"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

Archive for March, 2012


If I knew, I mean TRULY knew how much it would hurt to lose a pet . . .


. . . I still would not give up a single nanosecond that I spent loving Buddy.


He was my rock when I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.


He was Ken’s rock after his father died.


He was Ken’s best friend.  My husband lost his best friend.  I lost the first animal I ever truly loved.


He left us peacefully in his sleep last night.


I don’t have words to express my grief.  My sorrow.  My heartbreak.


My joy.  My love.  My Buddy.


Rest in peace, Big Boy.  My Old Man.  Play with your Grandpa.


Please do what I asked you to do for me.


And again, thank you for your time with us here.


Not the bath blog, yet.

It’s coming, faithful readers, have patience.  🙂

But, in other news, I’ve had a terribly productive day.  I woke up, almost unable to move (walked the dogs almost 4 miles yesterday, uphill both ways, of course) from back pain.  I found (in my stash of previously prescribed drugs) some painkillers.  I took half of one and “made morning” for the dogs while I let Kenny sleep in.

Then . . . I did what I realized NEEDED to be done last night, when I had a load of clothes in the dryer for about 3 hours, and it was still damp.  My dryer stopped shutting off automatically several months ago, but I just assumed that this was because my basement appliances are, shall we say, vintage.

Last week, I cleaned out the dryer, the space that exists when you remove the lint trap.  It was packed, to the point that it prevented the trap from going all the way back in when replaced.  So, I took care of that.

Then, last night, I thought that perhaps in my cleaning frenzy last week, I had dislodged some lint that had now become clogged in the vent.

So, my back hurts terribly, cripplingly, so let’s move the dryer.  (Kenny’s still asleep . . . but these things are best left done by me alone anyway.)

I get out the shop vac, climb on top of the washer, and dislodge the vent from the back of the dryer.  I vacuum out the bottom and back of the dryer then get to work on the vent hose.

I put the vacuum hose in, and it stops.  Clogged.  With lint.  My shop vac was clogged by the lint, just a couple of inches into my dryer hose.

Fire hazard anyone?  The entire hose was PACKED with lint, right up to the outside of the house (I brushed from outside, wearing my jammies, too).  One more load of laundry could have burned my house down.  This is not an exaggeration.

Then I did laundry . . . wonder of wonders . . . the dryer now STOPS when the clothes are dry . . . and it’s taking MUCH less time to dry.

Let me also take a moment to point out that we bought the house in October of 2007 . . . and this is the first time I’ve cleaned that.  I am truly lucky that we haven’t had a fire.  Granted, I NEVER run the dryer when I’m out of the house.  That’s because when I was young, one our neighbors had a dryer fire that virtually gutted their house while they were out.  So, my paranoia may have finally paid off . . . now I just have to remember to KEEP cleaning that thing out.

This is my PSA for today.

So, I’m pooped . . . but it’s a good thing.

vividly me

My dreams last night were so fresh.  So bright.  So vivid.  So real.  Too real.  My mother’s roof collapsed down upon her house, and my things, and I had to take pictures for insurance, but the stars were storming through the holes, and I couldn’t not laugh.  It was like poetry, swirling around me, the wind whipping my hair and my clothes, and I laid back, and laughed at the dark sky.


And I was on vacation . . . in a hotel, a resort.  Lost.  I couldn’t find K but J was there.  Too there.  Perhaps because I friended him on Facebook?  Why?  I don’t know.  He messaged me first.  Would it be rude to *not*?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?


Anyway, I digress.  I was with him, but not.  But still . . . I can smell him.  Still.  His voice in the dream was his voice in life.


And C came to work, and T and I talked around him, then suddenly, “Oh!  You’re here!  How are you?”  And everyone laughed.  And laughed.


And to get the pictures of my mother’s falling home, I had to take pictures from my childhood window at night, opening the glass and the screen, so I could take the pictures, which were all upside down.  With the window open, a big dog got in, and I welcomed it, and it dove into my blankets upon blankets upon blankets, and licked me and licked me.  And it was cool, the air coming in the window.  And it was peaceful, eventhough I had to capture the devastation.


And Tom was there, to see if he could fix my mom’s roof . . . but the ladder to the attic was gone with the storm, and the trees, that you could see falling into the house when you were outside, were not there once you went in.  But we got to the attic, anyway.  With a small flashlight, but the gaping holes in the too big roof were so obvious, then the entire roof was gone, but the chimney stack was there, and there was a woman, with long white hair and a blue shirt, calling the stars and the wind.


And it swirled.


And I laughed.



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