Downsizing or Dumbing Down?

Why am I up at 4 am?  Because I woke up... couldn't go back to sleep (3 out of 4 joints were screaming in pain)... and decided to wash and polish two old wooden chairs... then sort more books... move four incredibly heavy trunks into a less noticeable corner, slide a file cabinet into a better location, and, finally, check my e-mail.  

I'm not sure why I woke up so early and so antsy. Maybe it was because I spent half the day yesterday putting together the new "kitty bathroom"-- which is supposed to disguise the litter box into some semblance of a piece of furniture (if you're not looking too closely).  Putting the thing together took hours-- much of which was spent figuring out the diagrams for assembly (for which I am convinced I have earned at least 3 Engineering -01 credits) and searching for a workable Phillips screwdriver. Having a husband with more than a dozen different boxes, cases, and trunks full of tools should guarantee all kinds of screwdrivers; but, no. Many, many strange-looking metal things with handles, blades and electric cords. Lots of screws, nails, hinges, plastic containers of powdered stuff and/or goopy stuff, rope, and paint rollers.  No screwdriver.  I finally located my old (laughable, according to my better half) four-inch changeable (from regular to Phillips) screwdriver in the make-up pocket of an old handbag. At last I could accomplish the task. 

Turning that damned little tool for the next hour or so was like having my hands squeezed in a vice over and over, but I managed to get the 10 different kinds of screws securely into their correct holes, and moved the completed fake furniture box into the location of the old, nasty plastic litter-filled tray.  So what if I had two bags of little metal and wooden thingies left... with no apparent use for either. These are the obligatory bags o' thingies designed to be left over... to confuse the consumer and make sure he/she is kept awake at night wondering where he/she went wrong. Now, some would despair and start all over again from scratch. Not me. I figure as long as the "bathroom" doesn't collapse on top of the cat inside, everything is A-ok.

Downsizing is rewarding.  Rather like purging (but without having to use either end of the alimentary canal in the process).  But I find myself waking up, sorting out various plans of furniture and picture arrangements.  Mentally trying out a configuration, rejecting it, trying another, then deciding to get up and actually try it out.

Now I'm ravenously hungry and may have to break my rule and cook something.  The old bowl off cereal just won't do it.  

Wonder how long I'll last at the office today before my head crashes into the mouse pad?

And another thing.

What was once a cool "pad" a few decades ago is now referred to as a "crib." Maybe this explains why people who used to grow up and take on at least a modicum of adult responsibility in their 20s now don't manage to reach that point until their 40s.  What else could you expect from a person living in a CRIB?

Mother Nature

What I suspected as a child and observed as a young woman, I now know for sure.  The smartest woman is vastly superior to the smartest man.  The average woman is smarter and more productive than the average man.  Of course, this assertion means that many men are smarter than many women.  This kind of talk is not acceptable within the perception shaped by hundreds of years to indoctrinate more than half the world's inhabitants... and give the security of perceived superiority to the rest.

Men are afraid of women's intelligence and power.  (Way back, before "science," it was women's "magic" that scared them... the bleeding but not dying... the expulsion of babies...)  Men who are not consciously aware of this passed-down fear have bought into the system created by their predecessors-- aided cleverly by the architects of the major religions, all of which evolved to rule women and other people without power-- to keep them in line so as not to ask difficult questions and stir up trouble.  Man's religions create wealth and power and dismiss and obliterate the strength of women.  

There are some terrific, enlightened males who have the intelligence to see women clearly, even as they desire them.  Usually, there has been some substantial mentoring by a significant female in these men's lives.  Sadly, even most of them keep quiet about their knowledge so as not to be kicked out of the macho club.

I'm thinking that women should stop worrying about men, have sex with themselves, other women, or even a few good men, and collect any sperm when/if necessary from a bank.  Men may believe a penis is all powerful; but, truly, who needs it?  

Christmas Time

This year I'm delivering food to people who can't get out and do for themselves... because they don't have the financial means and are old and/or infirmed.  It is something I've meant to do for years but never had the schedule that allowed it. My route encompasses parts of town into which many of the nice volunteer ladies and gentlemen won't venture. I, however, have been familiar with those parts of town for decades. Still... I had not delved too deeply... and this is already a profound experience.

Most of the recipients are elderly, but a few are younger than I and have some physical or mental disability that makes life hard, on a scale of difficult to what-looks-like-unbearable. Several are so afraid to open their doors that I have to call the charity headquarters while standing on their doorsteps so the client can get a call to tell him/her that I'm at the door with food. In some cases, I can easily imagine their fear of what might be waiting to steal, injure, or murder them. In other cleaner and safer looking areas, the paranoia is still justified.

The guilt I feel about my own comfortable circumstances is palpable each time I do a food run. 

Noticing an American flag, bunting, and other patriotic emblems in the yard and on the door and windows at one neat little house, I chatted with the small beige woman who answered the door-- holding it open only a crack. After seeing who I was (a white lady with an identifying label on her jacket), she widened the door a bit and unlocked a storm door so I could hand over the parcels of prepared food. After being assured that she did not need my help with the food or preparation and commenting on the red-white-and-blue decorations, I asked if there was someone in her family in the military. She opened the door even wider and said, "Yes. My son and grandson... both killed." I felt myself turning even whiter, swallowed, and managed to reply that she had certainly given much more than should ever be expected. She said "Thank you" and smiled warmly. I felt so helpless and crummy but had no idea how to improve either my feelings or hers. I wished her a nice day, told her to keep warm, and walked back to my car.

Another stop brought me to a small apartment in a very nice, low-income retirement home. The security at the building made it seem much safer than the usual stops. Finding my way to the top floor and the numbered apartment for the client, I knocked. A man's friendly voice said "Come on in," and I did. There, on a bed in a small bedroom, visible from the front door, was the most beatific, smiling black face atop the most emaciated body I've ever seen on a living person. I told him who I was, and he seemed elated and asked me to please put the food on his kitchen counter. Before leaving, I mentioned that we were probably cousins. His eyes widened, and he said "No kidding?" I said, "Really" and explained that his last name was the same as the last name of my earliest ancestor in America back in the 17th century. ( I have known for some time that I have black relatives resulting from that ancestral colonial paragon's dallying with at least one of his female slaves. The fact that there are no longer any "white" families with that particular last name in the area may be a testament to the inferior gene pool of the European line vs. the African line.) Anyway, this lovely, frail man smiled even wider and told me "Thank you. You have made my day!" I am not quite sure why my announcement of our kinship made him happy. Perhaps he is on some powerful drugs that make everything seem like a party, but it made my day to have such a terrific reaction, and I went out the door and back to my car with a smile on my face.

Ah, but the good feelings don't come often.  My first foray into a ramshackle trailer park on the south side of town nearly did me in. I knocked on a filthy, sagging screen door attached to a grimy trailer. A loud female voice yelled "Come in!" I did... and was almost knocked over by the stench. I mean, I am not naive; nor am I particularly squeamish. I actually like spiders and snakes... I've cleaned up messes from children, animals, and grown men... I've hung out in barns... I've watched surgery... I've been in a morgue in the company of a dead body that had been fished out of a river after many days of decay... I've been in some pretty gross abodes when I was a Red Cross caseworker... but THIS was unbelievable. I saw no animals; but, if there were no dogs, cats, hamsters, ferrets, mice, bats or rats contributing to the ambiance, I shudder to think what created it.  The smell conjured up something like human and animal urine and feces blended with garbage and vomit and left to fester for a lonnnng time. The woman who had asked me in was semi-reclining on the dirtiest sofa I've ever seen in the middle of a room piled with garbage and so much stuff I couldn't even tell what it was.  She looked as if she had not had a bath (or even a wipe-down) in months.  A small t.v. was blaring nearby.  It was all I could do to keep from visibly gagging. I smiled weakly; and she smiled back, showing what looked like approximately 7 teeth left in her mouth. Holding a fairly heavy box of some special extra provisions I had brought for her, I looked questioningly around. She said, "Just put it on the scooter," which I realized referred to a wheelchair with disgusting stains on the seat cushion, to my right. I put the box down, and she quickly said, "Hand me the food." I obediently handed over the separately packed snack and dinner packages. She smiled again, and said, "I'll just spend the day watching t.v." I mumbled that it was probably just as well since it was pretty cold outside, said good-bye, and stumbled out the door. I felt as if the smell of this hovel had imbedded itself in my clothing, my hair, my skin, and my brain. This was my first stop of the day. It was not until four stops later-- driving in near-freezing temperatures with my car windows wide open-- that I felt aired out. When I got back to HQ, I asked about this particular client; and the woman in charge said, "Oh, yes. Ms. X. We've been trying to work with her and get help for her for some time, but she insists she's fine and refuses any kind of help to clean things up." I asked if she had anybody in her life-- any relatives or friends who came around-- and I was told that she did but that contact was sporadic. I would not leave an animal in circumstances like that. I am astounded.
I wonder about this woman. How long has her life been like this? What were her beginnings? What's her story?  I also have increased respect for Mother Teresa and Albert Schweitzer and Jesus and all the others whose lives embraced such people and places.  

I'm not sure if I will see her again because the agency tends to send the volunteers to different people; and, so far, I have not delivered to the same person twice. I suspect it's to prevent any relationship building and/or awkward problems, but I'm not sure about that. If I do go back to this sad, awful place, at least I will be prepared, and (maybe) my smile will be less frozen.

Thanksgiving In Canada

So I did the family Thanksgiving thing out of the USA. It was nice, especially getting to spend some time with the daughters and brother (and his son) I don't get to see often enough. Being in a whole new setting and opting out of the whole turkey cooking scenario, I thought I had it made. Wrong. No matter where you are, if it's a family gathering with people traveling to get there, certain things will happen:
1) Someone will be delayed arriving and/or lose luggage;
2) Something will go wrong with a car, in the kitchen, and/or with the plumbing;
3) Someone will not have a comfortable bed (nice people will not complain);
4) Someone will be angry and refuse to speak to somebody else; and
5) Someone will get sick-- either during the gathering or on the way home.

Now, these are not the ONLY things that can happen, just the things that always do happen.

Get a job

The house is falling apart faster than I am (so far). As the repair of back porches continues, more and more problems are uncovered on a daily basis. The latest is the discovery that one corner-- the upper column and surrounding boards on the second-story porch-- is once-wood-now-sponge filled with wood-eating little white worms. (Now I know the source of that munching in my dreams. All this time I was blaming my husband.)

Jon, the head guy, assures me that all worms have gone (or will soon go) to the dump. I thought termites were the wood eaters... and maybe those beetle thingies. I didn't know about the beaver-related maggots. Bugs. You gotta respect them. I mean, talk about adaptability.

The renovation job has grown from a ten-day deal to a god-only-knows deal. No matter how much I like and trust these guys (who are doing a stellar job), I will always recall November of '07 as the time our $$ are slid away into two old houses almost as fast as they dd in the stock market. I am becoming my father-- a miserable creature worrying about outliving my means. Perhaps, when all resources have been depleted, I can commit a small crime and join the ranks of prisoners being housed and fed by The Man... or, perhaps, I should FIND A JOB!

A Year Off

It has been a year since I retired from my "real" job and have not had to put on panty hose or go into an office. An interesting year... with some freelance writing, making of lists and budgets, lots of packing up of boxes, cleaning out of bookshelves, donating goods to charity, traveling, volunteering, and reassessing. I'm no smarter and no closer to knowing the meaning of life, but... I sleep nearly 8 hours most nights, have nearly eliminated back and knee pains, and have read a bunch of good books. I might get used to this unformed new existence... if I can just stop feeling guilty about not making any money and relax into the parasitism of being a kept woman, a volunteer, a learner, and a human being.

My latest project is coordinating the renovations of a sad, old bathroom and the big (semi-rotting and sagging) double porches on the back of our house. In addition to becoming something close to a tenant at the nearest Lowe's Hardware store and adept at picking up and returning paints, wallpaper remover, flanges, faucets, and other bits and pieces, I have built new muscles by lifting and carrying large boxes of plumbing fixtures. I have also learned the delicate art of hiding behind and between large pieces of furniture to get dressed or change clothes-- as there are often men of various sizes at a windows or doors. It's a bit like being a zoo animal-- with passers by always there, inhibiting your normal behavior. Makes me incredibly self conscious. I have been cleaning things more than usual. The kitchen sink sparkles. Is that so the carpenters and painters will think I'm industrious or because I just don't know what else to do with myself when there are these semi-strangers lurking about from 8 am until 4 or 5 pm? It's hard to concentrate on anything meaningful with bursts of hammering, conversations, and buzzing machinery that occasionally sounds like street repair up close and personal. Needing to be at home to let people in and out to measure, estimate, and do the work... it's a kind of limboland.

I now understand why some old people just sit in their homes and let them fall apart around them. It's not necessarily that they are crazy, cheap, or poor (although they may well be any or all of those things). It's beginning to seem like a plan.