When we moved into this condo, we did not bother to have the carpet cleaned. There were dark spots where the sofa and chairs had been, but we had a household carpet cleaner – a sort of wet mop version of a vacuum cleaner – and I figured we’d get it taken care of ourselves.
Nope.
The Squire went out and rented a Big Machine the other morning and we started in on the job. Moving furniture this way and that, turning the sofa on its back so we could scrub under it, picking things up off the floor – I was afraid I’d never see my bed again! The carpets in here are all beige – who thought THAT was a good idea? – and Boris is coal black. We simply did not realize how much hair that cat has shed over the months we have been here. Every once in a while, the front of the scrubber would kick out a HUGE wad of the stuff – we had almost enough to make another cat!
I had over 8,000 steps on my smart watch by the end of the day, and The Squire had nearly the same. No wonder we were tired!
I was chatting on-line with another over-aged “preacher’s kid” about how difficult it is for men of the cloth to find time for themselves. Even on vacation, they had to be reachable; most will leave contact info with their Senior Warden, of the President of Board of Elders, or whomever, but if it’s a situation that person can’t handle, it’s up to the Boss.
In my dad’s case, some of this may have been his own fault.
My dad had to go into the hospital for gall bladder surgery, and the doctor was explaining the procedure to both him and Mum. The doctor said Daddy would have to be at the hospital at some outrageous hour, they would prep him and take him up to ER at 9:00 and he should be back in his room by noon.
My dad turned to Mum and said, “that’ll be good. Then I can do my hospital rounds in the afternoon.”
The doctor smiled and replied, “Fr. Parker, I’m afraid that’s not how it works”.
I could just picture my dad traipsing through the hall of St. Agnes Hospital, IV pole in one hand, and sick call kit in the other.
I have just finished reading Sinclair Lewis’ book by the same name, and it is so prescient as to be terrifying.
A man with a rather “iffy” reputation is elected president, in spite of warnings that he could be dangerous. People really don’t think he means all of the things he says – until it is too late.
He forms his own army, and begins rounding up political opponents, claiming they are Communists. Some of the people think this is great news, while others are not so sure. . .
Reading this book and reading today’s news makes it hard to believe in was written in 1935. I cannot recommend it enough.
The Squire and I both enjoy puzzles – both jigsaw and crossword puzzles. Every morning, we print off the daily crossword puzzles and the Word Search from the Baltimore Sun (which has been made infinitely more difficult by their improved site) and work them together.
Several times a week we open a new jigsaw puzzle, sort out the pieces, and put it together. The problem is that we have different approaches to the sorting process. I sort the pieces by shape – all of what I call standard pieces – together, all of the “little men “, and so forth and then arrange them by color. The Squire pulls out everything of a certain color and then arranges them in some order known only to himself. The pieces that are the same shape are not together, some are upside down, others are sideways. It drives me NUTS!
Today we are working a Star Wars puzzle. He has three bowls on various colors and mixed shapes. I can’t even begin to help him because all of those bowls are still unsorted – even by his standards. I did sort out what he had left behind, but I have no idea where to start to put them into the frame.
I finally came into the den to write this because we are about to come to words.
I went to a luncheon on Saturday and sat near the thinnest – skinniest! – woman I have ever seen outside of a newsreel. The expression “skin and bones” was probably coined to describe this gal. Not only was she painfully thin, but she had very short hair and wore a tichel over it. Honestly, with her tattoos and all the rest of it, she might have been a concentration camp survivor.
While the rest of us were eating she sipped a cup of tea. When I offered her a sandwich, she demurred. “There’s nothing here I like.” We had chicken salad, egg salad, cucumber on brown bread, and two or three sorts of cheese, on white bread, sliced into “fingers”. Even I found something to eat, and I don’t eat meat. She must not have found anything she liked for a loooong time.
The adage that eventually a picky eater will decide to eat doesn’t always hold true.
Resistentialism. This is the idea that inanimate objects are innately evil.
Frankly, I believe it. I have a kitchen drawer full of knives that lie in wait for me, and frying pans that take great delight in burning my fingers.
When we lived at the Rice Paddy the fluorescent light in the bathroom refused to turn on, no matter how many times you flipped the switch. And then, when you finally decided you could do what you came to do in the dark, the light would come on just after you washed your hands. Many’s the time I bathed by candlelight.
The light in the den only came on only on alternate Mondays. We simply left the light on 24/7, but a friend accidentally flipped the switch on her way out the door. There’s a certain irony to using an oil lamp to use the computer.
Among the things we brought from the house is an Oriental rug that was a gift from my parents. It was in their dining room for about thirty years, and in our bedroom for another twenty or so. It laid flat on the floor in both of our homes, quietly keeping our feet warm.
When The Squire and I moved into this condo we put the carpet in our new dining room, and it has apparently decided it doesn’t care for these new digs, as it seems to be trying to escape.
Every Saturday morning, I get down on my hands and knees and push the rug back across the floor. Once a month, The Squire and I move the table and chairs, roll up the rug, and then unroll it, making sure it is absolutely flat.
One end is held down in the middle by an antique cedar chest, and I put industrial strength hook and loop tape along the sides. The middle is under the table, and you can see that even that area has some tiny ripples. Sometimes you can see where the rug has actually pulled the loop part of the tape away from the hook part. Beats me.
The Squire says it is trying to move back south, heading for its original home in Roxboro, NC. Makes as much sense as any other explanation.
For the last week or so we have been plagued with Indian Meal moths. Every morning the ceilings and upper reaches of the walls are dotted with them.
We have learned that swatting at them leaves a smudge on the wall, so The Squire and I have been wandering the condo with a small vacuum cleaner to collect them. Honestly, we feel as we are big game hunters, waving the vacuum as if it was a shotgun. Boris is pretty effective at catching them, and really enjoys the hunt, but most of the bugs are way out of his reach.
We also discovered, much to our dismay, that these little rascals don’t die when the get sucked into the machine. When you open the machine to empty it the moths fly out and go all over the place.
We were not amused. (Actually, it was pretty funny, but frustrating!)
thisendoftheswamp 