Fixin'

Over the last six months or so I've repaired two toilets, installed a sump pump and now a bath tub spout. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. Not, join the plumbing union good, but pretty damn good.

Busted.

But, as I was lying in the bathtub, fully dressed, desperately trying to loosen a set screw - with my sunglasses on as the spout was dripping water. Into. My. Eyes. I was thinking, maybe I shouldn't be so cheap. Maybe I should pay for some of these repairs. Because, sweet Jesus, this thing was stuck tight.

But then it came loose. And, victory was mine. Sweet, sweet victory.

My exposure to gamma rays has resulted in my ability to occasionally inadvertently pull the diverter out of the bathtub spout, it must be a sporadic exposure as it wasn't present during set screw removal...

Note all my plumbing vocabulary. 

The most recent one, Sunday, wasn't me. But, Deb. I must have loosened it. Obviously. It was so worn, there was no repair.

To be honest, the spout has always bugged me. While relaxing in the tub, it's immediately obvious that it's askew. Which makes for relaxing with eyes closed or quick bathing.

I had assumed that to replace or repair it would require tiling and a massive amount of work. It just seemed intimidating.

To google I went. Watched a couple videos on YouTube, climbed into the bathtub, examined the spout closely, and, Bob's your uncle. Set screw.

$34 bucks in parts and 20 minutes later I had a new fully functioning, shiny, new spout.

Victory! 

And, even better, it's on straight.

Looking forward to long leisurely bathing.

Approved by Ouiser.

Esoteric

I was referred to as esoteric today. And, yes. I knew what it meant when it was said, it's just not a word I use. YET.

But, esoteric. Holy shit.

It all makes sense. I am. 

Light bulb.

I am typically very esoteric. I speak in the specialized language in which I work. A small team of people know what I am saying. I have said things and then paused to make sure that I actually understand what I just said. Most of the time it's a yes. 

So many blank stares now make sense to me. So, so many.

It's not a bad thing to be called. In the twenty-ish years of my career I've been called much worse.

So. Much. Worse.

Saint Samantha

I bought my seven year old self something last weekend. Something that I didn't need, but she did. I'd really love to tell that kid a lot of things. I can't. She's long gone. But, that seven year old needed something. She needed a dog. Not just any dog. A Saint.

As an aside, my 40something year old self absolutely didn't need another dog. But, here we are.

Perfect place to sleep.

When I was about three my mom dated 'Fun Boyfriend Bill'. Fun Boyfriend Bill gave the three of us a dog. A Saint Bernard. Samantha. The ultimate nanny dog. I can't think of a better way to grease the kids of the lady you are dating than giving them a giant four-legged playmate.

I didn't want her at first. In fact, I sort of freaked out at the sight of her. They put her in my room as I was waking up from a nap, I woke to a giant beast standing there. I said something like, "get that thing out of here!"

We grew on each other. She was the quintessential family dog. Met us when we were walking home from the bus, sprawled on the floor with us, watched over us.

She lasted longer than Fun Boyfriend Bill (although, he returned, thirty five years later). For a few years, she was my best friend.

You'll grow.

Her end was terribly tragic. The seven year old me didn't know. But, the 40something year old me does. The 40something old me is pissed. And, heartbroken.

As I was snuggled on the floor with our new eight week old St. Bernard, a miniature version (at this point) of Sam, I pushed my face into her fuzzy fur and thanked her for finding me and joining our family. I thanked her for healing me.

And then my seven year old self giggled and fell asleep.

Time to Talk

Okay... here it is. It's time to talk. I've alluded to it before. But, never talked. Not really.

The current situation with the supreme court and the he said she said nature of where we are is either making me brave or angry or both. Likely a little tilted to anger.

The question I just can't take any more is: Why didn't she say anything sooner?

My question is: How dare you?

Unless this has happened to you you have no idea what happens. None.

I didn't talk. I didn't talk for 30 years. 30 years. And then when I did, it was to someone who loves me unconditionally. Who makes me feel so safe that I can talk about it. Not everyone has this person. Unfortunately. I wish everyone did.

Unless you are held down against your will you do not know what this is like.

You do not know what it's like to be afraid to have people touch you.

You do not know what happens when someone gets too close. Especially from behind. I joke about my bubble. How I just don't like people close. In reality, I just can't trust that you won't hurt me. Physically. Emotionally.

I continually tell myself that I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.

The boys club culture needs to end. It needs to end now.

Women need to feel safe to talk about what has happened to them.

We need to feel safe.

We need to be believed.

High School

A little over 14 years ago I birthed a baby boy. A big ol' sturdy boy. He was adorable, sweet, snuggly and easy. He is now, 14 very quick years later, some of those things some of the time.

His new height is proving handy.

I've been struggling lately with his age, his size, his pull to grow up and be independent. How some times out of the corner of my eye he looks like an adult. How his voice has changed. How we're almost eye to eye. I've only got a half inch on him. His doctor assures me that my half inch is very short lived. He'll be over 6' in a year or so...

That year will go quickly. As much as I wish I could freeze time, I know this is happening. He's growing up.

And, in three days, he'll walk into high school and begin a series of adventures that he'll remember for the rest of his life. I expect fun and some trouble. I have no doubt there will be a phone call home.

A Freshman. I think back to when I was a Freshman. I was an utter idiot. He is too. Every Freshman is. Bless his heart. 

Now is his time to make mistakes, learn and have fun. Goof off, play, be silly. Grow. Physically and emotionally. Become a good and kind human.

Now is my time to watch it all happen. And, try to enjoy the experience.

Robots

For a long time I was referred to as a robot. As similar to the Tin Man.

In the last few years I've grown. I've gotten more emotional. Come in to my own. Shown some vulnerability. Which, side note, is really hard and maybe a little stupid. But mostly just really hard.

I can say I love you without looking at the floor. Sometimes. This takes time and work. A lot. Robots don't just turn into people over night. This takes prodding and love and work and a very patient partner. And, some crying. (Yes, I cry. Sometimes. Shut up. I will punch you. Hard.)

I put myself out there. I got scared. I got brave.

And, then, much like the Grinch, my heart grew a couple sizes.

From my love, a robot. With a heart.

So, imagine my surprise when I found myself in the hospital being monitored with heart palpitations, chest pain and shortness of breath. All I could think was I finally got a heart and now the god damn thing is busted. BUSTED.

Lots of tests. EKGs, Xray, blood work. Trip to the cardiologist. Weeks went by. No alcohol, sugar, caffeine. I was good. I followed the instructions. I like this heart thing. Within limits. I don't want to be so sensitive and vulnerable that it kills me. That seems ill advised.

Turns out my busted recently grown heart is fine.

I have asthma.

News to me. But, when I am in a place with poor air quality, like Las Vegas, where I was right before all this started... a side effect of asthma can be chest pain and palpitations. Who knew? Well, the cardiologist, did. (He also appeared to be Doogie Howser's younger brother, but that is a different post.)

So, I guess I'm keeping this heart. I worked hard to get it from the crunchy outside. And, I'm going to keep on trying. I'm going to let it grow. A little.

But, if it gives me any trouble...



I'm not a romantic, but even I concede that the heart does not exist solely for the purpose to pump blood. 
- Downton Abbey 

The Music Slide

We were talking recently about music choices and at what age do we sort of make that slide into soft rock hits… Because at close to 42, I am listening to the same stuff my kids listen to. And, I sing along and like most of it.

I'm fairly certain that wasn't the case for my mother. Other than Billy Idol and one song by Heavy D and the Boys (Now that we Found Love), she was parked firmly in K103 land by the time she was 40. Or listening to the 60’s channel.

My dad hated everything we listened to. Hated. According to him no one could sing. It was all trash.

The intro to Livin’ on a Prayer?

Sounds like frogs.

They were both unimpressed by Nirvana.

In fact, I can clearly recall my mother sitting on the couch while we watched MTV saying, “Really? ‘A mosquito, a libido’? Those are the lyrics?”

Yep. They are.

We have music playing in the house most of the time. Playing in the kitchen any time anyone is in there. Other than that, I listen in the car. I tend to be in the car a lot.

Not Khalid

The new Khalid song, Young, Dumb and Broke came on the other night. Car full. Kids and I signing along.

Deb, in the passenger seat, making a list, looked up, took a breath and said, “He sounds like Elmer Fudd.”

Oh, Shit. That’s something my dad would say.

“You just made the slide!”

“What?”

“The music slide. You’re old* now! Enjoy K103!”

Not Elmer.

“I am not old. He sounds like Elmer Fudd and you think he does too.”

“Well, I think that now because you just said it. But, I’d never say it out loud. Because, then I’d be old.”

And, that my friends, will never happen.

 *And, no, I don't think she's old. And, yes, I do think he sounds in that particular song, kind of, a little bit like, Elmer Fudd.