, and put it back when I'm done.

Instead, the process is: 1) try to move boxes away from bookshelf and locate book. Give up. 2) find similar book under bed. Read. 3) Try to move boxes (or chair full of boxes or computers,) out from in front of bookshelf to put book away. Give up. Consign book to ever-growing avalanche on end table in living room.

He's got an aversion to putting things away. He won't use the wastebasket, either--things are just thrown onto counters or into the sink for ME to sort out. He won't take out the trash. And I think he's almost as afraid of the vacuum cleaner as the cats are.

And currently he's also storing all our camping equipment in the living room because there's a four-foot-tall pile of junk barricading the way to the special area I made in the basement for storing it. The barricade also keeps me from doing the laundry. He can step over a four foot barricade no problem, but I'm five foot even. You see the difficulty.

Dismantle it, you say. Yes, I will, gradually--but I have to be sneaky about it because in that pile are bound to be Essential Important Computer things, and also many Important Papers and Vital Junk Only He Knows Where It Goes. Which means he'll explode if I touch it. So I don't.

I'd like to go to my closet, (which is usually barricaded shut,) select an outfit, and put it on. But since half the time I can't get to closet or dresser, I hide my clothes on the bathroom floor where he'd never think to look for them. Because otherwise I may never see them again.

You see, he'll do laundry. Great, you say? Oh, no. Not great at all. Because only he can step over the big giant pile separating the laundry room from the rest of the house.

So he carries laundry to its doom in our usually flooded, (currently flooded, in fact,) basement.

He washes his clothes, dries 'em, and brings them back up and dresses from the basket, so that dirty and clean clothes look exactly alike--they're both unfolded and overflowing from baskets and strewn across the floor.

My clothes? Well, for those, he reads the tags carefully, bless him, and follows the directions. Sort of. If a shirt says machine wash warm, he'll do it.

the problem is that special care items get VERY special care. A silk blouse that says dry clean only, is usually tossed onto the flooded floor of the basement, buried under dirty towels or pinned under a chair, and left there until I find it.

These same very special care instructions apply to a sweater that says "machine wash, dry flat," a suit that says "dry clean only," or a polyester skirt that says "machine wash knit delicate, dry on delicate setting."

It doesn't matter if I've machine washed the thing on cold and hung it dry for a decade, or if I've been treating it like all the other laundry for years--special care instructions of ANY kind mean you discard, smash, dampen, and mildew the garment, aging it until it's reached its unique and special maturity. At this point it has to be thrown away, usually by me after I find it infested with roly-polies after a year of asking, "honey, have you seen my best job interview suit? I've only worn it once...."

Every three months or so I make a dent in the basement barricades, put things on shelves, run a shop vac, etc....and every time I do, I find another casualty of "special care." The sheer artistry and dedication involved, is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

--
Edited by titannia at 06/09/2008 7:10 PM PDT

Just FYI, the "Santa is saying Whore" thing was talked about, laughed about, and forgotten about 10 years ago. Maybe it's back, but American women know they're up against Coca Cola, Inc. and the marketing complex and their kids, who'd even try it?"

-jestel


The story's all over the Internet--crazy liberals have been trying to "ban" Santa's jovial ho-ho-ho, for fear of offending some ho.

Conservative bloggers everywhere are moaning that Liberals have Ruined Christmas Again. First no hymns in school, then the War on Christmas...How far is this PC crap gonna go, they cry. Well, nowhere near as far as they imagine it's gone. Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo can just cool his brown little heels for a minute.

Turns out Jestel is right. Nobody was really trying to silence Santa. PC had nothing whatsoever to do with it!

The real story is almost, but not quite as silly. Westaff, an Australian Santa agency started it, when they decided their Santa trainees should say "hahaha," because "hohoho" could frighten the kiddies.

Glen Jans, Westaff's operational manager explains, ""The reason behind that is we find that in some cases the little kids can get a little
bit scared of the deep 'ho, ho, hos' and we ask them to be mindful of keeping their voices to a lower level," he said.

"And kids are probably more inclined to understand 'ha, ha, ha', than 'ho, ho, ho'." "http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,22738300-2,00.html.

Yeah, well, I don't think it's the KIDS who are having trouble understanding "ho, ho, ho." The kids surveyed by the reporter who broke this story, all said they love Santa's laugh.

As for the PC problem, any woman ignorant enough to think that Santa's referring to her when he says, "Hohoho, Meeeerrrry Christmas!" is probably also ignorant enough to be flattered and happy that it's all about her.

Besides, with apologies to Rupaul... "Ho" isn't even a real word! It's not even a real contraction! The whole idea that liberals were upset about Santa saying "Ho," turns out to be a conservative fantasy. Kinda like last year's war on Christmas.

http://humour.cote.azur.fr/image/hohoho529.jpg
This really wasn't funny the first time around, but it's grown duller with repetition.


Thanks to:
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,22761386-2,00.html,
and the quick-witted jestel!

--
Edited by titannia at 11/20/2007 5:44 PM

So this week, Lois is planning to divorce Frank. He cleaned out her house, furniture, canned goods, and all, and took all her money, forcing her to shut down her little laundromat.

Turns out old Frank owned a KFC, a real estate company, and some other business, and was rolling in dough, while he peed in the sink and let his wives & kids live on Food Stamps.

According to FLDS, and LDS, too, there are 3 heavens. One's a place where people don't have kids, but they live forever, and kinda wander around "serving" people in the next heaven up. I'm not sure what they serve them. Everybody is allowed to go there--single women, heathens, etc...There are no other details on this steerage class heaven. I'm thinking there might be some great parties after hours, though.

The next level is for virtuous unbelievers, nice Mormons who didn't marry 3 spouses or have 12 kids, etc... These folks also have to wait tables, apparently. Some heaven.

Finally, there's the highest level of heaven, for the Mormons who were virtuous, wore their underwear and married at least 3 wives. The wives can only get in if the husband calls their "secret names." Yeah, sure. A guy with 25 wives probably doesn't even know all their regular names! But he's supposed to call them through the "veil" between the first class heaven, and coach class.

But wait--there's more! In addition to being with their families forever, in first class you keep having kids, forever! All women are always pregnant! Not only that, but their greatest reward is to be able to keep serving their husbands for all eternity. In other words, First Class heaven, isn't any different for women, than Coach or Steerage, except you're waiting on your family instead of strangers, and you're perpetually pregnant. Wooohoo!

If I were Lois, I would not be too terribly torn up about the fact that Frank is never gonna call my name. Why would you want to be with Frank, scrubbing his pee out of the sink for all eternity, listening to his abuse, and living with the sister-wives who always hated you, and your ungrateful children?

Besides, Frank's not going to heaven. He's not virtuous. Which brings me to the biggest flaw in the religion. How are his wives gonna get through the veil, when their husband is the biggest jerk on the planet? They're not.

But you know, I think Lois won't mind. Even the steerage heaven would be better than hanging with her family for all eternity anyway. As a heathen who has no kids, I'm supposedly gonna be stuck in steerage class. Maybe Lois and I can meet up there, and drink a couple of Stolis.

In a few hours, Harry Potter fans all over the world will crack open the final book in JK Rowling's saga, and all speculation will end.

The answers to questions like, "is Snape really evil?" "Does Harry die at the end?" and "exactly how dead is Dumbledore," will once and for all be answered.

Many websites and reams of fanfiction will become obsolete. Worse, an entire genre of conversation will perish overnight. Time was, you could keep a discussion of the 41 reasons to believe Snape was loyal to Dumbledore going for a week.

I'm one of those people who's enjoyed speculating so much I've written entire novellas in passionate imitation of Rowling, and it causes me a pang to know that the speculations that flooded into my head today in the bathtub will be irrelevant tomorrow.

I'm counting the minutes til I can claim my copy, but in the meantime, I'm wondering: Is JK Rowling hard-hearted enough to kill off Hagrid? Lupin? Some of the Weasley clan?

Would she really make killing Voldemort cost Harry's life? Is Snape really going to turn out to be an ungrateful, moustache-twirling villain? And is RAB still alive?

How much darker are these books going to get, and will they ever regain the brightness and optimism of the first two books? There are a few lines I really hope and pray Rowling doesn't cross.

Personally I won't be a bit surprised if Snape re-enters the picture & walks Harry through vanquishing Voldemort, only to turn on him and attempt to steal his glory and his identity in the end. Nor will I be surprised if Snape redeems himself by stepping at the last between someone and a fatal blow, although I will find it very gratifying.

I'm sure the mind of JK is fertile enough to have crafted an ending none of us could have guessed at. I'm hoping she leaves the Wizarding World intact, and enough characters alive at the end, that fans can still spin fantasies of their own about these incredibly real characters. The Potterverse has been a great place for the meeting of minds. When readers lay down the seventh and final book, an era will end.

By tomorrow the Internet will be humming with excited revelations, and we'll probably get a year or so's conversation over the final answers. But I'm going to miss the questions. It's the questions that have really kept these books in the limelight all this time. Here's hoping that along with the answers, the final book leaves us with some new questions, ones that will be worth speculating on and arguing over, for as long as the books are in print.

--
Edited by titannia at 07/20/2007 9:27 PM

Some cats are born models. Others not so much.

Princey is a very beautiful cat, but he always knows when he's being sketched or painted, and tries to help by lying down on the paper, as if to add verisimilitude.

This is why most paintings I make of Princey are minimalist--I load a brush with paint and paint him all in one gesture, before he has a chance to come lie down. Someday I will get an easel, and then he won't know what to do with himself.

Cricket, our pewter cat, is fully aware that she is beautiful, and knows when she is being painted, but she considers it a silly thing to paint her when I could be holding and petting her instead, and always makes this very clear.

Jingles, who looks like a Kliban cat come to life, hasn't outgrown her need to drink the paint water and wrestle the paintbrushes out of my hand.

The only true model in the house, is Akane, our little tuxedo cat. All the cats know a painting of a cat when they see it, but only Akane really understands the significance. Like Yum Yum, she is not shy. She firmly believes that she is the most beautiful creature on earth, and that it is very important that her image be preserved for posterity. She will pose for photos, sketches, paintings, all with great professionalism and aplomb.

She lets me know when it's time to paint her. Jealous of a painting I was doing tonight of some baby foxes, Akane began to pose for me until I had to set aside the other painting and begin one of her.

She was very patient with me. She stayed absolutely still until I had got the curves of her stance down, looking over her shoulder at the paper to watch me trace the fur of her back. Her little back muscles rippled slightly, as if being petted, but she held her pose. She watched me sketch in her face and the position of her head. Tired then, she crouched, still keeping her face at the same angle. She supervised my drawing of her face, and my sketching in where to put the lights and darks.

She did all this with the expression of someone who demanded perfection and would brook no carelessness. At last satisfied that her likeness would be produced exactly according to her instructions, she came over, sniffed the paper, noted her corrections, and then curled up for a well-deserved nap.

It never ceases to amaze me that the cats always recognize their own portraits. They also recognize one another's pictures. I was doing Akane from a photo once, and Princey looked from the picture to Akane, back and forth, as if trying to figure out how it was that Akane could be flat and inside the paper, and also sitting across the room.

When he watches Akane pose, he usually tries to pose, too. I think he gets a bit jealous. But he would never dream of lying down on a picture of HER.

Akane rules the house with an inspired madness somewhere in the midway between Queen Victoria and Granny Clampett, and there will simply be no nonsense from boys like Princey while she is in charge.

Akane treated this portrait with special interest and attention. It was as if she had some particular idea in mind for it. I believe she intends it as a gift to my husband, who is her oldest and biggest fan. The others, she informs me, were never quite up to snuff, but this one will do nicely.

*PS. Akane would like it known that she only drank the paint water afterwards for very important artistic reasons, and not because of the squid ink. Posing under those hot lights is very thirsty work.

--
Edited by titannia at 01/13/2007 6:06 AM

My parents spent most of their lives differing in their opinions of the world and what to do about it.

He felt that the ultimate sin was adultery. She felt that the ultimate sin was misusing a semicolon.

He tended to vote Republican, while she tended to laugh loudly at jokes about Republicans. He grew up believing in hellfire, damnation, and the Baptist church; she believed in reincarnation and pondering such issues as what, exactly, the Bible's authors had had against women. He listened to country music; she liked Gershwin. He would have been happy dressing in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie all his life--she forced him to color coordinate.

Where Dad rebelled against his strict background by smoking and drinking, Mom rebelled in practically everything she did.

In particular, she enjoyed rebelling against Dad's sacred cows. However, by the end of her life there weren't many things they still disagreed on. By now Dad was reading auras, eating health food, and voting Democrat. He's even adopted her tastes in music, decor, and clothing. It's hard to wind someone up under those circumstances, particularly if they are kind of weepy over your impending demise.

So it isn't surprising that during the last months of her life, Mom found a brand new thing to rebel against. Dad hung her High School picture in their bedroom.

Now, we don't know what Mom had against that picture. My brother thinks maybe it was that she no longer resembled it. I worried that she'd overheard me remarking that she looked like my brother in drag. (There's no shame in that-my brother does fabulous, convincing drag.) My Dad thinks it was her usual annoyance at anything sentimental.

Whatever her reason, she kept taking the picture down and hiding it.

Dad kept finding it and hanging it back up.

This kept them amused for weeks. Even when she could barely crawl out of bed, Mom would take that picture down and hide it again, each time in a more inventive place.

"This time," Mom warned him the final time she hid the picture, "I'm hiding it where you won't ever think to look for it."

One day it was finally over, all those months of changings and medications and checking on Mom several times a night. There was nothing left to do except plan the funeral. Consequently we all threw ourselves into that project as if it were the Olympics.

Since Mom's funeral as she wrote it, includes a slideshow of her life, all of us became very concerned with finding that picture. We felt it was a very defining picture of her, showing very clearly the transition between the awkward girl she was, and the sophisticated, mischievous woman she became. Besides, she is so beautiful in that picture. Everyone loves it.

Having a slideshow that didn't include The Picture, was unthinkable. In my zeal to locate it, I cleaned the living and dining rooms, dusting each picture and book individually, hoping to come across The Picture. We searched the piano bench, linen closet, and upstairs closets. Nothing. It wasn't there, but the place sparkled.

We went through boxes of wrapping paper, old photos, blankets, anything we could think of. "She wouldn't have thrown it out....would she?" My sister was genuinely worried.

"Where would Dad never look?" I mused out loud, as we paused to pant furiously and slam some icewater.

"His desk?" my brother suggested. Dad's desk is piled high with several years' worth of paperwork from running four businesses simultaneously and doing his own taxes. And of course he does not intend to touch it til after the service....so I gamely dug through a Pike's Peak of paper, filing much of it for Dad as I went. The Picture wasn't there, but the pile is now more like a snowbank than a mountain range.

My brother and I both searched a hole in the wall Dad's been meaning to repair for about five years....We got above the cabinets in the kitchen and dusted...we went through old food, pitching some of it...we even dug through all Mom's clothes. Any box that looked big enough to conceal an 8x10, got opened, including old board games we haven't played in a decade.

The last place we looked, was in a box under Dad's bed. We were nervous about it. The last time we all looked under Dad's bed, we found boxes of Playboy and Hustler, and Dad is such a private person.

But there was always a chance, so, we screwed up our courage and out the box came. Dad came in at just that moment. "What are you doing?" he asked, looking at us as if we were aliens who had just confessed to shooting Kennedy.

"We're trying to find The Picture!" we chorused, still fumbling with the box lid.

"And you think it's in here," he said dubiously, but he submitted to the search in the name of the cause. The lid popped open, and there were some things in there we had never seen before.

Our ruthlessly unsentimental Mom, who frequently threw out our paintings because they "clutter up the place," hadn't thrown them out after all. She had saved every watercolor I made, every letter we wrote her.

We were shocked. Mom had made such a show of rebelling against normal motherly stuff like baking cookies and bronzing baby shoes, and yet here it all was. Baby shoes, a decidedly corny and lengthy poem I had written in the third grade, (entitled Spring Is Lovely,) and old cartoons and papers my brother had written...programs from all the plays we'd appeared in, reviews clipped from newspapers, articles about the spelling bees we'd entered. We looked through it all together.

And of course, there, at the bottom, was The Picture of Mom, smiling that Mona Lisa smile, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

And that's when I began to wonder...Mom had to know that "someplace you'll never look," would make us think of the desk...and she knew that my obsessive, methodical nature would lead me to go through every nook and cranny of the house until we found that photo. She knew, better than anyone, how each of our minds work. Did she write the slideshow in, so we'd have to find the photo?

After all, she knew how lonely Dad would be, and that looking for that picture was bound to keep us kids in the house for days.

It would be just like her, to have arranged that whole frantic scavenger hunt on purpose. All those years she teased Dad over his sentimental nature, but now I know she treasured it, understood it, relied on it. I wonder if Dad knows....

--
Edited by titannia at 07/25/2006 7:05 AM

--
Edited by titannia at 07/25/2006 7:11 AM

Mom was a woman of unusual talent, wit, and intelligence. She had large, haunting blue eyes, a large Roman nose, and a small, thin-lipped mouth. She had a beautiful smile, and was quick to laugh.

More than that, she had charisma of a very rare kind. People wanted to be around her, even when she didn't want to be around them. She did not suffer fools gladly, yet people seemed to take to her even when she turned that razor-sharp wit against them.

Dozens of visitors came to sit with her, or watch the house while Dad ran errands. Despite her reclusive nature she was a popular person. The phone still rings every few minutes, usually someone phoning to express their sympathies.

Mom was a woman of many lives. In the seventies, she had her own humor column in the local paper, which got her cast in a local professional comedy troupe. She performed with them for more than twenty years, in roles ranging from the sexpot to the senile.

For many years she edited a magazine called "Horticulture Today," wrote for several ad agencies, and she also became the PR director for a local hospital.

In the 1980's she had at least twenty articles published in "Cosmopolitan," and also wrote comical erotic fairytales for "Spice" magazine. This while raising three children, doing volunteer work for her church, and working full-time!

In 1988 she founded a New Age bookstore, which grew and tripled in size over the next five years. Her store was the heart of three communities--Wicca, New Age, and recovery. She raised her grandson, and was utterly devoted to him.

One thing I'll say for her, she had a very rich and full life. Any one of those careers would have satisfied me.

She died at home, cared for by a hospice nurse, my sister, and my Dad. In the end she embraced death as she had done life. Dad said, "she's not afraid. She's done this before." She had, too, in Mexico. And before that, too, while giving birth to me.

She wrote her own funeral service, and her own obituary. Very fitting for a woman who had done so much writing.

Her memorial service is this Saturday, and includes a slideshow of pictures throughout her life. Gathering the pictures has been quite a job, and it's given us the opportunity to remember her life. I recommend it for anyone going through a loss.

I will not be wearing black, but instead a denim vest she embroidered during her early Pagan period. It has a Goddess on the back, in tree form, and the moon, sun, and stars, and Mom's favorite animals and plants representing nature. She gave it to me on her deathbed, and I prize it above anything else I own.

There is a lot of work to do. I have to help Dad get his papers in order. I've been commuting there, cleaning house and putting pictures in order, putting them back in the albums we got them from, and helping with putting the slide show in order. I haven't been working or visiting these boards much.