Like a rock

I have Pfaltzgraff dinnerware in the Folk Art pattern. It could probably be classified as stoneware. It's certainly solid as a rock.


I picked it out years ago when I got my first apartment. The khaki and dark blue colors matched my sofa. Since the kitchen eating area was adjacent to the living room, I thought this was very clever. I painted the kitchen table blue to coordinate.

I still like the pattern. Mom always complained that the plates were too heavy. That made them hard for her to handle. I always thought that was a benefit. You can accidentally bash them into the faucet or sink and they don't chip or break. Unfortunately, as I discovered a couple of weeks ago, my bare toe isn't nearly as sturdy.

Dillon gets to lick the plates clean before I wash them. If the very thought of this horrifies you, don't accept a dinner invitation to my house. I've let all of my dogs lick the plates clean and no one has ever previously been harmed as a result. This time, I was dashing around the kitchen barefoot, without looking down, and ran full force into a plate. The plate, as usual, wasn't damaged. My toe hurt like hell. I hopped and cussed for a minute, then got back to work cleaning up the kitchen.

The toe turned purple and then yellow and green. But it didn't hurt to walk, so I thought at first that I'd just badly bruised it. When the lovely rainbow of color went away, but the toe still hurt when I touched it, I started to suspect that it might be broken. I tried ignoring it, hoping the problem would just go away. No such luck. I finally decided that a trip to the ortho doctor was in order.

I really didn't want the toe to be broken. Last time I broke a bone in the same foot, it was months before it healed. By that time, I'd gained about 15 pounds and lost a bunch of muscle in my calf. I didn't want a repeat of that experience. I like being able to eat anything I want and still fit in my clothes. And I remember how I huffed and puffed when I first started doing BodyRev workouts. No way was I starting over from scratch again.

Fortunately, while the doctor confirmed that I have a hairline fracture, he just advised that I treat it "conservatively" and it should heal in about 4 weeks. In the meantime, no running or jumping. Since I rarely run or jump, those instructions didn't upset me. I asked if I needed to wear the ortho boot that I saved from last time. Nope, not necessary. Could I walk the dog? That would be fine. Was balancing on one leg okay? No problem.

So, not as bad as I'd feared. With a few modifications, I can still Rev enough to stay in shape until it's okay to go back to more jarring movements. Dad's first question was "What about mowing the grass?" I'm not sure if his concern was for me or the lawn. I assured him that if I could walk the dog, I could certainly mow the grass. He looked doubtful. Since the grass is rapidly turning to straw, it's not going to need much mowing anyway.

Fortunately, most of my summer shoes are flat. My two new skirts would look better with my higher wedges, still, that's a small sacrifice. I've started living in my LLBean water shoes around the house. They're clunky and slightly dorky looking, but cool and comfortable without socks, give my toes some protection, and provide enough support that I can walk just fine. If I run into a plate while wearing them, both the plate and my toes should emerge unscathed.

Pink polka dots would be nice

Dad's had water hoses stretched out all over the yard for weeks now. He moves the hose from 1 sapling to the next, trying to keep the young trees and shrubs alive. We haven't had a good rain for weeks. I usually do a double-take when I'm walking in the yard and the hose is in my path, afraid that it's a snake. Then I feel foolish when it turns out to be a section of hose.

I water my plants using watering cans. I was headed for the dragonwing begonia hanging on the clothesline pole the other day when I noticed something long and black stretched out below the pole. I made a mental note not to step on the hose. When I got closer, I realized it was a snake, not a hose. This wasn't another false alarm. I stopped dead in my tracks.

The snake didn't move, just lay there at the base of the pole. Usually a snake moves when you get close to it. Since the snake didn't appear ready to move, I did. I retreated to the porch. The plant could stay thirsty a little while longer.

At lunch the next day, I told Dad that any future hoses we purchase should be a nice bright color, like yellow or orange. That way they wouldn't be mistaken for snakes. He informed me that there are yellow and orange snakes. "Yes, but they're not native to this region," I replied. The only snakes I've seen in our yard are black or brown. Just like the garden hose. I'd like the hose and the snakes to look distinctly different. Dad just shook his head.

Got milk?

The doctor asked me what medicines I take. I told him I take a fish oil tablet and a calcium pill daily. He wanted to know if I drink milk. "When I eat brownies," was my answer. Does that mean brownies should be considered a healthy part of my diet?

The iron and I are both hot

I just finished the ironing. I'm now hot and sweaty. It strikes me as just wrong that hardly any of my winter clothes have to be ironed, but almost all of my summer clothes do. Natural fabrics like cotton and linen may breathe, but they're definitely not low maintenance. At least not if you're afraid of the dryer.

I throw all of Dad's clothes in the dryer because there's no possible way they could shrink to the point that they wouldn't fit him. I put hardly any of my clothes in the dryer because I generally like the way they fit and don't want to take the risk of anything shrinking. That means most things require ironing unless I want to look like I slept in them. Which is ironic given that my pj's are seersucker and look just fine right off the clothesline.

Random thoughts

The People's Pharmacy was on NPR while I was performing my morning ablutions in the bathroom. While I love NPR, I have been known to turn off The People's Pharmacy because I'm not so thrilled about listening to people's ailments. This morning I left it on. The guests were a couple of doctors who wrote a book, Married to Distraction. It deals with improving your marriage in the age of ADD and constant interruptions. Since I'm single, and neither Dad nor I suffer from ADD, you wouldn't think I'd have found the topic at all interesting. But there were some observations that apply to every relationship.

Remember what you like about the other person. Respect. Celebrate the good times. Want what you have. In other words, try to focus on the positive. Sounds simple, but how often do we really stop to realize how lucky we are? It's so much easier to focus on the negative. Just ask Dad. I'm terrible about telling him what he's done wrong, but not so good about telling him what he's done right.

So, some things that made me happy this week.

We had a new storm door installed on the back door that opens onto the porch. Installation didn't involve ripping out the entire door frame. It's got really nice handles that are easy to grasp. I no longer find myself entangled in the screen and stuck to the door. There's no gap at the bottom just inviting snakes to slither in. I can leave the solid metal door open and enjoy the view or keep an eye out for when Dillon's standing on the step, waiting to be let inside. It's amazing how happy that door has made me.

I'm almost finished reading a fun book, Fantasy in Death by J. D. Robb.

The U.S. soccer team advanced to the next round and plays at 2:30 this afternoon. I'm not normally a soccer fan, but since ice hockey season is over, and the World Cup is on every day, I'm trying to feign interest. At first, watching a game was pretty much a prelude to taking a nap. But the announcers are amusing, most are British or Scottish or some nationality that has a sexy accent and an interesting way of phrasing things. And the last game the U.S. played was actually exciting. If nothing else, it makes nice background noise. After a while, the vuvuzelas aren't so annoying.

I've got a promising sounding DVD waiting for tonight, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day.

Dad made his usual hunting and gathering run to the farmer's market this morning and came back with lots of good vegetables and a coconut pie.

I made Cajun chicken pasta this week and while it was frustrating to chase the fettuccine noodles all over the plate, we agreed it was a dish that required a lot of effort to eat, Dad actually liked it. Next time I'm using rotini or some small tubular pasta that is easy to capture on a fork.

Dad finally took pity on me and ordered a new vacuum cleaner. The wheels fall off my old one. They're plastic and just snap into the beater brush. Unfortunately, they just snap off the beater brush as well. So I make a couple of passes with the vacuum and then have to stop and put the wheels back on. I tried replacing the wheels, but the new ones fall off just like the old ones did. I didn't want to spend money to buy a vacuum cleaner, so I just kept vacuuming and stopping to snap the wheels back on every couple of minutes. Sears has one on sale this week, so Dad suggested we get it. I don't expect it will make vacuuming fun, but it should make me cuss less while I'm doing it.

I had my yearly GYN exam. The doctor said my weight was good and he definitely didn't want me to lose any more. That's always nice to hear. I told him that wouldn't be a problem because I was going to Krispy Kreme as soon as I left his office. That got a laugh out of him. Since I started eating almost every meal at home, and exercising regularly, I don't try to lose weight, it just stays off. I got my old metabolism back.

My dog always makes me happy. Dillon makes Dad happy as well. It's sweet to see him pause when he walks by Dillon in the yard, smile, and stop to rub his head.

I drink my morning coffee out of a plastic Wawa travel mug. Uncle Bud got it for me and I love that mug. It's the perfect size and weight and it makes me think of him. So I don't need one of these mugs, but I share the sentiment.

Splash!

I toast leftover cornbread for breakfast practically every morning. I make several pans a week and Dad won't eat it leftover, so I started eating it for breakfast. When I slice the cornbread in half to toast, I wind up with a plate of crumbs. The crumbs get dumped in Dillon's food bowl. He loves them. This morning, I dumped them in his bowl and walked back to the counter. I wondered why I didn't immediately hear the rattle of him licking. He'd been right on my heels, so it wasn't like he didn't know they were there. Then I heard a splash.

For some unknown reason, I dumped the crumbs into his water bowl instead of his food bowl. After pausing for a moment to consider the problem, Dillon had plunged his snout into the water bowl to try and retrieve the treat. It's hard to get crumbs out of a bowl of water. Some were floating, some had sunk to the bottom. Dillon gave up after the first fruitless plunge and just stood back, staring at his bowl in confusion.

I apologized and took his water bowl outside to dump. No point in leaving it full of soggy crumbs. I felt badly about depriving him of his morning treat, so I gave him a chicken broth ice cube, the equivalent of a doggie popsicle. He wagged his tail, so I guess all was forgiven.

Anchors away!

I happened to be in Rocky Mount on the first day of Talbot's summer sale. Since it's been hot as Hades, I was in the mood for a new skirt. Unfortunately, this one wasn't on sale, but it was just too cute to pass up. I did have some dividend points that softened the pain a little. I wear black pants to work practically every day, so it'll be nice to have something a little different.

Is it hot enough for ya?

It's so hot here that no one's wasting their time asking that question. My indoor/outdoor thermometer read 100.4 when I got home this afternoon. I've never seen it register in the triple digits before. Greg Fishel, the WRAL weatherman, says we're on track for the hottest June on record since World War II. I take a few minutes every day to say a silent, but sincere, thank you to Willis Haviland Carrier, the man who invented air conditioning. Frankly, I think we should name a day in his honor.

Dad was sitting out on the back porch, sweating, this morning. He had the ceiling fan going and a glass of lemonade in his hand. I asked if he was sitting out there to watch things wilt? His response was yes, including himself.

Happy Father's Day!

It is a wise child that knows its own father, and an unusual one that unreservedly approves of him.
- Mark Twain

Dad would be the first to tell you, there's nothing unusual about me!


To My Father

It matters not that Time has shed
His thawless snow upon your head,
For he maintains, with wondrous art,
Perpetual summer in your heart.

~ William Hamilton Hayne

Stamp of approval

The USPS came out with a special series of stamps in April to bring attention to Animal Rescue efforts to adopt shelter pets. I've been trying to get my hands on some, but they kept being sold out. Yesterday, I finally got some. Aren't they cute? No Dillon lookalikes, but you can't have everything. While chatting with the clerk, I proudly announced that I had a rescued dog and he was the best dog ever. I keep trying to spread the word that adopting a rescued dog is a great way to get a wonderful pet. Just look at those sweet faces.

An early start

Dillon and I were up and on the Trail before 7 a.m. this morning. Dillon woke up early and the shaking of his ears woke me up. I laid there for a while because 6 a.m. on a Saturday seemed way too early to be up and about. When it became obvious that going back to sleep wasn't an option, I finally gave in and got up. It seemed dumb to waste time simply because the clock didn't say it was time to get up yet.

I don't feed Dillon immediately after a walk, but I do check to make sure there is water in his bowl. There was still some water left from yesterday. Instead of dumping it down the sink, I decided to take it outside. With all the watering Dad is doing, just pouring the water down the sink seemed wasteful. When I headed out the door, Dillon was right on my heels. He usually goes where I go, but this time he seemed especially intent.

I decided to pour the water in the bird bath. By this time, Dillon was bouncing up and down to sniff at the bowl. I was a bit concerned that he was going to jump on the bird bath to take a drink. It finally occurred to me that the bowl was his and he didn't approve of my sharing the contents, even if the water was a day old and he was going to get a bowl full of nice, fresh water. He was relieved when we headed back inside.

Then he concentrated his efforts on encouraging Dad to quit reading the paper and start fixing breakfast. Dad always shares a couple of pieces of his morning banana with Dillon. Usually by the time we return from our walk, Dad is either fixing his breakfast or already sitting at the table eating. Either way, there is a piece of banana sliced and waiting for Dillon. This morning, since we were ahead of schedule, Dad hadn't fixed his cereal and banana yet.

Dillon ran over to Dad's chair and stared hard at him. When Dad ignored him and continued to read the paper, Dillon gave in and followed me down the hall. A few minutes later, he heard sounds of movement coming from the den and he immediately deserted me. When I went back to the kitchen, Dad was standing at the counter slicing a banana with Dillon standing close by, tail wagging, watching every slice of the knife. He was quite relieved that someone was finally following their normal routine.

He earned major brownie points today

Thunderstorms were forecast for this afternoon and evening. When I left for work, I reminded Dad to put Dillon in his crate if it started thundering. Of course, I was hoping that Dad would hear the thunder to begin with. But assuming that he did, he was supposed to lure Dillon into the crate with a dog biscuit and then shut the gate behind him, closing him inside. Dillon calms down once he's in the crate. Left out in the house, he tries to climb up the walls of the bathtub or my closet.

Dad wanted to know if he was supposed to give Dillon a whole dog biscuit. I said that was fine. Then he asked if he was supposed to give him a Milk Bone dog biscuit or one of the smaller, homemade ones. I told him it didn't matter. Then I left for work, hoping they'd make out okay. Otherwise, I guess Donald could install new sheetrock in my closet when he comes back to put up the new storm door next week.

I stopped at the grocery store after work. When I left the store and headed home, it was very gray and beginning to sprinkle rain, but I hadn't heard any thunder. I parked the car in the garage, but didn't hear Dillon barking at the door. I opened the door, no Dillon. It was dark in the den and there was no sign of Dad either. It was completely quiet, no sound of running paws coming down the hall. I was beginning to wonder where they were when I heard Dillon crying.

I went down the hall and saw light spilling out of my bedroom door. Dillon was in his crate, crying for me to let him out. Dad was sitting in a small wooden rocker, that I use to pile clothes on, reading a book. I let Dillon out of the crate and told Dad it was nice of him to stay in the room with Dillon, but he didn't have to. Dillon would have been okay in the crate. Dad informed me that once Dillon was in the crate, he'd turned around to look at Dad and "I think he appreciated me staying in the room with him." When I stay in the room with Dillon, he turns his back on me and sticks his nose in the rear corner of the crate.

Then Dad wanted to know if Dillon always ate the dog biscuit once he was in the crate. I told him it depended on how upset Dillon was. If he's really scared, he'll just leave the dog biscuit until things calm down. Dad had to struggle a bit to get the crate door latched. It's mean to get the top and bottom wires in the holes. Dillon went in, but ignored the dog biscuit. After Dad finally got the door latched, he pointed out the dog biscuit and told Dillon he was supposed to eat it, which he did. Then they sat and waited for me to come home.

I told Dad he earned huge brownie points for his efforts. I thought it was very sweet of him to stay in the room with Dillon. He informed me that he didn't think that chair was really made for sitting. He's the one that bought the chair years ago, so it's not my fault it's uncomfortable. I just use it for piling things on. In fact, it was just sheer luck that I took care of the ironing this morning, so there was only 1 pair of shorts for him to move out of the way.

I'm sure Dad will use up his brownie points very quickly. But for the moment, he's rating very highly in my book. He's come a long way from the man who thought all dogs belonged outside.

Ain't no problem?

When I left for work this afternoon, Dad had gone to the store to have the new door lock keyed to fit our old door keys. Donald had the parts of the new door handle spread all over the front entrance hall. His helper was kneeling on the front stoop, waiting for instructions. “You’re going to be here until Dad comes back, right?” I inquired. “I’ll be here all night,” was the response. I had no idea at the time how true that statement might be. I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to head out for lunch, leaving Dillon alone in the house with an unsecured door.

When I got home this afternoon, I saw a door lying on the front sidewalk. The storm door was back in place, but there was no door behind it. I could see right into the entrance hall. A number of scenarios flashed through my mind, all involved us left without a usable front door. I was relieved to get inside and find that it was the old door lying in the yard. Wonder what our neighborhood pranksters will do with that overnight?

The new door is hung; it opens, closes and locks. Unfortunately, the project wound up taking all day and I can now see daylight on one side of the storm door. Dad hadn’t noticed it until I pointed it out. He’s not sure it can be adjusted. I’m supposed to ask Donald about it, politely, tomorrow. I never address Donald any way other than politely. For one thing, I like Donald. For another, I don’t want him to walk off and leave me with an unfinished project.

According to Dad, who kept laughing for some unknown reason, Donald had a rough day. It was unbearably hot and Dad claims it’s easier to begin a project from scratch than try to fit something like a new door into a 30-plus-year-old frame. Why can’t construction materials be uniform? Why do they have to alter the sizes of doors and windows and molding? Anyway, the new door is nice and when I tried my key just now, it works. I’ll have to get used to being able to latch the door simply by closing it as opposed to having to apply force while pulling or pushing to get it positioned so that the deadbolt would line up with the strike plate.

Donald will be back tomorrow to finish the door. We still have a mail slot and peephole to install. Dad made sure to be outside this afternoon when the mailman was making his rounds since if he’d arrived to find no mail slot or mailbox, he might not have left the mail. Once the front door is finally finished, we’re having a new storm door installed on the back door. Then Dad wants the doors to his shed adjusted. Thank goodness, the basement and garage doors were replaced last year. Because by then, I’m sure Donald will be out the door.

I told Dad this evening how lucky it was to have Dillon on hand for this project as opposed to Katie. With the number of times we had either no front door, or an open front door, today; Katie would have attempted to run off at least 4 times. I’d have been a nervous wreck and Katie would probably be all the way to Virginia by now. Dillon, bless his heart, was so intent on staying with me and away from the banging, that he walked right by the open door without a second glance. Dad informed me, “Mr. Dillon has been extraordinarily good today.” He even barked to announce Donald’s arrival this morning. That was a good start because I was in the shower and Dad was on door duty. Without Dillon’s warning, there’s no telling how long it would have taken Donald to get Dad’s attention.

Tomorrow we get to start all over again. It’s supposed to be another hot, humid day. Wonder what else will go wrong? Hopefully Donald will still be saying, “Ain’t no problem.”

As good as new?

I've become my mother. Growing up, I could never understand why she didn't want to have something replaced or repaired. Now I get it. It's because a project never goes exactly as planned and sometimes you're left wishing you'd just kept putting up with what you had. Better the devil you know.

We had a solid wood front door. One of the panels had a narrow crack in it so that light spilled through. I thought this was a clear indication that the door needed to be replaced. We'd tried caulking, but the crack was so narrow that it was hard to get the caulk into it and over time, the crack would open up again. Over the years, I'd grown accustomed to the crack and no longer worried about it. This summer, Dad decided he was ready to replace the door.

So today, Donald is here working on the door. Silly me, I thought you could simply knock the pins out of the old door and hang the new one. I figured it would take no more than 45 minutes at the most. I wasn't expecting a major construction project. With all the beating and banging and drilling and sawing, you'd think we were taking the whole front of the house off instead of merely installing a new door.

New solid wood doors are expensive, so Dad chose to go with fiberglass. In order to hang the door, the entire door frame had to be replaced. It's the hottest day of the year so far. We're heading for 96 degrees with high humidity. What better day to have a huge, gaping hole in the front of the house letting in all that heat along with flies, wasps, and God knows what else. Donald started before 8 a.m. It's 3 hours later and the door is finally hung, but not finished.

Turns out, when he got the door hung the first time, we discovered that it rubbed the carpet. Given that the carpet is 30 years old, so it's probably compressed over the years, this was not a good sign. We do plan to replace the carpet, which will probably mean that the new carpet will be higher. Then what are we supposed to do? Walk around the house to come in through the garage? After some discussion, during which Dad wanted to dwell on the merits of felt vs. foam carpet padding, we finally decided the door needed to be raised 1/4 of an inch. This involved cutting the header out of the door frame, raising the threshold and then putting the door back up. Why is nothing ever easy?

Donald was going to need some plywood for the project. He wasn't sure he had anything with him. If not, a trip to Lowes was going to be necessary. That was going to take at least 30 minutes, during which I was going to be left with a huge, open hole, an invitation to every flying pest, and who knows what other creatures, in the neighborhood. We couldn't close the storm door because that's propped up against a tree in the front yard. There was no way to rig up a piece of plastic or hang a sheet over the opening.

We have enough wood scraps in the basement to build a room. I suggested to Dad that surely there was a piece of wood down there that would work. "Probably not. Just let him go get what he wants." I insisted that there must be a piece of wood in the basement that would work. I wanted something solid in place between me and the great outdoors as quickly as possible. A trip to Lowes was something to be avoided if at all possible. Dad finally relented and went to investigate the pile of wood scraps in the basement. Sure enough, he came up with a piece that fit the bill.

The door is hung. It opens and closes without rubbing the carpet. Now Donald has gone to buy something to put below the threshold to cover the gap and buy new molding because the old molding isn't going to fit. Hopefully when he puts the storm door back in place, it'll fit. There was some question about whether it would now be too high, leaving a gap at the bottom.

Donald's response to almost every obstacle is, "Ain't no problem." Then he starts outlining the work-around. I've never known him to fail. Hopefully this won't be the first time. I've about decided that home improvements are like sausage making. You're better off not seeing the actual process, just turning up to enjoy the finished product.

Do I look like Betty Crocker?

I'm done. I think I've met my quota of useful activities for the day. Dillon and I were up and on the Canal Trail before 7 a.m. this morning. At that hour, it was still really pleasant out. We encountered another walker who stopped to alert us to the presence of an osprey nest at the top of one of the steel electrical transmission towers. The nest was made of sticks and was bigger in size than a child's plastic wading pool. I'm pretty sure that osprey eat fish which is good because any bird that can build a nest that big could easily carry off a chihuahua. Luckily Dillon is large enough not to be regarded as prey.

When we got home, I did a load of laundry while waiting for Dad to come home with his bounty from the farmer's market. Then I cooked lunch and while I had the oven going, baked Dillon a batch of dog biscuits. Dillon is a pleasure to cook for because he wags his tail and devours everything I make. Dad, on the other hand, fancies himself a food critic and has forgotten whatever manners his mother taught him. You remember the old adage, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." He's not nearly as funny as he thinks he is and he obviously doesn't learn from past experience.

I cooked fresh asparagus the other day. Since I didn't cook it long enough for it to turn into green mush, he took one bite and inquired, "Is this supposed to be asparagus?" He knew very well that it was. That was just his way of indicating that he didn't think it was prepared properly. I reminded him that fresh asparagus and canned asparagus are two totally different animals when it comes to texture and that if he didn't want to eat it, he was welcome to open a pack of Nabs.

A couple of days later, I made egg salad for supper. After his first bite, he wanted to know if I'd added a different ingredient. I told him it was made of the same ingredients as always. "It's different." There is no recipe for egg salad, it's just something you throw together without measuring, so it's not going to be exactly the same every time. "It's crunchy." Given that there was no egg shell in the salad, I found that comment strange and insulting. I finally figured out that he was complaining because there was a little more pickle in the mix than usual. I'd deliberately added a little more because he likes the pickle. Bite me!

After supper, I informed him that I wasn't Chef Boyardee or one of the Keebler elves. My cooking doesn't always strictly follow a precise recipe and I don't have to meet their quality control standards. But if he didn't can the comments, he might get the opportunity to eat a diet that met their rigid standards for uniformity because he'd be eating out of cans and bags of prepared food when I stopped cooking for him. He then had the audacity to say that he wasn't complaining and if he didn't like something he'd let me know. He obviously missed the point. I don't want him to let me know. I want him to either eat what's on his plate or get a pack of Nabs, but to spare me the editorial comments.

You would think he'd remember what happened the first time I baked him cookies from a recipe in the Diabetic cookbook. He wanted to know if I could make them crisper. He likes his bread and cookies crunchy and everything else the consistency of mush. I solved the problem. I never baked him another cookie. Like I said, I'm not one of the Keebler elves.

Retro fun

Aren't these gloves the cutest things? They're available at Layla Grayce.com. All you'd need to complete the look would be a frilly apron. Like one of these.


They're almost enough to make kitchen chores seem fun. The strange thing is that I'd really like any of them. I'm definitely not June Cleaver, and I'm about as far from southern belle material as you're going to find, but who says you can't look cute while enduring the drudgery of working in the kitchen.

One man's trash.....

Well, I’m not sure you’d classify it as treasure, but someone certainly wanted it.

Today is trash day. I was sitting at my desk, drinking my coffee and surfing the web. I heard Dad go out the front door and come back in. Since he’d already been out for the paper, this was a little out of character, but I didn’t see any need to jump up and investigate. Then I heard him go out the back door and come back in after which he immediately went out the front door again. This was a lot more activity than he usually exhibits in the morning, but I still wasn’t interested enough to go ask what he was doing. I usually don’t want to know. A few seconds later, I heard him coming down the hall.

“What happened to the trashcan?” he demanded. As far as I knew, nothing. I’d put it out at the curb yesterday after lunch and hadn’t paid any attention to it since. “What do you mean?” I asked. “It’s gone. I went out to put some newspapers in the trashcan and it’s not there.” He was still looking at me as if I’d done something with it. I got up and looked out the window. Sure enough, it was gone. “I don’t know what happened to it. I put it out yesterday.” “I know you did, but where is it now?” I’ve been accused of being a know-it-all upon occasion, but I really didn’t see what he expected me to say.

“I don’t know where it is.” I repeated. “It’s gone,” he said again, stating the obvious as he stood there staring at me as if I was supposed to solve the mystery. “Well what would you like me to do about it?” I inquired. I get tired of him simply presenting a problem without offering any solution, like a politician or talking head, and expecting me to fix it. He was silent for a moment or two. “I guess you should call Public Works,” he suggested. “What are they going to do about it?” I asked. “Bring us a new one. We have to have somewhere to put our trash.”

“Why can’t we use the old container?” “I figured they didn’t use those anymore.” “I don’t see why not.” “Then why did they bring a new one?” “I’ve never figured that out,” I replied. The new trashcan just appeared one trash day several years ago with a note from the Public Works Department to put the old one out for pick-up. I did, but they never picked it up, so I finally rolled it to the backyard where it’s sat ever since. Sometimes a trashcan appears, sometimes one disappears. Why question fate?

I couldn’t think of any good reason why someone would steal a full trashcan. It had to be kids screwing around. I suggested he ride around the circle and see if he could spot it. He looked at me as if I were insane. “How am I going to know if it’s ours?” he asked. I figured if he spotted a trashcan dumped in an odd place, like the middle of the road or in the little park, he’d know it was ours. He looked doubtful, but got in the car to drive around the circle. I went to get dressed so I could start scouting out back. He came back informing me that everyone else’s trashcan was in the proper place at the curb and he hadn’t found ours.

Dillon and I got in the car and we made a quick circuit. I really didn’t want to have to call the police to report a missing trashcan. I didn’t spot an extra trashcan anywhere either, but I did run into our neighbor. I informed him of the missing trashcan. You couldn’t ask for a better neighborhood watch than my neighbors, Larry and Becky. Larry said his dogs had been barking around 1:30 in the morning. I went back inside and told Dad I’d put Larry on the case. Dad looked at Dillon and asked why he hadn’t barked. Dillon is a very smart dog. We put the trash out to be picked up. Why bark at someone who was taking it away?

The doorbell rang a few minutes later. Larry had found our trashcan. It was in the bushes across the street in the neighbor’s side yard. Since it’s a green can and was lying on its side, it had escaped my notice from the car. Obviously, I should have conducted the search on foot. I went and got the can and put it back in place. Dad went out to throw away his newspapers before the can could disappear again.

He came back in, still shaking his head. “The hose I threw away is missing. How would they know a hose was in the can?” Like that was the whole reason they’d taken the can to begin with. “I’m sure that was just serendipity,” I assured him. “But look at all the other stuff people have set out.” “Maybe some of their stuff is missing too. How do you know?” He just kept shaking his head, convinced they’d taken the can solely to get the hose. If that was the case, why not just take the hose without moving the can? It would be interesting to know what they did with the hose. I doubt it’s being used to water the yard.

Dad’s threatening to chain the trashcan to the light post from now on. I’m thinking more along the lines of reporting the incident to my neighbor, the City Councilwoman. I’m sure the job of keeping the neighborhood trashcans safe falls under her area of responsibility even if it wasn’t included in her campaign platform. A more practical solution would simply be to put the trashcan out in the morning from now on. I doubt the trashcan thieves operate during the day. Of course, when something as tempting as a water hose is on the line, you never know the lengths to which someone might go.

Waste not, want not?

I come from a family of hoarders. Actually, I get it from both sides of the family. My grandparents went through the Depression, so they can be forgiven for thinking they should hang on to everything because it might come in handy in the future. My parents continued the tradition, although Dad came to regret it when he was the one left with the burden of clearing out a lifetime of stuff from the house in Baltimore. You would think that I would see the folly and make more of an effort to remain clutter-free. Unfortunately, I am also prone to hanging on to things because I might have a use for them in the future.

Now I ask you, how likely is it that I'm going to need the heavy plastic sleeve that my poster-sized 2010 calendar came wrapped in? I've saved it since January, but finally decided today during a spurt of housecleaning that it was probably safe to add it to the trash. Why on earth didn't I do that as soon as I opened the calendar? Recycling is a noble goal, but so is a clutter-free living space.

I like clear spaces, I'm just not very good at keeping them clear. I'd probably be better off if my closets and cabinets didn't have doors. Lord knows I take advantage of out of sight out of mind to stuff every available inch of storage space full of things that I might need someday or can't part with due to some silly emotional attachment or simply can't decide what to do with. Of course, out of sight out of mind also rapidly morphs into either forgetting what I've stored or where I stored it. I always feel a tremendous sense of satisfaction when I cart armloads of stuff out to the trashcan. So why do I have such a hard time making the decision to part with it in the first place?

The dog days of summer

Lord, I'm glad I came along in the era of A/C. When Dad came back from the farmer's market this morning the first words out of his mouth were, "It's going to be a hot one out there today." Given that this is the opinion of a man who wears flannel drawers all year round, you know it's miserable here today. I agreed with his forecast and then said that I certainly hoped he did not have any strenuous outside activities planned for the remainder of the day. I was relieved when he assured me that he'd already done as much as he cared to do. Usually on hot days he still comes up with some outside chore that simply can't wait. It's not like him to actually exercise common sense and acknowledge that it's too hot to do anything but settle down inside with a good book.

There was more than the normal amount of activity along the Canal Trail when Dillon and I went for our walk early this morning. I'm so used to having the trail to myself that it felt like we were joining a parade. A bunch of cyclists almost ran over us as they came around a curve. They really need bells on those things. A couple of older ladies were walking along at a brisk pace, but slowed long enough to greet Dillon and comment on what a beautiful dog he is. A jogger glanced his way, but looked relieved when Dillon stayed on the side of the trail as did the older man with the extremely tall walking stick. There was also a family with a little girl walking a small pug/bulldog type dog. Dillon and Mugsy greeted each other politely. Dillon was far more interested in being petted by the girl than being sniffed by the dog. It was funny to see Mugsy jump straight up in the air and pirouette when Dillon caught him sneaking up for one last butt sniff.

Since we got home, Dillon has mostly moved from one A/C vent to another. I've practically had to order him outside for the occasional bathroom break. He can't understand why anyone would voluntarily leave the cool comfort of the house for the humid heat of the yard. He loves his walks, but he'd be a great apartment dog. After he's had his walk, he's quite content to snooze the rest of the day away, only moving when he hears a kitchen drawer open or a bag rattle. Not a bad way to spend the day.

Let's play ball

Dillon rarely goes anywhere without a ball. His current favorite is the stars and stripes.

Amazing grace

I haven't been a baseball fan since the early 80's. I couldn't name a single one of the 20 pitchers who have their names in the record book for pitching that elusive perfect game. But I hope I'll remember the name Armando Galarraga. Not only did he pitch the perfect game, regardless of whether or not his name is ever recorded in the baseball record book, he also gave us all a perfect example of sportsmanship and character.

Here's a great article, One day after botched call, Motor City takes higher road, in today's Washington Post about the botched call and the surprising aftermath. In a world where the fans of winning teams regularly riot; where we're more accustomed to athletes, coaches, and fans behaving badly, this story is remarkable. As someone who would probably have required a number of big, burly security guards to physically prevent me from doing bodily damage to the ump responsible for the blown call, I can only marvel at the level of grace exhibited by both parties.

That is a big one

I had the house all decorated for Memorial Day. Flags in the front and back yards. Red, white, and blue flashing lights wound around the porch railing. Stars and stripes pinwheels in the bunch of sunflowers on the kitchen table. An Uncle Sam wreath on the front door and a wreath with red, white, and blue tinsel stars and lights on the hall door. Dillon even had stars and stripes tennis balls. We looked very festive. Unfortunately, our day didn’t turn out quite as planned.

I noticed these strange flashes in the peripheral vision of my right eye when Dillon and I went on our morning walk. As someone who is extremely nearsighted, I’ve been warned for most of my life about the warning signs of a detached retina. Flashes of light are one of the warning signs. I was concerned, but since it was a holiday, I thought I could wait until Tuesday to see the eye doctor. In the meantime, I checked on-line to update my knowledge of detached retinas.

It wasn’t terribly reassuring to read that yes, flashes of light are a warning sign as is a sudden increase in the number of floaters. Floaters are circles or squiggles that float around in your field of vision. They’re actually pieces of your eye that have detached and are floating around. A detached retina is compared to heart attack and stroke in terms of medical emergencies. Prompt treatment is essential to retain your sight.

I was still planning to wait until Tuesday to see a doctor, but then after lunch I noticed a really big new floater in my right eye. That’s when I decided it was time to get things checked out. Since my eye specialist is a doctor at Duke, that’s where I wanted to go even though I knew he wouldn’t be there on Memorial Day. I broke the news to Dad that I needed a ride to Duke. He surprised me and stayed calm and moved fairly quickly. I usually try to avoid having to spring things on him, particularly if they are potentially bad news.

We made good time and got to see a doctor pretty promptly. The good news is I don’t have a detached retina. The bad news is I have posterior vitreous detachment. Meaning part of the vitreous humor separates from the retina. Here’s a link to the Wikipedia entry the doctor printed out for me when I asked him to write his diagnosis down so I could use the correct terminology when talking to my regular ophthalmologist.

A PVD can lead to a retinal detachment and it looks like the new floater is here to stay. Both of the doctors who have examined my eye since the event commented when they spotted the floater, “That is a big one.” Not words you want to hear when discussing a big, blurry shape floating around in your field of vision.

I’m hoping July 4th will come and go without me witnessing any more of my own personal fireworks. The PVD hasn’t finished yet and it could take 6-8 more weeks before it completely separates. If I’m lucky, it’ll peel off smoothly. If not, it could tear the retina. The doctor compared it to peeling scotch tape off a wall. Sometimes it comes off without leaving a mark, sometimes it pulls the paint away from the wall. Unfortunately, I have a lot of the risk factors for the tear. Please, please, please let me be one of the lucky ones who just has to deal with the new floater.