Handyman

A pat on the back to myself for fixing the garage door opener today.

After two years of having to hold the button down to close the darn thing as one of the infra-red sensors was found in pieces on the driveway, I suddenly had a brain storm--maybe they make REPLACEMENT parts for Genie garage door openers. A quick trip to Lowes and $65 later I had the parts AND a wireless keypad.

The hardest part was figuring out which breakers controlled the garage. With the kids off in college and the dogs and cats strangely uncooperative, I had to throw a breaker, run upstairs, check the garage lights and run back down to try ANOTHER breaker. Six trips later, I had it. Yes, six. Did I label the circuit once I finally found it? Well, no....but I'm going to (tomorrow).

I felt so accomplished after this event that I broke out the sealant for the deck and sealed the stairs. Then I hung a Roman shade in the laundry room.

Finally, I took Fargo outside for a quick pee and poo (Fargo's, not mine). Exhausted from my day of home repair, I settled down to watch the story of the lesbian couple that had last-distch in-vitro fertilization after several failures. Seeking to increase their odds, they both were implanted with two embryos. And voila--nine months later they had "quadruplets." So to speak.

Where is the Archbishop of Canterbury?

When you have five cats--five cats you complain about, lament about and vow NOT to replace when they are gone--why is the absence of one so obvious?

It's Sunday evening and the last time I recall seeing my oldest son's cat is Wednesday night. I left Thursday morning for Kansas and returned Friday night, so she could have disappeared anytime while I was gone.

She's a good cat, and she's been gone for a couple days before, but I have a bad feeling about this.

I go outside and call "Here kitty kitty kitty" several times a day. However, this generally just makes the other four cats come out to find me. I'd call "Here Archbishop of Canterbury!" but the neighbors already think I'm weird without me loudly and publicly summoning the head of the Anglican Church. Of course, our Archbishop is a female, proving we're just that much more progressive in Cedar Hill.

Fargo and Ringo

Today, a few words about my dogs.

I have two--Fargo (13) and Ringo (5). Both are of the female persuasion and have been with me since puppyhood. Fargo, I fear, is not long for the world. She's thin and scraggly, has trouble walking and feels much more comfortable defecating inside than out. Major strike against her, if you ask me. Fargo spends every night closed up in my bathroom on a nice pile of blankets and the shirt I wore to bed the night before. She never defecates in there--not enough room to get away from it afterwards I figure. Pity she never learned about toilets, as there is a very convenient one in with her every night.

Ringo is the antithesis of Fargo. Ringo is fat, walks and runs just fine and never defecates indoors. We acquired her in 2005....she looked (at the time) like my favorite childhood dog (Jeremiah, a.k.a Poopsie) and I let my emotions bypass my brain and brought her home.

Ringo and Fargo are not the sharpest tacks on the board, so to speak. Fargo has never learned to signal she'd like to come in from outside. She simply stands at the door and looks at it. If it doesn't magically open, she lies down and waits. No barking, no scratching, no standing on her hind legs to ring the doorbell.

Ringo is smart enough to know when I am leaving. At this point, she makes a snap decision--inside or outside. If "inside"--she then slinks off into my bedroom and "hides" behind the rocking chair. if "outside"--she immediately goes under the deck and stands behind the stairs. She stands very still and always in the exact same position. Of course, she is invisible there and I cannot see her and force her to come back in the house. I'm usually ambivalent. Now, if she ate dog poop like she eats cat poop, I'd probably make her stay in and clean up Fargo's messes while I'm gone.

How I Want to Die

An odd topic for a Sunday morning blog, I suppose....how I want to die. I suppose a better choice of title might be "How I Don't Want to Die" as the answer would be "in a long, slow decline with my mental faculties eroding, with fingernail polish on only one hand and wearing a hospital gown under my shirt and over my polyester, elastic-waist pants."

Yes, I went to see Mom yesterday.

You know you're in trouble when you walk in the nursing home (a much more succinct way of describing 'The Quarters at Des Peres" than saying "Assisted Living Community") at 3:30 p.m. and the nurse says "Good, you're here! She won't get out of bed--she had some night last night." I found Mom in bed, covered with a sheet, flat on her back, and looking about the size of a 6th-grader (well, an AVERAGE 6th-grader...not a KAMMERER 6th-grader). She was not sleeping soundly so I opened with "Hi Mom, I brought you a brownie." THAT got her attention and within a minute or so she was sitting up in her bed (I raised the back to encourage sitting up) munching happily on brownie #1. "Ummmm....this is GOOD," she said, a look of rapture on her face.

I did her nails after she ate the second brownie, but didn't want to polish them in bed (she never can wait 'til they are dry and inevitably gets nail polish on something). I coaxed her into standing up, and that's when I found she had a hospital gown on under her shirt. Hmmm. She wouldn't remove the shirt, so I actually wrangled the gown off without removing the shirt and talked her into putting on her pants. Of course, I somehow managed to get both legs in one leg hole (this is why we use "professional" help) and that's when she got a little testy with me. "What are you DOING?" she said, very crossly.

Enter the "baby."

The baby is a pink-clad baby doll, pretty much life-size. "He" was sitting on the top shelf of her closet this time. I handed the doll to Mom, who changed from Jeckyl to Hyde (or is it from Hyde to Jeckyl?), took the baby and began cooing appropriately. "We're just going to have to wear you out today," Mom told the baby. Wow. An actual cognizant, well-formed thought....delivered to a doll.

Mom picked out a dark pink color for her nails this time, tried to sample it by placing the brush on her tongue and started in surprise when I squawked and took the polish away from her. I got one hand done and was blowing on the fingers to dry them when her frustration level peaked. I never did get the other hand done, but she did enjoy a third (and last) brownie. These were small, mind you, and she relished every bite.

I helped her put on her shoes, but she refused socks. Oh well...it was a warmish day anyway.

We then made our way to the dining area. After all, it was nearly 5 p.m. and she hadn't yet had a real meal. We were accosted in the hall by Lee, who wanted the baby back. Mom wasn't going to budge on that one.

I guess the message today is that I'd like to die in a blaze of glory, perhaps on a failed mission to Mars when the capsule suddenly gets sucked into a 2001-like vorpal space or maybe in a massive volcanic eruption, or even in a tornado where my house is sucked up a la Dorothy and Aunty Em. I don't want to put my already bad fashion habits on public display, or appear orgasmic over chocolate. I'd like to remember my kids (so I can complain about them) and my grandkids (if R & C ever decide to procreate).

But life, unfortunately, doesn't give us the choice. So if I do end up like Mom, remember the me instead that patiently painted her nails and answered inane questions and who thanked God, every time I left Mom's side, that Dad didn't live to see her like this.