Author: hamblog

house hunty part 5
I think I want to buy a home. ~~I don’t know if I can buy a home~~, so I’m finding out everything I can about it. I will be posting my progress here from time to time. Part one is here. Part two is here. Part three is here. Part four is here.

When we last left our heroine it was nearly two years ago and her dream of owning a home was sputtering. Her worst fears were that nothing was going to happen until (gasp!) 2015.

And when I last wrote, I was casually looking because some money was coming my way, but that money was not even close to money I needed. So, sputter sputter, and no big deal, since I was installed in the cutest apartment ever and I needed some very calm time after some really hard time. And 2014 turned out to have lots of stuff stuffed into it, too.

But then, yeah, an amount of money came my way, quite recently. By then I had a financial advisor, who was helping me along with some funds I had inherited, and she gently but persistently urged me to think about buying a home as soon as the financial stars aligned.

And, really, once the money is there, the rocket takes off pretty quickly. I started anew with a new loan officer and realtor, and found out what I could afford in this screwy County, which wasn’t much.

I was half hoping for this story to include a parade of really awful places, but there were just two and they did not disappoint.
- Fixer upper by the beach — walking through the door of this two-level condo, the cigarette and animal poop one-two punch almost leveled me out. Then we made the mistake of opening the doors of the washer, dryer and fridge. Believe it or not, this one was a close contender. Sinking several thousand into it would have made it nice and would have made it verrry flippable.
- The De-HELL-opment — Realtor couldn’t help showing me a three-bedroom in the most notorious condo development in Ventura. Something ill and apocalyptic about the place. Walking through, I saw what was clearly a hoarder’s home, with stuff piled on the balcony; the condo we toured (still occupied) smelled strongly of the weed and was a wreck. Outside, it was like Central Casting had put out the call for “weirdo extras.” BUT HEY IT WAS IN MY PRICE RANGE!
Shifting in to motivated homebuying mode was shockingly easy. Suddenly, spending the most I’ll ever spend on anything ever several times over just became a reality. Sure am glad I got a little experience from the house sale before; if I had to be sat down and educated from square one I would have felt totally overwhelmed. As it was, things went shockingly, breathtakingly fast.

I will mention here this is an extra-crispy challenge to do by oneself; not only because of $$ but also because of having to, well, make all the decisions. Only my realtor and I saw the places I’d been considering, and I have to make a narrative out of a 20 minute visit, I have to project my future on a blip of a moment and a whole lot of gut feeling.

I think I got lucky. There were three places I saw worth actual consideration, in the three different areas in which I want to live. All with pros/cons (which demanded many lists, much obsessive looking at the real estate photos, and many emails and calls to trusted friends and family.)

So in a three-day blitz, I saw, chose, made an offer, and got the offer accepted, on a place. Yup. Escrow starts Monday.
August 28, 2015
refinish finish and done
This table came from the house my mom and stepdad shared. I belongs to me, now — as much as a family heirloom can. I don’t think it was the original table to the chairs. I’d have to ask surviving family about it. All I know is that it’s Danish, it’s teak, it’s old (maybe 1960s?) and it was in sad shape.

The table with one of its leaves lived in the sunroom of the old house, and I can guarantee it didn’t get any kind of maintenance for many years. Then, as my (usually fastidious) step-pop’s facilities deteriorated, a lot more lack-of-coaster-related accidents occurred.

Cut to: the table has been in my apartment for 1.5 years, still neglected. Then I put both leaves in so I could work on a big craft project. It became clear, seeing the whole thing laid out, that it was time for me to fix this.

Curious as to what pentagon-shaped vessel caused all that damage. Vase?

Big difference between the regular part of table and the leaf which is stored most of the time.

I’m putting this blog post here because I found the process of getting information and help while starting the refinishing process to be a little frustrating and full of contradictions. I probably could have gone to the local wood shop store and found an expert, or go and find that one incredible store employee that helped me when I did that quick and dirty refinish of that thrashed dresser (a dresser I still use and love). Fortunately, The Brick House has an excellent post about refreshing teak.

Slowly I gathered I was going to clean the wood, sand the wood, and oil (or condition or refinish or blahblah) the wood. Oil and finish was the big question mark for me. Did I want something to soak WAY in? Did I want to stain or seal? I happened to have two different teak-approved oils. One was Watco Danish Oil, and the other was a very old can of Danica House Teak Oil. The Danish Oil made me a little nervous as it says it’s “penetrating oil and varnish that stains, seals and protects in one easy step.” The Teak Oil, on the other hand, sounded milder: “will retain the original dull finish and preserve the fine wood. Does not contain wax, silicone or acid.” I went with the Teak Oil, because I figure there’s going to be a time in the future when I might want to get this table professionally restored. And it sounds like something that penetrates the wood so much (like the Danish Oil) might make it hard to remove and sand.

I wiped down the table with Murphy’s Oil Soap. While it dried I went to my local giant hardware store and bought the finest sandpaper in the land. Sandblaster Pro! Everything is so over-the-top and macho in the home repair biz. Morgan from Brick House recommends 150 grit but I was very nervous about gouging/scraping/royally screwing up.

So I sanded away. With the grain! There isn’t a human, business or website on earth that won’t forget to remind you to sand with the grain! Otherwise, you will destroy humanity!

I sanded (one full piece of paper per leaf), I wiped off the dust, I girded my loins.

Here is the oil. It’s a petroleum-based product and smells. SMELLS. Open windows. I was assured the can was still good. It was the only thing I could afford at the MCM estate sale.

Preeeeetty. I went a couple applications and left the second on for a few hours. Much care has to be taken to remove all the excess. Also must destroy cloths after use “due to risk of self-ignition.” This is not a joke. My friend Gibbs and his family barely escaped their home after after a neighbor left a bucket of oily rags under Gibbs’ stairway and boom: self-ignition and fire.

After. Better, no? The leaves have some light, swirly scratches in the wood. NOT ME, I sanded with the grain. I presume they’re from sliding against each other when I’ve moved them in and out of storage.

After. Yeah, some of the water damage is still there and visible.

Yeah, stains remain. But this is the section that had the hexagon-shaped damage, which much less noticeable.

After, with the leaves put away. Oh, yes.

After, another view. You can see the hexagon from this angle, but it really doesn’t bother me much. Placemats and coasters 4-ever.

I probably will finish off the whole shebang with Howard’s Feed N Wax, which will protect and feed the wood. Sounds like it will be easy to remove if I ever want to have this table really restored.

Lessons learned:
- I should’ve gone with a slightly heavier grit sandpaper; it was probably needed for me to get those swirly marks out.
- And, although I sanded WITH THE GRAIN, I was a little sloppy with the edges of the table, since the grain abruptly changes. I can see some light scratches going the wrong direction. I am an amateur.
- I should have completely finished sanding before applying oil. I had a terrible method of sanding and oiling, panel by panel, until I got smart. Again, I am an amateur who sometimes doesn’t have the most common sense in the world.
- There are many ways to treat wood, hence all the contradictions.
- There’s beauty to showing the age and markings of an old family piece.
There is soooo much more teak that needs TLC in this home. But first, let me gingerly sit at my “new” table and chase away anyone who approaches with a vase or a drink or anything that stains or a bad attitude or or or.

Update: I went to a wood working store in search of the very hard to find Howard’s products. They didn’t have it there, either, but the smart and soothing expert sold me some Williamsville Wax (so nice, and natural!) and assured me I was on the right track with this table, and that I just needed to clean and brush-scrub it (much more than I did) when I do want to really restore the table.

Bye! I made a blog post!
August 3, 2015
bibs and bobbins

Hello, friend. I am keeping quiet for a variety of reasons, partly because I’m looking for a job. I’ve got nothing to hide here, but I’m making the ol’ hamblog not be the first thing folks bring up when they Google me. Please, potential employers, look at my achievements and not at my silly pinball zing-zing mind that only is goofy and weird and unproductive — but only after office hours!

Job hunting is hard. There have been a couple disappointments that make me hurt. I’m driving away for a couple days so I can regroup before I suit up. Again.

Would you like to see some pictures? I sure do.

My recently deceased friend had a lot of stuff, much of it cool. I’m unable and unwilling to re-fill my home with stuff (no matter how cool), but I did choose a couple small things that remind me of him. I also brought home a few empty cigar boxes (he liked to make cigar box guitars), since they’re brilliant for storage. Inside one of the boxes was a small pile of Wacky Packages.

They’re so great. I loved them so much back in the day, and stickered my closet door with dozens and dozens of them. “Loggs” is SO WEIRD!

My friend Jeana and I started a Facebook page called For Real Friday, where people post pictures of their real living spaces. No artfully styled vignettes here, boy.

It’s hilarious and very freeing to show the world our piles of laundry and papers and sheer nuttiness. That there, above, is a tights situation of mine. I feel the littlest bit ingenuous as I am a much tidier person than I used to be. True guts on my part would be to post images of how I used to be willing to live (not that there ever would’ve been pics from then).

I made a quilt for my sister L.

I’m going in directions I like these days. I’ve made two in a row that are, at first glance, very similar but that’s only because I had a lot of the same material. This second one is improvised and much more from the gut. I’m excited about the next one, esp. since I am out of these particular scraps, and would like to use another color way.

I made these eggs for Easter.

I want this necklace but it belongs to Christine.

I made these.

My sister A. made this, a portrait of me for the spot above the mantel of my doll house.

A delightful inside of a card from my dad, no doubt sent to me during my 20s.

Looks just like him! Thanks, Pop! Happy father’s day.

May 15, 2015
blockhead

This past week I’ve been experiencing writer’s block, which I never really comprehended as a condition. I sure do now! This will be helpful in practicing compassion for those who suffer from it. Sometimes I need to walk and walk in someone’s stinky shoes for a long time before that soaks in.

I developed empathy for those who fear roller coasters by having one single, random, harrowing experience on the “Top Gun” ride at Great America in the 90s. I discovered that when I am really really scared, I make a totally ineffectual squeaking noise.

I also developed empathy for those with stage fright. A vast majority of the time on stage I am shamelessly strutting and soaking in the spotlight. Then every once in a long while, the cold clammies come on, complete with tunnel vision and thoughts of “this is a dream, right?” So cliche, yet so terrifying.

By the way, brain? You don’t have trouble writing now, do you? But when I’ve tried to point you at this article, when the deadline loomed like a funnel cloud, you shut down. Traitor.

Yesterday was the worst bit. Imagine the most boring movie montage: Becky, opening her laptop and Word, business as usual, then going stock still. Becky, getting all the other work done, then going back to the Word document. Staring. Swearing. Going for a walk. Canceling the evening’s commitments. Staring. Burning pain in the stomach as “friendly” reminder emails come in. Staring. Frozen yogurt!

At some point in the wee hours I managed with lead-filled fingers to get something word-like down on the page. In the light of today, the article doesn’t sound like me at all. It’s an piece about improv, but there’s little humor nor lightness of tone. I wrestled with it as best I could then sent it off this morning, a solid “C” effort.

And it did feel a lot like my high school days, speaking of grades. For a long time I did not apply myself and saw a lot of “C”s which compelled me to try even less. It was a self-hating, self-perpetuating cycle, made extra toxic by my truly troubling skills at denial and procrastination. (Yes, I went to Berkeley, why do you ask?)

But now I’m an adult, and a pretty good one. I honor commitments and promises. I try hard. The only things I’m consciously procrastinating about are my taxes. Yet here I was, feeling 15 again, so mad at myself. But unable to do it. Scary. I don’t want that to happen again.

“Block” is a good word because obviously the block has been pushed out and now I can’t stop writing. Insert bowel joke here. Okay. We’re done.

April 1, 2015
leonard maltin, we love you

Way to go, 1990s Becky, for saving the chits from a rousing/legendary game of Maltin with friends Danny, Alison, and not sure who else.

Maltin is a game similar to Dictionary (or Balderdash, to those of a certain younger age), in which someone picks a title from the ubiquitous Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide, a title that no one has heard of. Everyone then makes up a Maltin-esque synopis and review of the movie. The title-picker writes down the real review, as well. The whole group, sans the one in the know, choose what they think is the real review. Hilarity and the awarding of points ensues.

The one pictured is from the mind of Danny P., from a movie titled something like “Journey of the Heart.” This paragraph made it into friend-lore — the phrase “big-eyed baby turtle” is inserted into the occasional conversation to this day.

While in the midst of the most recent purging of possessions, I came across time-capsule/envelope stuffed full of these snarky bits from 1994-ish. I was instantaneously overwhelmed with nostalgia. Danny, Alison and I, already friends for years at that point, were as thick as thieves. They lived in the Mission and I lived on Nob Hill, and most weekend nights I crashed on their couch, too wiped out to make the endless trek northeast to my lonely little apartment. We played games, we overdosed on pop culture of all kinds, we created, we read so much. Music and film were everything. Play was king; I can’t believe* how many photos I earthed up of our pumpkin patch excursions, road trips, parties, camping trips. I found a stack of postcards from Danny that were just so hilariously rude; I’m sure Danny received similar missives from me in equal quantity.

So I sent the Maltin pack to Danny, who is recuperating from an operation, along with a handwritten letter penned on 1990s stationery, with postage made up of 1990s stamps. Did I mention I saved everything? 1990s Becky sure created a lot of work for c. 2015 Becky.

I’m glad Danny got to walk down memory lane, too. I am not sad that the 1990s (and 80s and beyooond) are so long ago. Instead I’m proud that I have maintained so many friendships with so many good people; that is not easy to do.

Yeah, I’m talkin to you two.

*yes I can

March 16, 2015
death in the modern age

This is the last part, sort of, in this cryptic saga. Kind of. You can read the cryptic saga starting here if you wish.

Three weeks ago a long-time friend, colleague and co-worker took his own life. That there is a whole lot of stuff. I was (and continue to be) freaked out, broken hearted, and sad, sad, sad.

An added stressor to that first, horrific week was that a relative of his got crazy and used the internet to attempt to seek and destroy a person that was close to my friend. Lots and lots of internet comments, emails, voicemails. Police, lawyers, bosses, doctors got involved. It was brutal. Another former associate of my friend added to the pain by doing their own spouting off of opinions publicly. All polite requests of these people to bring it down a few notches only inflamed them more. Proof that one should never feed the trolls. What a delightful reminder of that! Especially to those of us in the front lines, who are responsible for monitoring many of the online outlets they used.

This whole ordeal started off on an extra horrible foot. People who had been told of my friend’s death started posting the news, including details about his death, to Facebook, almost immediately. Without considering that, since the death had just occurred, many of his relatives had not been informed yet.

So, yeah, finding out about a close relative’s death through a stranger’s post on Facebook ain’t a good start. Which may have contributed to the level of hysteria exhibited by the relative mentioned above. I get that. Grief + shock + surprise is a hard combo and can make one act in all sorts of ways. But the ugliness, the lack of common sense or timing, the cruelty. Wow.

I’m no stranger to the internet. I realized the way of the troll way back in an AOL chat room in 1993, when I called out someone’s assholery, which only ramped it up and up and up. I didn’t understand it but definitely grew to understand it exists.

As I’ve gotten older and more informed, I’ve understood a bit more about the mechanics of all that. Typing horrible words and pressing “send” is a hell of a lot easier than saying those words to someone as you look into their eyes. I’ve learned about how the internet is built around exploiting humans’ lack of impulse control. I’ve heard about studies showing that empathy is a learned trait.

But this experience was the first time I got a front-row seat to how the internet can feel evil. It became this entity on its own, attacking and devouring and depleting. In reality, it was just a couple humans working out a whole lot of pain/rage/neuroses/what have you. With powerful and far-reaching tools.

I maybe also got some insight into the people that are always dramatically pulling back from the internet with their “goodbye Facebook” posts, their “I’m taking some time for myself” blog entries. For them, the internet becomes a timesucker, a stealer of emotion and souls. Who is devouring whom?

In coda, things have calmed down. Now I can just grieve to my heart’s content, using the internet in whatever way I want to aid in that process. Like now.

I’m keeping the comments open for a day or so, because I’d like to hear some insight from some of my closest friends, if they so desire. Then I’m closing comments, forever, to keep those monsters outside of the gate.

March 6, 2015
ROAD TRIP! part two
See part one of the Road Trip here

East bound (not down): After our night in PHX, Molly and I headed to Quartzite, always a fave of mine. I think the longer M lives in the rarified artisanal bubble of SF, the more she is appalled by the way the rest of America eats. Initially she was psyched to go to one of the vast jerky palaces Quartzite is known for, but was quickly turned off by the shrink-sealed, decidedly not locally sourced-looking packs of jerky. She then got appalled anew at the thing called a “latte” down the road (“what, honey? You don’t want flavored coffee with that??”)

On the other side of things, I have resided in my distinctly non-twee town long enough to understand that low-quality grub is an evil necessity to po folk like me. (usa, usa)

On to our third groovy, hippie, wind-chimey stop of the trip: The Integraton.

Savvy, savvy sisters now own the Integraton, originally built as an interstellar airport (YOU HEARD ME). Now it’s a lovely area, very crafty and desert-artist, but not too Burning man. The sisters host regular Sound Baths at the Integratron now (yes, you heard me). From my description to friends:

One lies down in a beautiful domed room. Several bowls carved from white quartz are laid out. As the player runs an instrument along the lip of the bowl, the most amazing sound generates. She will set several bowls going and the frequencies fill the space. Very relaxing and mind-expanding. Afterwards, go back downstairs and enjoy the pictoral history of the Integratron.

Probably due to my raw, emotional, bare-bones state, I think I was in the perfect frame of mind to let myself go during the sound bath. Full on hallucinatory spiritual experience. A fraction of the things I saw/felt/heard:
- Distinct memory of being an infant in my parents’ arms, surrounded by my youthful siblings
- Visualization of the life cycle, recursive GIF style: a circle along with an embryo turns into a child turns into an adult turns into an elder turns into an embryo turns into a child and so on.
- Sudden understanding of love not being some warm, rainbow-hued column of light but more of a gritty, sensible necessity designed to fit into place inside one’s being, absolutely no-shit necessary, like a gear.
- A voice telling me to keep moving/move on, keep trying/move on, over and over
- Yeah and other stuff.
L: looking up at the domed interior Integratron Ceiling. R: Outdoor space perfectly synching with the colors/shapes of my current living indoor space.

Then we ended up in what is called “North Palm Springs” at a surprisingly hip little Motel 6. Molly and I could not drive to Sherman’s in Palm Springs for dinner fast enough.

Next AM, we hit some Desert Hot Springs thrifting/junking then I ran her to LAX before sitting in Sunday traffic for 3.5 more hours.

High class trip, through and through.

Random things seen:

L: Two sets of feet out of two windows. R: All-mirrored Wurlitzer jukebox in Desert Hot Springs, Sidewinder Cafe

L: The teal of that garbage truck is ON POINT. R: You are invited (Integratron mini-museum)

Go to last part of this saga: the infuriating part
March 2, 2015
mid-crisis calm – or: ROAD TRIP!

As promised, here is a brief travelogue in between the two shitstorms that have defined mid to late February 2015. Before I start, I want to mention that the siege (to be discussed in the last part) has ended, hopefully forever, and that I can properly eulogize my friend without the fear of getting attacked by, truly, the worst of the internet. But no more of that talk right now. I went away!

I have no idea why my four-day jaunt seemed to appear to be some kind of multi-week vacation to so many, but quite a few people have approached me (in person and online) saying a version of “oh! you’re back from all your travels!” I love this and I don’t know how I pulled it off — to seem like a traveling, experience-having fool without actually spending the money and taking unpaid time off!

So, my dear Molly has jumped from a non-profit to a for-profit life in the hotel industry. So when she suggested a mini Southwest vacation with sweet and discounted boutique hotel action — over Valentine’s weekend, no less — I said “yes, darling, a thousand times yes!” So we got engaged. In the business of eating, drinking, relaxing, and driving the open roads. A little throwback to our fantastic 10-day road trip, almost exactly 5 years ago.

First stop, Sedona. A bit of irony here, as we blew past this town as fast as we could the last time. My drive from my town to Sedona was insanely long; though I was in the right zombie state of mind to endure the travel (having lost my friend a couple days before), it did not afford me a lot of time there. I got at night in just enough time to have a surprisingly delicious bite to eat in the only restaurant open past 10pm. In the AM, we had some good hipster artisan resort breakfast then hit the road. Though this was a resort, I was not in the frame of mind to dawdle in the pool area and do some resort-ing, while red rocks towered above, though it looked very nice. Fortunately M had already had a couple relaxing days there (including a massage I am not allowed to talk about), so I could scoop her up and we could head due south.

First stop, Arcosanti, “focused on innovative design, community, and environmental accountability. Our goal is to actively pursue lean alternatives to urban sprawl based on Paolo Soleri’s theory of compact city design, Arcology (architecture + ecology).

This project was planned in the mid-60s and started being built in 1970, so it is the best of the best of retro-modern utopian hippie excellence. People live in the complexes, and the whole Arcosanti/Cosanti (another area closer to Phoenix) empire makes serious bank from their silt-cast ceramics and their bronze wind chimes (the ceramics studio is the second picture above). It’s beautiful, it’s crumbling, it’s sort of forgotten, it’s a little spooky. In other words: it’s perfect.

I can’t wait to see Cosanti next time I’m over there. I have vague memories of going to Arcosanti as a child and I’m wondering if Cosanti was also a stop.

I am dying, dying to purchase a 1964 silkscreen print of Soleri’s original drawn plans, which are groovy, colorful and organic. Hot undeniable desire. While I was wrestling with myself about this, Molly and I developed a new grading system for my object lust. The yardstick by which all other objects are measured is the Navajo crown, spotted by me at a Trading Post in NM on our last SW road trip:

[A] sterling silver, turquoise-studded crown that was inscribed “Navajo Queen.” I wanted it so badly I got a little dizzy.

That thing is, even 5 years later, is a shiny, quivering, expensive, beautiful/weird ultimate symbol of pure desire — desire to own the living daylights out of it. Which I do not.

Working the complicated equation of desirability, usability, attainability, and jenesaisquoisbility, the Soleri print ranks 50% on the Navajo Queen grading scale. This is a high number, trust me. The percentage may actually rise soon, as the sustained desire is not flagging and is in fact increasing. This is thanks to the attainability (it’s a decent price and mine with a credit card number and a quick call to the gift shop). However, framing, wall space, and thriftiness are keeping the print at bay. For the time being.

Woof, I went on a tangent! Anyway! After tromping around in the noble experiment, we continued to Phoenix and had a glass of wine with my family friend Jo Ann, who is a delight and who is recovering from some health problems and who is dearer to me than any damn Navajo Queen crown.

We had plans to see improv that night but my demeanor crumbled a bit and Molly developed a cold so we found some delicious Italian food in downtown PHX that wasn’t too romantic-couply (this was Feb 14, a Saturday, yuk) then headed to our deluxe hotel, which was outfitted with wine, snacks and valentines from M’s hotel colleague. I’m never allowing Molly to quit this job.

I’m going to have to break this account in two, since there is so much more mystical hippie fantasticness yet to come. And jerky, lots of jerky.

More Arcosanti:

Go to part two-point-five of this saga: road trip part 2

February 24, 2015
sad week

This has been a hell of a week (right, Kyle?) I’ll break it into three parts — the first one sad, the second one happy, the third infuriating.

My town is not a small town (100k and some change, citizens-wise) but the community within my town is tiny. And so shock waves from a big event within our ranks travel deep and strong.

I had a friend, who was also a work colleague, who was also a fellow theatre performer. He died last week, horribly. I don’t want to give any more details here because I don’t want to attract attention to this post. More on that in part three.

But this I can share: I am sad. Everyone else is sad. On one hand, I take comfort knowing that pretty much everyone I know here is feeling the same way I am, and that we’re taking time to be kind with one another, feeling free to have ugly-cries together, and helping each other out.

On the other hand, I can’t get away from it. I can’t find solace in the discipline of work, I can’t fully escape into the magic of the stage. The big fat hairy paws of grief are grabbing at me wherever I turn. (I did manage to find a few days of sort-of escape — part two of this series.)

When I’ve experienced loss of people who my local friends did not know (my father, my stepfather, etc.) I was hideously alone in my grief, and had to try hard to point out to others the pain I was in. There was much less tolerance for it, and full expectations that I was to be over it in an acceptable time frame. So that sucked too.

Grief/loss is sure a lose-lose situation. And if the mechanics of humans are any hint, I shall continue to experience grief within a whole lot of scenarios, until my own mechanics inform me that it’s my turn. And that is a part of life, sure. Okay.

And, as for the inability to properly eulogize my friend here: If you know my theatre, or the non-profit at which I work, you can go to the websites and see words I’ve written there.

And let’s celebrate the small victory of being showered and dressed!

Go to part two of this saga: the happy part

February 19, 2015
shut up, face.

I had a freak accident last night that had a mildly humorous outcome. I posted a picture and the story to Facebook, then deleted it immediately. Why? Because

A. I didn’t want the well-meaning but fun-squashing comments along the lines of “OH NO WHAT HAPPENED?!?!?!” and “Tea Tree Oil, trust me.”

B. I didn’t want the pure snark, which these days is along the lines of “LOL senior moment!!”

Basically I wanted people to appreciate my story in the exact way that I intended and to post only insightful comments with the appropriate level and kind of humor that aligns with my tastes.

So yeah, the blog seems to be the place for me to dump stuff like this. And since no one comments I can pretend that thousands of people are reading and appreciating in a hambox-approved, non-snarky way.

Can I tell the story now? (I’m fully aware of my total crabbiness today. My active sleeplife is exhausting. Last night, sleep-me decided to remove the toilet paper from its holder and tuck it into my bed. I awoke with TP wound around my arms. There’s another story I won’t share with FB.)

I was about to cross my street last night, mid-block. I was clutching a stack of bills and reaching for my car keys in my purse when my body misjudged the curb somehow. I stumbled and started to fall between two parked cars. I tried to catch myself with my left arm and managed to jam my fingers into a truck’s grille. That was the mail-holding hand, so the paper provided a buffer, otherwise I’d be all cut up. As it is, startling hand bruises are appearing. I’m a little sore all over but it could’ve been a disaster!

Maybe that TP story was more worth the detailed telling. Thanks for “listening,” blog.

February 11, 2015