The music room
Finally! The painting is done. Behold our beautiful "Desert Orange" music room, complete with gorgeous new CD cabinet that handy Husband put together (with a little hindrance from the cat) last night. The new bookcases are stained and drying in the garage and we should be able to move everything in this weekend. At last!

Of course I was less than useful, having been sick last week and again on Wednesday. But we're done with the majority of the work and really looking forward to getting our books and Husband's music out of boxes and accessible once again.

More from the "you gotta be kidding" department
Just what every brainwashed child needs Armor of God jammies. (No, it's not a joke, alas.)

In a similar theme, check out this little item I know people think Apple is a religion, but this is carrying it a bit far.

CD Pick of the Week: Gaelic Storm
You just gotta love What's the Rumpus?it's crazy-good wild Celtic music with energy and talent for days. Acoustic instruments, great vocals, and serious fun. Contagiously catchy, delicious lyrics (with a surreal sense of humor) and a slice of everything from African drums to Irish bagpipes. Every track is so good!

When the cat wants to help
Today Husband and I started painting what will be his new music office. Unfortunately Cipher, The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Disagree (tm) wanted to help. She always wants to be where we are and that meant wandering around, near and, ultimately, through the paint. She didn't get too paint-y, but enough that we realized this was never going to work. We closed the door but as someone once observed, "a closed door is that thing that a cat always wants to be on the other side of." So she sat outside the door, meowing piteously (and effectively cutting off the Dinah Washington CD we were using to inspire our inner Picassos.)

When my back started to hurt (after a whole 15 minutes of painting) I went out with her, leaving poor Husband to toil all alone. But that's not enough for Cipher; she hates being kept outside of anything. So she's still sitting outside the room, meowing. She is one unhappy kitty. Maybe we should have waiting until she fell asleep.

Delayed grief. Again.
When my best friend died of AIDS in the mid-90s, and again when his partner died two years and two days later, I "inherited" some of their things. I put the word in quotes because there were no formal wills, just a division of memories among survivors.

At the time I was really not prepared, or even equipped, to deal with more heartache. So the boxes of mix tapes, the old photo albums, and the shoeboxes of birthday cards and letters, went into "the Closet of All Mysteries." The CoAM is the closet it our spare room. Perfect place to store things like this. It's inside the house so I didn't need to worry about the heat and dust of the garage. But it's a place I rarely, if ever, go. The only thing in there is my "interview suit" (OK, not a suit, just a good jacket that I wear when job hunting) and a few additional items of clothing that I never wear but can't bring myself to get rid of.

But with the project of turning the spare room into a music office well in swing, I've put off the closet excavation long enough. Today I started and within five minutes was already floored. I found "the world's ugliest shirt" I bought for Steve at Salvation Army. We wandered into one of their stores with 20 minutes to kill before a movie and we had to buy for each other the ugliest shirt we could find (or at least find for under $5). I won, and Steve had to walk into the film in this hideous polyester thing with green and brown polka dots on it. Truly freaking ugly, something no one would ever wear, and yet I can't bring myself to throw it into the donation pile.

I found a small bag full of cassette tapes full of the original Broadway casts of shows no one has ever heard of. "Big River?" (Note to the Lurker: Yes, you know what it is. Yes, you used to have the tape yourself. Yes, you can sing the love theme. Yes, we love you in part because you know this crap about obscure musicals.)

So what exactly is the Statute of Limitations on sorrow? Here I am, more than 10 years later, still unprepared to deal with getting all nostalgic at hideous shirts and crappy tapes. Is it because I didn't do it and get it over with right after I lost them? Or will I always be snuffly when I come across the letters I sent them when they lived in Chicago and which they kept all those years? (For the record, I am an incredibly dull correspondent.)

Luckily for me, however, not everything in the CoAM is emotionally booby-trapped. I came across the ugly lamp I had in my office when I worked for CrApple. I found a copy of the collected works of Tennyson that looks like a Soviet May Day parade ran over it. I found my tax returns from 1997, an old Halloween costume, and an old Spanish army jacket I bought at an antique store. And how have I survived all these years without easy access to my VCR copy of "Favorite Monty Python Bits."?

Me and my deep and abiding hatred...
...for ants. Hate, despise, and loath. Spiders I'm fine with. Snakes (not that you'll find them in my house) are cool. Hate (like all right thinking people) cockroaches (again, you won't find them in my house). But ants are the one thing that drives me crazy.

We live in an old house with lots of weird holes into the outside (or at least into the inside of the walls) and we have ants. Not a huge infestation, but they are there. A few random spies in the bathroom. Well, we trace under the rug, find what we think is the source, plug it up, spray, and move on. Then, again randomly, a few wandering in the living room. No clue where they come from since we can't find a trail. But we kill, vacuum, and they seem to go away.

Today it was the kitchen. Four or five explorers near the sink that I kill. Then, about 10 minutes ago, I go into the kitchen for some grapes and there's the beginning of a swarm. OK, maybe only 20 or so, but that's enough for me to get the willies. I go into serial killer mode. I lose reason, a passionate desire to kill fills my brain, and I can't kill them fast enough.

There are really few things that I fear (Oompa Lumpas being at the top of the list) and I do not, in fact, fear ants. I just hate them. I can take one or two but the thing that just creeps me out is when there are hundreds of them. Honestly, after a killing spree to rid myself of a swarm like that, I swear I can feel them walking on my skin for about an hour afterwards. It's one of the things in life that just get to me. I hate, hate, loath and again, fucking, hate ants.

I wanna be 20 again....
But only because it takes me forever to get over being sick these days. When I was 20 I could get the flu, spend 48-hours at death's door, and by ready to go dancing on the weekend. (Oh like I ever went dancing!)

Now it takes me a week to get over whatever the creeping zarfs throws at me. I was sick Wednesday-Friday and here I am on Monday and still feeling like the cat has more strength than I. (Hell, she probably does.)

I'm trying to eat, to get my strength back, but it's a slow process. Some dry cereal. A nap. Some juice and oooh....a nap. It's like I'm a baby again, only I don't think I slept this much as a baby. I was supposed to do my regular shift at the Humane Society today but knew it would be impossible. I'm supposed to fill in for someone there tomorrow. Again, unlikely. And I have my show tomorrow night. That's more likely as it's less physical work but, again, I'm not sure if I'm up for it.

Poor Husband. Last week he took the week off so that we could, among other things, paint the spare room and turn it into his music office. We got as far as cleaning out most of it when I got sick and the process stopped. Now our garage is full of boxes, new bookcases, and our soon-to-be-gorgeous new CD cabinet. And my car is exiled to the street for the duration. I feel awful (as opposed to sick) because by now we'd hoped to have the room painted and the things moved back in.

Our book group meets tonight. One of the highlights of my month. Luckily the house isn't too dreadful (since it's doubtful anyone will look in our office). But I still wish we were done. Sorry, Husband. This is one of the side effects of being married to Sick Girl.

In sickness and in....well, sickness
I've been feeling incredibly guilty for not doing AIDS Walk this year. It's tomorrow. It's also the first time in 16 years that I haven't signed up to walk. But I didn't think my back would be up for it. Now I don't feel guilty any more because guess who hasn't eaten since Wednesday? Anybody? That's right, me.

The creeping zarfs are back. I was sick all night on Wednesday (hey, sleep is overrated), a bit better on Thursday, and sick again yesterday. OK, I have eaten....I had a cup of soup on Thursday. And that's it. So I don't think a 10k walk is possible even if I had signed up. Thankfully my dear friends Jess and Andy are walking. They are two of the greatest people you will ever meet in my blog.

Back when I was a manager, Andy worked for me. He was so amazing I not only wanted to promote him and give him every possible raise, but I wanted to clone him, adopt him, and knit him sweaters. Truly one of the coolest guys ever. (Now he works with Husband. Well, he will for another two weeks or so. Sorry, Husband.) Jess is his gorgeous, fabulous wife and she has taken up the AIDS Walk banner. Thank you, Jess, you rock.

Now, for something completely different...

If you need a good laugh, check out The Ridiculous Race by Steve Hely & Vali Chandrakekaran, two TV sitcom writers who challenged each other to a race around the world (sans airplanes). Think Around the World in 80 Days meets Animal House. I'm only on page 30 and I've already laughed out loud more than I have in any book I've read all year. It's a truly hilarious, quirky, eye-wateringly funny account of travels, travails, and triumphs.

This you won't believe
Some insane yabbo named Brent Rinehart is running for Oklahoma County Commissioner and has produced a comic book (in pdf) which, among other things, stresses his condemnation of "homosexual preferences." It's scary, but it's also hilarious. My favorite is the image of a toga-clad scout leader dragging poor little Timmy into the woods to molest him.

I do not dance when I have my period
What is it with advertisers and women's products? I mean come on ladies, when you get your period do you dress entirely in white and do ballet moves on the beach? When you buy a new razor do you immediately put on your bikini and shave your legs by the pool? It's just plan silly.

I realize they want to suggest their products are so miraculous that you'll forget you have drop-dead painful cramps and can't fit into your favorite jeans. But really? Dancing? Hell I've even seen ads with women skipping. Yes, skipping down a busy street, pausing to admire their own reflection in a window. I've lost count of the times I've done that, complete a with Mary Tyler Moore-worthy spin of "I'm invincible. I'm spunky. I'm menstruating!" abandon. Oh the sheer joy of having a feminine hygiene product that turns the average women into an extra in Swan Lake.

There's one ridiculous razor commercial that states "every woman is a goddess of something." Uh, yeah, right. Apparently I'm the Goddess of Low Tolerance for Being Treated Like a Twit. I use a razor to scrape hair off my legs, not to lift my spirits to the point that cocaine seems dull. How lame are you if a new razor is the highlight of your day?

As an aside to this are cleaning product ads where the most anal retentive housekeepers have the most disgustingly dirty houses on the planet. Here's some woman claiming that protecting her family from dirt and germs is like a calling from God and then they show her bathtub which looks as if a bunch of frat boys have been mud wrestling in it. And why, oh why are we still being shown that women are the keepers of the house? I don't know of any modern marriage where the guy doesn't pitch in with the laundry, cooking, or general cleaning. And yet it's still the perkily perfect wife and mom (always a mom, that's key) who is the one that actually smiles as she mops her kitchen floor. I have never in my life smiled while mopping a floor. Perhaps if I mop the floor when I have my period I'll be doubly inspired and start jetee-ing across the room.

Too exhausted to write
I had good intentions of writing something pithy and/or witty tonight but I'm too tired. Today was Day 1 of "Let's Turn the Spare Room into Something We Can Actually Use" and I am just plain pooped.

So until I get my mind and my energy back, check out The Museum of Bad Art. Be afraid...

Home improvements
Husband and I are bravely undertaking a bit of a home improvement scheme. Since we're only renting it's not as if we're learning how to re-tile a bathroom or put a jacuzzi in the kitchen.

Nope, just paint a few new pieces of furniture and a buttload of cleaning out. It's that last part I dread.

We're turning our former guest room, current store room, into a music office for Husband. He just ordered a gorgeous new CD cabinet that supposedly holds 1400 CDs. This should hold most of his collection, probably all if he thin-packs more of his music. That will also free up some storage space in the CD rack in our living room so I can finally have my CDs organized as well. We're also planning on adding two new bookcases as well, which should eliminate the piles of books that carpet the floor of the room.

The only problem is where to put the stuff that currently lives in our spare room. You see, that's where we (OK, I) put all those things that I don't know where else to put. The two big fans that only come out during heatwaves. Our luggage. Extra blankets and pillows. Leftover fabric from various projects (mostly pillows). And things that I keep because I don't want to get rid of them. High school yearbooks. Photo albums of long-gone friends. Old Halloween costume bits (because you never know when you'll get the urge to dress up like Mary, Queen of Scots and go to Safeway). There are two old dressers in that room and I happen to know every drawer is filled with something I'll either need to toss in the name of space economy or find a new home for in a home that has no room left.

I'm beginning to understand why people rent storage lockers.

We do have a loft in our garage where we can keep some things. The fans, for instance. But it's hardly a conducive space for storing photos or clothing. Plus it's a pain in the ass (and a two person job) to get everything up there and down again when you need them. I also have boxes of things from when I used to have an office or cubicle. I love to have a highly decorated space to work in so I have probably 3 or 4 boxes filled with postcards, fabric, toys, tchockes, pen holders, posters, and a bodily fluid clean-up kit (don't ask). Again, don't want to dump them.

Husband, with his usual flair for perfection has measured the space, measured the furniture, and made a computer model showing where everything will go. It's lovely. But there's no extra room. If I clean out the closet (again, tossing or moving to....where??) I can probably store some of my absolute treasures that I can't bear to lose. But I know that in the next few days I'm going to on a monumental sort out. It'll be good to de-clutter, I know, but why is it always so hard?

Once we get the room painted (we bought a gorgeous shade of orange...trust me, it'll rock!) and get everything set up it'll be a wonderful room for Husband to listen to, review, and write about music. But I cannot help but wish it were twice as big and had room for me to keep everything I want.

It's amazing how attached we get to property, isn't it? I have many items that belonged to my beloved best friend who has been gone for over 10 years now, and yet still I can't bring myself to throw away his tacky Hawaiian shirt or the coat he gave me and that Husband hates so much. (OK, I'll never get rid of that....sorry Husband. But I promise never to wear it around you.) Then there are books that I know I will never read again that I just can't put in the Salvation Army box.

Oh god, it just hit me....Christmas! Where am I going to put all my Christmas shopping? I always put it in the spare room because Husband never goes in there. (Why should he? The only thing in there is clutter and the cat box and cleaning the cat box is my job.) But my eternal Christmas shopping drop zone is going away!

You'd think two people living in a 3 bedroom house with have plenty of room but you'd be wrong. Our house is actually quite small. In fact, when everyone in our bookgroup shows up for a meeting our living room is crammed to the gills. But when you have two people who cannot seem to stop acquiring new books or music, space fills up pretty quickly.

Maybe I can accept that I'm a lousy cook, insist on take-out for the rest of our marriage, and use our oven to store my summer clothes.

Confessions of a lousy housekeeper
Yeah, I confess. I'm bad. I am so far removed from Donna Reed that I don't even bother to put on pearls and a housedress when I dust. Sad, isn't it?

Now in my own defense I will remind readers that I have a bad back. This makes chores like scrubbing the bathtub or mopping the floor painful, difficult and, well, stupid. I can do it, but I'll need at least 8 hours of recovery and several vicodins to recover. Is it worth it to have a pristine white bathroom? I'm am dubious. But the end result is that our house is most often a mess.

Poor Husband tries. I know he gets fed up with the clutter, especially since he's hard at work at the Bad Place all day while I'm at home with Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm). You'd think that I'd feel so guilty at being "kept" that I'd be a veritable demon with broom and mop. But, alas for poor Husband, while I do feel guilty I don't exactly do anything about it.

However tomorrow we have friends coming over for dinner (The Lurker and Mr. Lurker), which means, if nothing else, I have to at least clear a layer off the dining room table.

But the problem is, and this is really what keeps me from tidying up on a regular basis, there's just no place to put anything. You'd think 2 people living in a 3 bedroom house would have plenty of space for stuff. But you'd be wrong in our case. Our two main clutter items, books and CDs, take over every available flat space we have. And we're fresh out of official storage for both. Every bookcase is crammed, ever CD rack is full. And yet we acquire more. From where I sit I can see 13 books on the dining table, that's 13 brand-new books, none of which we have room for. So where the heck am I gonna put them?

The "spare room" is full of pile upon piles of books already. Not to mention boxes of CDs. We have this grand plan of turning the room into a music room for Husband, complete with comfy chair, nice stereo, and a place to write. But in order to do that we'll have to find a place for the piles to go. Which means more bookshelves. And a new CD rack. And (as confessed before) since I'm not working we really should be watching our finances -- so buying new furniture is really not the best idea for our 1-income family.

So I pick things up and move them around. This pile goes here (at least for now), that shelf can hold two or three more books if I lay them horizontally on top of the other books. We can probably put all these CDs in a new pile since they haven't been listened to in about a year and oh look, I wondered where that was.

Honestly it's enough to make me want to say "Hey Lurker, mind if we do this at your beautiful, always have enough room, larger than ours by quite a lot house?"

Sigh...

Nope, not scared
This morning I watched Rosemary's Baby, which I haven't seen in ages. I recall it being very creepy. Today, not even a shiver. Of course it was broad daylight, 80 degrees in the house, and not at all an atmosphere conducive to the creeps. But the fact is that when you're an adult and you watch a movie that scared you as a kid you very rarely (if ever) feel that thrill of fear again. Oh it's still a good film (although it gave me the giggles at the end when Ruth Gordon what shouting "hail Satan!") but I was completely unmoved.

What I find fascinating is how different the experience is when it's about a book. If I ever happen to pick up a book that I loved as a child, I find that the same book still enchants and delights me. And quite often when I pick up a book that I was forced to read in high school, and hated, I find that as an adult it's a completely different animal entirely.

I wonder why that is? Why is a childhood memory of a book still true and a childhood memory of a film so false? While wandering through a bookstore recently I came across a children's book that held fond memories for me. Turning the pages I was still charmed and it was all I could do to resist buying it. And yet a few months back I watched a movie that I recall as being hilarious as a child and was stunned at how entirely un-funny it was.

Very strange thing, the mind, ain't it?

Postcards from abroad
Perhaps it's the child in me, but I love, love, love to get postcards from friends who are traveling. In today's world where the personal letter is a thing of the past, it's really the only type of personal mail that still exists. It's especially wonderful when you didn't know that the person who sent the card was out of the country.

Yesterday's mail brought a postcard from Ireland, where the Belle of Belfast City is on vacation in the land of her ancestors. The Belle is a wonderful woman; beautiful, smart, funny, loyal, the type of friend that anyone would love to have. I am, however, luckier than most in that there's a whole host of women like the Belle who add color and warmth to my life. The Lurker. The Foreigner. Mama D. The Haiku Queen. SdeM. I'm not sure what wonderful things I may have done in my past life to deserve such great friends, but I'm very grateful that I did them.

Anyway, back to the postcard. It's such a minor thing. I mean I know how it is. You stop at some little shop and by a dozen cards. Then you spend an evening writing them all to friends and family, struggling to find a way to fill up three inches of white space. But it's so wonderful to receive one. Like small gifts. Amid the bills, catalogs, and junk mail there's this small cardboard scrap of humanity.

I know, I'm all soppy. But I do so love to be reminded how lucky I am. Thanks, Belle.

Shakespeare dreams
Lately, for some reason, Shakespeare has been on my mind.

A long time (another lifetime ago?) I was an acting major with dreams of performing all the grand female roles. Although I never saw myself as Juliet. She was too soppy. I am too plain. But ah, the others. Portia. Rosalind. And my absolute favorite, Beatrice.

But reality got in the way. In spite of being a damned fine actress I came nose-up against the glass wall that decrees that talented men who are less that gorgeous can still be cast in a role. But talented women without beauty cannot. Relegated to best friend, servant, and comic relief parts, I gave up my dream; realizing that my fragile ego was no match for the cruelty of casting.

Yet lately Shakespeare has regained his place in my brain. Perhaps it's having just watched season 2 of the Showtime series The Tudors. All that pre-Elizabethan history no doubt shook some dust off of old memories and vanished dreams. Snatches of long-ago monologues sneak into my brain as I fold laundry or drive down the highway.

I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake lest thou a fervent life should entertain and six or seven winters more respect than a perpetual honor. (That's Isabella from Measure for Measure in case you're wondering.

And now, like an odd TV omen, I channel surf ahead of insomnia and find a repeat of the fascinating documentary In Search of Shakespeare. At the moment, Michael Wood and his dulcet British tones is in a timbered school that Shakespeare attended as a boy. I remember the first time I went to Stratford-Upon-Avon and attended a production by the Royal Shakespeare Company. I thought I was in heaven. My acting days were not long behind me and I had marvelously harmless daydreams of being up on that stage. I walked by the river, under trees drooping with green leaves, and wandered into the church where the Bard is buried. It was like a pilgrimage.

But the 17th row is about as close as I'll ever get to performing Shakespeare again. And yet, at odd times....while waiting for a light to change or standing in line at the grocery store...I'll smile to myself at the memory of those days, long ago, when I was a Shakespearean heroine.

I don't want to live that long
And This is why I think John Cage is a loon. A concert that takes 639 years? Give me an effing break.

A happy story

For years, Husband and I have supported that wonderful organization, Heifer International. This story in the New York Times is a great illustration of how a small action can produce a huge reward. It's a total warm fuzzy.

I've always been terrified of him
Gosh, aren't we ever so enlightened? The US government has just (just!) removed that known terrorist Nelson Mandela from its terror watch list. (Of course I had to find out about this from BBC news. Good lord! Why was he on there in the first place? One of this century's greatest and bravest humanists and we had him blacklisted? I am ashamed.

Photo of the day
Just back from kitten duty. (The first of 3 shifts this week.) This little guy is Kobe. He's the runt of his litter, but he's so darned cute.