Today

  I watched our dog, Poindexter, leave with Cindy Brinkmann to head to a new life. He seemed happy. I felt regret and now I miss him. 

  Pastor Murphy and Pastor came over to give me communion just in time. Thank heaven!

 Brandy DiNatale and I did battle with my lawyer as Carol fought my temporary onochologist for pain medication. 

  All in all a good day for battles. 

Good Things about Terminal Illness

1.      I never have to go to work again.

2.      I will never set foot on a weight scale.

3.      I can eat anything I want but of course I don’t want anything.

4.      I can be crabby and everyone still loves me.

5.      I can be nice and everyone will cry.

6.      I never have to mow the lawn again.

7.      I will never wear a wig again.

8.      I’m done with doctors, insurance, and hospitals.

9.      My brother is super nice to me. Even though he would like to tackle me and eat a raw onion in my face like the old days.

10.  I get to tell everyone that I love them and why. Best Part.

Reactions

“I think she knew for a long time.”

“That would be like her.”

“It’s a joke. She is going to say surprise and laugh.”

I didn’t know. I suspected I was really sick. I was leaning towards Crohn’s disease. My tummy was upset and I gained water weight but from feeling ill to actual diagnosis was only three weeks.

When I really knew was after my CAT Scan on Thursday April 10^th.  The technicians were their usual cold and efficient selves. After the scan, the two—male and female—rushed to my side to help me. They oozed support and compassion. I knew then what the diagnosis would be cancer—terminal. That was confirmed on Friday by my oncologist. The surprise was the short time given. Neither, Mom or I expected that.

Many people are praying for me. I asked for prayers of comfort and for my family. Must have worked. My pain levels started dropping at 8:00 A.M. Sunday and continued decreasing with each prayer service in my connected churches. I could feel strength rushing through my body. It’s Monday and I feel relatively pain free.

Absolutely wonderful. Thank you.

Terminal

Dear Readers:

To my word, this blog is about cancer, widowhood, and faith. Today (Friday), I met with my oncologist—a tiny-framed Asian. He walked in the exam room, hugged me, and said, “I’m so sorry.” This kind of reaction to a CAT Scan does not bode well for the patient. The gentleman was clearly upset. It took him about ten minutes to clearly define that I had inoperable liver cancer with a life expectancy of a few days up to one month.  Mom and I did our best to console him but he remained clearly upset by this outcome.

Since my first visit to my GP on Tuesday, the CAT Scan on Thursday, and today, I have not been surprised by any of this. I felt sick three weeks ago—having problems eating, losing stamina, and gain water weight up to a pound a day. My liver felt knotted. I checked the film on the scan—no knots. I have a liver that is polka-dotted with cancer spots. I will have a biopsy this coming Tuesday to confirm everything for insurance purposes. We are trying Anastrozole to slow down the process and give me a little extra time.

Mom’s birthday is April 30^th. She would like me to cut the cake. How can I refuse such a sweet request?

I believe that Paul, my husband, misses me and has asked God to call me home. We were meant to go together but the funeral parlor refused to let me crawl into the cremation vault with my dear man. So 21^st Century. I’m now forced down this path to get to heaven. I do believe in heaven.

When you get there, look for me I will be sitting under an oak tree discussing “Letters from Earth” with Mark Twain. I promised my friend Sue I would plant a few flowers to spruce up the place before she arrives.  Cindy B said it would be nice if I hugged Devon her Sainted first born. I am already getting a to-do list before lifting off. Exciting don’t you think?

I ask for prayers for my family and for comfort—to cut down the pain.

I will write as often and as long as I can because that’s what writers do. God bless you everyday.

Sacramento

  Today I'm sitting at Cypress Grille, a few feet from my new office looking at the walkway to K Street mall and Old Sacramento. I can see the irony through the dusty window. At age eighteen, I worked for Treasurer Ivy Baker Priest and her boss Governor Ronald Reagan at The State Capitol eight blocks from this spot. 

  I couldn't wait to get out of this town. I wanted to see the world, meet great thinkers, and fall in love. I was convinced that was not possible in Sacra-Tomato. If you ask a Sac citizen why they stay here the answer generally it is that Sacramento is close to everything and a good place to raise a family. But I didn't want to be close to everything. I wanted to be in the middle of everywhere and I wanted to raise Hell.

  My feet itched from birth--always looking for the road less traveled. The one person that could relate was my brother who made his exodus six months after me. For the next several decades, he and I would tromp across the globe--me in one hemisphere and he in the other. I don't think the world could have handled the two of us in the same coordinates. 

  God, all knowing all seeing, has a warped sense of humor. My dad told me the only way to go into the military was to become a nurse. I flat refused. I faint at the sight of needles and hospitals. So I became a military recruiter among other things. My brother suffered a different home life than I and swore he would never marry. He married late in life and became the most amazing husband, father and grandfather. I spent five years as nurse and caretaker of my husband. I watched him die. 

  I sit in my past trying to understand how and why--here? Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe in some way we always return to the beginning step through the end. 

Comments Pending

I have been running this blog since July 2010. Blogger offered through Google was chosen for price—free—and ease of use. Unfortunately, the comments section never worked correctly. Of my 134 posts, I have received four comments. The “Join this Site” button stopped functioning after the first ten readers joined. When the new Blogger page came out, I thought I had a solution. I built a new blog page. My page look changed, added some AdSense buttons, new comments block, and Google+ circle. 2014 kicked off a clean and orange look. I liked it.

Yet, complaints from my local friends and family were the same. “Can’t leave comments.” “Tried to join but couldn’t.” The good news is that the Google+ circle grew and included people from places like Russia, China, and France—pretty exciting stuff. I did what I could and messed with the buttons on layouts. I also wrote strongly worded complaints to Blogger that were never acknowledged—the downside to free programs.

Today, I read reviews on free and paid blog sites. Squarespace.com was recommended at $16 per month, Wordpress.com at $18 per year, and of course Blogger.com and Weebly.com still lead in the free category. A little time and a bit of creativity could make a new site possible. BUT…will my Google+ followers find me? I have enough time to write the blog twice a week (the goal being daily). Do I have time to spend remarketing everything? Yes. Yes. This is a business question not a creative one.

Maybe it is time for http://post-scribe.blogspot.com/ to grow up and find a permanent home. I would ask for your comments but the button is broken… and the circle is complete. Sigh.

Welcome!

Bienvenue!

歡迎

Welcome
 Thank you to the new readers of my post in France, China and England! I appreciate your interest as I do my American friends.

Income

Friend #1 has worked as a buyer at the same company for ten years. It was purchased by a huge conglomerate and the Hayward location is being closed completely by April 1^st.  At age fifty, my friend was lucky. His former boss created an opening at a different business for my friend at three-quarters of his current pay.

Friend #2 looked for eleven months for a position, secured it, and was successfully building a book of business against a strong competitor. The competitor merged with her company. There are now too many sales people for the new arrangement. A forty year old mother of two is looking for work.

Another company was taken over by a national competitor. Friend #3 was promised continued job but it turns out the job is fifty miles from his house. Two of the office locations have shut down. It looks possible that the technical division he ran will be outsourced. He will be looking for a new career path at age fifty-eight.

This is 2014.

According to Forbes Magazine, “The average worker today stays at each of his or her jobs for 4.4 years, according to the most recent available data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, but the expected tenure of the workforce’s youngest employees is about half that.” http://www.forbes.com/sites/jeannemeister/2012/08/14/job-hopping-is-the-new-normal-for-millennials-three-ways-to-prevent-a-human-resource-nightmare/.

NPR recently discussed the lack of motivation in the Millennium+ generation. Why do they need to be following the Puritanical work ethics? I grew up with my parents working hard to get ahead. My father and mother were better off than their parents as was I. I could build a better life.

The twenty year olds today cannot find work even after college. They watched as their parents purchased bad or illegal loans for their dream homes that were taken away. Many are homeless or in rentals. Companies close at an alarming rate. Downsizing is a business tool to stabilize expense. Job security does not exist in any field. Even government positions go away when a City goes bankrupt. Why in the world would you buy into—“go to college, get a good job and plan your retirement?” You are only going to be with your next job two to five years at best.

Our world is undergoing a monumental shift from an industrial age to information age. We are still educating our youth that they will hold positions that my parents held. We all know that it no longer exists but we want to believe that it is still possible. “Do you want fries with that? Or welcome to Wal-Mart,” seems to be a likely scenario for those of us hitting a shifting employment wall.  Many of us hide our higher education achievements because a bachelors or masters could force us out of the competition for a middle income job.

Friend #2 was promised a compensation package that will allow her to earn a six figure income. Once she finally met their top sales person—number one in world sales—he told her that he had never made more than $55,000 because the commission structure would change to limit his income. Now they both face job loss.

There are jobs out there. Many of which were created in this century. Spending money to be educated in a new field is an option only if you can recoup your costs within the four and a half years you will be employed there. The younger generation seems to be sitting on mom and dad’s couch waiting for the world to change. Meanwhile mom and dad have side businesses ranging from make-up, to jewelry, diet supplements, and online retailing, to make up for loss income and periods of unemployment.

The keynote speakers at three of college graduations I attended were—Steve Jobs, The Smothers Brothers, and a college student that founded Togo’s Sandwiches.  Not one of these people graduated from college. If success in our current society is outside of the mainstream, then why are we standing in the water?

Movie Night

My renter picked “Wolf of Wall Street” as the evening’s fare. I had chose “Captain Phillips” the last time.  From the beginning of Leonardo DiCaprio’s rant on the joys of money, drugs and whores, my lodger was engrossed giggling like a schoolgirl when Leo snorted cocaine off of a naked woman’s butt. I waited a polite fifteen minutes before getting up and baking some pies in the kitchen.

“The language was pretty bad.”  Mark had popped into the kitchen to grab some apple cobbler before returning to the movie.

I almost laughed. He thought my objection to the film was the use of a four letter word. “Actually, I think it is lacking in any morals.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess it is.” He took the dessert bowl into the other room and continued watching. I made a cherry cheesecake for the Wednesday night Lent soup supper.

From the beginning of the film, the story depicts sales people as perverse liars that laugh at customers behind their backs and only take from individuals without giving anything back.

I have been in sales my whole adult life. This story line may be true for some but for the vast majority of sales people…we need a purpose. “Changing the world one person at a time.” Apple’s mission and purpose for their team.  AFLAC 2013 mission statement is—“…to provide the best insurance value for consumers.” AVON—“The company for women.” “Taking care of people who cannot take care of themselves.”—Kindred Healthcare.  Lockheed Martin—“We never forget who we are working for.”

The ugly money-grabber makes a popular film, although I wish that was not true. Those real people who get up every day and face the phone or door-to-door customers need a reason other than money to do what they do. Yes, most sales jobs make more money than administration or design. It’s because it’s a hard job, full of peaks and valleys and constant pressure to perform—a job few people want to do. Once the sale is done and the commission check cashed, real sales people service the account—from returns to collections to claims.

Over half our time is spent making the client happy. 

I am guessing the party for the “Wolf of Wall Street” ended in some tragic way. Frankly, Scarlett, I didn’t give a damn. I hear “Mr. Peabody” will be on Netflix in April. Can’t wait. 

Troubles

Thank you, Louis C.K.  Posted on Comedy Central Standup http://www.cc.com/video-clips/s1c41g/stand-up-louis-ck--uncensored---white-people-problems. The comedian said, “...We have white people problems in America.  You know what that is? That is your life is amazing so you make shit up to be upset about. People in other countries have real problems. Like, “Oh shit their cutting off all of our heads today.”

There’s an old sermon I remember…

A minister takes his congregation on retreat. They are gathered during the afternoon around the cold rock circle that held the previous night’s bonfire. He placed a large basket in the center while helpers passed out 3x5 cards and pencils.

“I would like each of you to write down your troubles, your worries, and your problems on the card. Write down the burdens that you most want God to take away.”

A few of the members laughed. One shouted, “I need more cards.” More people laughed.

The pastor smiled and said, “Do the best you can with what you have.” He folded his hands in front of him and waited. Soon the forest became quiet with only the birds and squirrels to chatter in the trees. Eventually, his flock raised their faces from the cards and looked at him—an indication that they had completed their task.

“Now fold the card in half to conceal the contents and throw it into the basket. A few people handed their problems off to someone else to discard. Others carried their burdens on their own. At last, all the cards had been dropped in the basket.

“Heavenly Father,” he started to pray and lifted his hands toward the sky. “Bless everyone here today. We all have burdens. We have forgotten that how to handle the challenges in our lives. We demonstrate our love for you to others as we deal with our problems. Help us to pray for your guidance on this road called life. Amen.”  He put down his hands.

“Now I would like each of you to go to the basket and pull out a card. Whatever is written on that card will be your burden in life. Choose wisely.” He stepped away from the circle.

His congregation sat for a few moments. They talked amongst themselves. One or two asked for the instructions to be repeated, which the minister did. One stood, then another, soon the crowd rushed toward the basket. Each grabbed a card looked briefly as to the content or handwriting then cast it aside and went for another. Within a few minutes, everyone had found his or hers own card and clutched it tight within their hands.

When everyone had settled the teacher said, “It is not an unbearable burden if it is yours. You are not equipped to live someone else’s life. Ask God to help you through this moment in time.” The minister pulled the last card from the basket, lit it with a match and returned it to the container. “I give up my burdens to God.”

One by one his people threw away their problems into the smoke and prayed.

Proximity

Imagine you are in sunrise commute traffic in a city of over one million people like Los Angeles, San Francisco, or Sacramento. It’s grey, kind of foggy, and damp. Your silver car is in lane number three headed into town along with a quarter of the city’s population. You reach for your cup of coffee nestled in the cup holder then BAM! The silver van on your left slipped in front of you at the same time the bluish-grey compact on your right plowed into the shared lane. You have less than two seconds to hit the brakes and pray.

How many times have you seen this played out as near misses or actual collisions that include two, three, up to ten cars twisted in the worse commute day ever? I count on the experience daily and hope that I am aware enough to avoid any entanglement.

“I think every major city in America should only drive Google-cars—those computerized cars that drive themselves,” I said to my friend yesterday.

“I don’t. I don’t trust computers. They are always down.”

“Well, then, proximity sensors all the way around the cars. At least the people who are sober and awake could avoid collisions.”

“It would be too costly.”

“That was the same logic used against seat belts. Once they became mandatory…”

“We don’t need government in our lives telling businesses what to do. That’s why cars cost too much. Manufacturers were forced to put in seat belts and caused prices to go up.”

“But once they were in place, the prices dropped significantly, and lives were saved.”

A report from Freight 2013 stated that 40% of trucking accidents discussed were from types—rear ends, crossovers, and head-ons—that could have been avoided with sensors. According to http://www.drugabuse.gov/.  “…more than 16 percent of weekend, nighttime drivers tested positive for illegal, prescription, or over-the-counter drugs. More than 11 percent tested positive for illicit drugs.” One in five surveyed American drivers admitted to drinking and driving. How many of us eat, drink coffee, text, yell at the kid in the back seat, or day dream while driving?

A whole lot of us are driving impaired, in a rush, and not paying attention.  You in lane two and you in lane four are out to get us in lane three. If my car can’t avoid the accident on its own, then, by golly, shouldn’t it at least warn me of impending doom?

My great grandfather drove a Ford Model A—14.9 Horsepower, top speed of 63 MPH, with a driving range of 20 to 40 miles. Two and a half generations later, I could drive a Ford Taurus—240 Horsepower, top speed of 200 MPH, with a driving range of 300 to 360 miles. I don’t know about yours, but my brain has not developed enough to make life-saving decisions three times faster than my ancestor for six times as long of period. I’m not that smart.

The human race can use a hand or a chip, in this case, to make our morning drive safer. If I can’t have my Google-limo, I want my proximity sensors. Please.

Momma

Friend #1 lost her beautiful mother to breast cancer triggered by a leaky silicon breast implant. Her mom was under forty and my friend about twenty. At age eight, friend #2 watched in agony as her momma physically abused the four daughters and drank her way to an early grave. Friend #3 visits parents who are drug addled and live hidden from the government in the middle of a desert. My cousins witnessed the Alzheimer’s disease erase the personality of their mother—a sweet and gentle parent—and yesterday it took her life.

What the survivors have in common is the open ache from the loss of momma. My octogenarian mother still bemoans the loss of daily conversations with her mom who died in 1962 at the age of fifty. Of my many friends and family who have outlived their parents, all speak of the emptiness that forms when that parent is gone.  It doesn’t seem to matter of if the parent-child relationship was cantankerous, loving, hateful, harmful, abusive, playful, miserable, wonderful, joyous, divine, or non-existent. Everyone misses something about that person and the special tie that is mother.

My much-younger husband buried both his parents and yet my parents remain healthy and active—Dad on a ranch in Missouri and Mom in a Californian townhouse. I love them both.

They drive me crazy—especially Mom whom I reach out and touch on a daily basis. It is said that the reason your mom can push all your buttons is because she installed them. No one can drive you around the bend quicker than the people that created you. Friend #1 loves to have me verbally trash my mom. She says it makes her feel as if her mom was still around bugging her. It is that extremely personal pat on the heart that we miss when the loved one is gone.

I don’t know how my cousins feel today as they plan the final services for their mother. I pray they get through the pain.

We have all suffered loss of someone. As we age, we know there will be more death. We need to find time to reach out to each other and share what made our momma special in our life. Even in the most negative of circumstances, a memory of joy exists that we can hold and share and fill up a bit of the emptiness.

God bless all.

Play Nice

After a year of failed attempts in marketing a room-for-rent, I decided to give it one more try. “Self,” I said. “when should you place an ad for a renter on Craigslist?” I have attempted many options before as well as ads in churches, senior centers, and www.roomateexpress.com. So I sat in my office and thunk. “Valentine’s Day! That’s it. A day when single people looking for a home would have nothing better to do than read a Craigslist classified.”

Sure thing, I received four emails the next day—a better response than the entire year. Two of the applicants looked suitable but this was the best.

Hello! My name is Molly. I am a twelve-year-old chocolate lab who is active and loves to play fetch. My master and I are looking for a room to rent. Please…

Of course Poindexter had to answer and then the two met. They had some discussions about doggie doors and cat chasing. I met Mark, Molly’s owner. After a few meetings, I rented the space to Molly and her owner. March 1^st, they moved in.

Of all the changes in my life in the last three years, I think this is in the top one or two as the most difficult. I realized that I have had more conversations with my letter carrier than with a man that will sleep fifteen feet from my bedroom door, use my kitchen, and hang out on my couch. Please note I am using the possessive pronoun—my. It explains my mindset and misgivings.

Molly and Dex played nice when the potential renter stopped in but since the furniture has arrived, Dex has realized the permanence of the situation he growls and snaps his territorial lines. I am afraid I am doing the same. With the change in cable to include sports channels, addition of a daily newspaper, someone else’s stuff on the counter, beer in the refrigerator, the remote moved, and noise, I am nervous.

This man moved his life into my home and trusted we could get along well enough to make it an equitable relationship. I hoped for the same.

It must be that he is anxious also. That seems to be a fair assumption.

My buddy, Beca welcomed Paul and me into her home several years ago. She made us immediately feel like part of the family. We had so many happy memories in that home including a smashing forty-fifth birthday party for my man.

If I could make Mark feel just a bit of that greeting, I know we could have a good roommate arrangement for some time. Dex and I need to play nice with our new friends. 

Swimming in Oatmeal

Eight days until Ash Wednesday. The Lenten season is forty-five days starting—this year—March 5^th and ending on April 20^th Easter Sunday. Every year, I give up something for Lent as part of my spiritual building exercises. I’m not sure if it improves my character but I do have a better understanding of my failures and therefore a pathway toward divine development.

Each year I pick something heinous to give up. The choice is not easy because, unlike New Year resolutions, the contract is not with myself but with my maker. I have successfully given up cigarettes, chocolate, coffee, soda, sugar, meat, impulse buying, television—most for Lent and cigarettes for good. Swearing was a failed choice. I tried. Really I did. I never made it more than five days without something slipping out of the mouth.

My marriage almost dissolved during the great coffee abstinence of 2010. Every morning, Paul begged me to give up my pledge which made me even more determined to stick with it. I had become a crone with attitude. Migraines blossomed during the day but I held my bitchy guns and made it to the end. No one was happier to see Easter than my husband. He made me swear to never do that again. Agreed.

So much has changed in my life and quickly, from loss of husband, health, job, to separation from friends and my Bay Area home. I feel like I am swimming in oatmeal. Yes. I am moving forward. The sensation is not unpleasant but this is not who I am. If there is anything I would give up, it would be the wet mush around me that slows down my progress. How in the world do I define that?

Perhaps if I choose not the negative but the positive and pray…

Lord, today

Help me taste the day

Help me witness beauty

Help me hear good reports

Help me touch someone

Help me believe you're here

Today, Lord.

 Dear Lord: I give up all that holds me down. Amen.

Okay if that doesn't work then I'll give up cookies. 

Dog Food Update

It’s been twenty days since my Poindexter has been eating the homemade dog food as his regular diet. He has not turned up his nose once at the meal. He still gets one bowl of dry food per day but I’ve cut back on snacks and table scraps. Dex is happy and active. Looks like we are done with canned food.

Here is the recipe again for those who did not see it.

Dog Food Casserole:

4 lbs ground turkey meat

1 lb canned Navy or Red Beans

1 lb frozen mixed vegetables (corn, carrots, peas, green beans)

2 cups cooked brown rice (which is 1 cup uncooked) *I used Wild Rice instead in my rice cooker.

1 cup cooked oatmeal *I used Trader Joe’s Organic Multigrain Hot Cereal with rye, barley, oats, and wheat. Microwaved one cup with 1¼ cups of water.

1 cup 2% fat cottage cheese

2 large eggs

¼ cup nutritional yeast

 Cook rice and oatmeal then allow it to cool. Find a very big bowl. Mix all the ingredients together until blended. You will need two large baking or lasagna pans sprayed with oil. Spread the mixture into the pans. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 60 to 90 minutes. This is a basic meat loaf recipe and will cook about the same. Cool and cut into dog can portions. If you have a little dog you should get 36-48 squares (42 to 31 cents per serving). Poindexter’s size was about 12 squares ($1.42 per serving). Pop into plastic freezer bags and freeze.  I like to heat a portion in the microwave before serving.

Creeping Crud

“How can I help you?” The male voice squeaked into my cell phone.

“Sounds like you have a cold.”

“Yes, it’s been hanging on for over a week.”

“Nasty stuff. Have you tired hot toddies?”

Laughter. “Without the rum?”

“During the work week of course…I want to get an upgrade on my cable that includes a sports package.”

That was it. One phone conversation with one individual—I’m downing Emergen-C every two hours and slathering Vick’s Rub over my chest like Sheldon on Amy Farrah Fowler.  Perhaps it was the Facebook chat with Rick also curled up in a ball with the creeping crud. More likely, I succumbed to the one-hundred fifty church goers of whom were starting, getting over, or ending a three week misery of a cold. Kudos to the other two hundred members who did not have colds but were most likely carriers of the disease.

This is my third cold of the season. The first came from a crowded American Airlines flight from London to Dallas. The plane packed with hackers and coughers who lacked one single Kleenex between them. Next, came after Thanksgiving, an illness gained from Monday sales meetings with contagious co-workers. And now…when I need my strength and focus for my job and personal goals, I am sick. Timing is everything.

I have been told that the cold is God’s way of saying. “Slow down.” I not sure if I buy into that. Does that mean shepherds don’t get colds? Toll bridge workers? Inspector 12 who checks the quality of my pillow? Conversely, wouldn’t the President be sick all the time? What about Olympic hopefuls? There is some pressure and stress right?

I am in sales. I need to talk by Monday. Anyone, please shoot me an email, comment or FB post of the best sure-fire cure for this crud.  Thank you!

Internal

I want to be a writer.

Aren’t you published?

Well…yes.

Then are you a writer?

I want to be a full time writer.

Why aren’t you a full-time writer?

My husband died, then I got cancer, then I needed income…

Is that the reason?

Um.

What is the reason?

Well, I need to make money.

Don’t writers make money?

Yes, some but not much.

So how much money do you need to make?

Depends.

On what?

What I want to do.

Didn’t you say you wanted to be a full-time writer?

Yes, but…

But what?

I want to travel and get some new clothes and…

Didn’t you say you wanted to be a full-time writer?

Yes.

Isn’t that goal worth a sacrifice or two?

Yes, but I need to make some money now.

Don’t you have a job?

Yes.

Don’t you make money?

Yes, but…

Do you see a problem?

There is so little time.

Really?

Between work, the dog, church…

Didn’t you watch the entire season of House of Cards this weekend and last month, Game of Thrones seasons one, two and three?

Hey, I can relax once in a while.

Jeopardy? Nova? Downton Abbey?

Okay. Okay. I have time.

And the dedication?

Perhaps.

So what is stopping you?

Me.

Ah, therein lies the problem.

Valentine's Day 2014

Easier to Find a Husband

Ten months, I have been advertising, networking, and praying for a renter. I’m not asking for a lot—someone intelligent, clean, honest, close to my age, that likes my dog, doesn’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend spending the night, no kids spending the weekends, someone quiet, won’t destroy my house, that will pay the rent, doesn’t mind parking on the driveway, and I won’t kill after a month. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, yes.

I’ve hired a roommate finder agency, posted ads at churches and senior centers. No luck. Most of the time, I read the room/share wanted ads on Craigslist.org.

The read is like this:

“…man in his late 40's looking for a place. I am neat and clean. I want no drama or bring any. I can do work for exchange for rent. I am honest, hard working, healthy, six-foot tall, looking for place…”

Picture two beautiful women with pouty smiles looking at the camera with the following caption, “We need to find a place ASAP, myself and my fifteen-year-old daughter…We are quiet, (you probably won’t know we’re there most of the time). I just need a safe environment …”

There are the traders—will do housework, yard work, or companionship. The 420 friendly grass smokers, cigarette smokers, and yes, 215 friendly pot growers, they do advertise. A couple who are or want to be foster parents for four rescue dogs while renting a home, “prefer tile floors for obvious reasons.” A young man looks for a place to crash for free for a few months. The sad ads: eighteen-year-old brother and sister leaving mom and dad to hang out and “get away from a hostile home.” “Single mom with three kids. Can’t afford motel. Need two rooms.”

I know that everyone needs a home and I pray everyone finds their match, but some of the ads were scary. One man wanted rent a room to bring his “young daughter” there once every two weeks or so. He would not live at the rental just show up with a young girl. I tried to make that into an innocent request but there has been too much on the news about abducted girls.

The suitable listings are rare and involve some kind of compromise. It is not like the college days where four of my friends made do in a two bedroom flat. It is interesting to be in the same situation at the autumn of my life as I was in the spring. My four bedroom home costs me money—taxes, utilities, and upkeep. With a renter, the house would be a self-sustaining asset.

I’ll keep looking for a renter or find Poindexter a job. Does anyone need a part-time squirrel chaser?

NEITHER RAIN, SLEET, OR HAIL

It’s my fault really.  Three years ago, we got a shelter dog in December. It rained and rained and…not the best weather to potty train a twelve week old pup. At that time we had not renovated the yard. With the Sacramento hardpan and the incline to Elk Horn Boulevard behind the back fence, each inch of rain transmuted into three inches of standing water in the backyard.

Poindexter’s stubby Bassett legs raised his body an inch and a half to two inches at best. When he squatted in the yard all but his shoulders and head were above water. The cold puddles made his sad eyes weep. He would not go out alone. Trained by a foster home before he was released to the pound, he refused to do any of his business inside the house. Good dog.

To keep the little guy from exploding, I slipped on my housecoat and UGGs, tromped into the flooded yard, and stood vigil over my peeing-pooping pup. Every two hours. Every Day. Every night. Dex went on command in waters chin-level without a whimper. On particularly bad days, I let him pee into a pile of leaves I had arranged on one corner of the patio. That did not serve him for number two.

Eventually, it stopped raining. Dex got taller—not by much. He braved any weather on his own. I thought my rain duties had ended.

            I dare anyone to come up with a more pitiful looking mug than a Bassett mutt holding a mangled Frisbee and whining at the patio door. Yes. He will do his business in the rain but play? No. The sad face and ear-splitting whine continue until I don my raincoat and schlep out into the wet for a game of fetch. Dex will play until he drops as long as I am soaked too. As I stated earlier it is my fault. I trained him.