Archive for the ‘ Things I’m Not Good At ’ Category

How I Blew Up My Bathroom Sink

Tuesday, February 7th, 2012

 

"My Bathroom Sink Before I Blew It Up." http://www.artmojos.com

This morning I’ve blown my bathroom sink apart.

It is quite a surprise.

Here’s how it goes.

I have an art deco type, fluted glass sink. It sits on top of the tiled bathroom counter and is pleasing to look at. It is moulded to look like a huge, luminous blue flower rising open-mouthed toward the indifferent burnished copper faucet above it.

The sink was very expensive. It makes a statement. It makes the bathroom. It’s a beautiful and wondrous and overpriced extravagance but everybody needs at least one outrageous, nonsensical, illogical extravagance don’t you think?

I have to stand on my toes to use this sink  and even then I often clank my elbows on its undulating glass edges.

Its lithe inner neck is attached to a pipe and hidden under the countertop but like an unrelenting sinus condition the pipe is always clogged.

The sink is a gorgeous delicate Being, but I don’t like it. It is uncomfortable to use and it barely drains. Nothing I’ve used clears the blockages and I’ve even used human plumbers.

This morning I have had enough of the sink’s peculiarities and quirks. I have in hand a very large jug of poison gel that is guaranteed to scrub clean the most recalcitrant pipes.

The instructions say to pour the burning goo down the drain and let it sit for one half hour. Then I am instructed to run hot water down the pipe.

This is a problem.

I can never get the water to run long enough to get it hot enough because the water won’t drain from the beautiful sink. The water fills to the brim and then sits sullenly, threatening to rush over the lips of the blue beauty.

But…suddenly, I have an excellent and even brilliant idea. I will heat the water on the kitchen stove and pour that down the drain. (more…)

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Mother and the Plumber

Friday, September 11th, 2009

I’m sitting outside on the patio under a leafy tree at my favorite coffee shop, talking with Alan.

Alan is an architect who has been helping my brother Jim with his restaurant project. Alan has long gray/blonde hair that hangs in a messy horse’s tail down his back. He flicks the hot ash from his Camel cigarette and says, “When Jim was at my house one day, the water in the kitchen faucet turned on by itself and I said, ‘What the heck?’

“Then,” he continues, “awhile later another faucet downstairs turns on and starts a flood and again I said, ‘What the heck? Are there spirits around here trying to tell us something?’”

Alan pauses and sucks his white Camel like a doobie.

“I thought, ‘Does this mean this whole project with Jim’s new restaurant is big money down the drain?’”

“Hmmm,” I say.

Jim and Alan, after a year of trying to get a loan and borrowing money from friends and family to build a new restaurant, have been denied. The banks tease but they just won’t loan. Jim is caught up in the collapse of the economy. He’s now at home with the cotton blankets pulled over his head, in the musky dark and in despair.

Alan breathes some smoke and I breathe some smokey air.

We are both silent. Because of his illness and the economy, my brother Art may lose his jewelry shop which is right next door to the coffee shop and the coffee shop itself is teetering on the edge of extinction.

When I go home, I tell my ex, Bill, about Jim.

Bill says, “Sometimes I wake up in the night and I wonder who I am. I wonder where I am. Am I back in my childhood or am I forward in time somewhere? Am I on another planet? It takes me awhile to remember who I am and what part of my life I’m in. It’s hard to get re-oriented, but once I do, I’m OK.” (more…)

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MOTHER HAS A PLAN

Saturday, July 11th, 2009

Polly calls.

“We have to do something! Mother got up this morning and there was a big rat swimming around and around in her toilet bowl and she couldn’t get him out and then she did get him out with the toilet brush and then her dog grabbed him and ate him and Mom says that somehow the toilet seat got dismantled and torn up and she feels really bad about the rat getting eaten, he was trying so hard to survive.”

Polly sucks air and goes on. “She has lost her blood pressure pills for three days now and that’s very dangerous and you can’t find anything in that place it’s such a mess and there are vast dangling cobwebs on her windows, have you seen them, her housekeeper is no good but Mom won’t fire her because she likes her and Becky has ripped up all the rugs digging for squirrels under the house and we need to replace the floors with vinyl, Mom agrees and Mom just keeps eating that same crock pot soup that cooks all the time and she never dumps it and starts over and you have to do something and right now, Venus.”

I say, “I’m not coming over there and clean that house. I am not cleaning up all the blood and guts from all the dismembered field creatures that her cat brings in. I am not. ”

I know my abilities and housecleaning is not one of them.

Polly jags off onto another topic about how she, Polly, fired her website person and she is now doing the site herself and how she was talking to so and so this famous person and her grandkids are always over at her place and she can’t get anything done and she keeps jigging and jagging from topic to topic and I can’t stand it. Trying to follow her mind makes me feel crazy and I finally  yell, “Shut up! Shut up!”

“Arrgh?” she says.

“What’s wrong with you, are you ADD?!!  You never stay with one line of thought. I can’t stand it,” I say and I am not kind about it.

And later that day the results from the CAT scan our mother had a week or so, come in. (more…)

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Blood In The Wheelbarrow!

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

“I never saw so much blood!” my almost 87 year old mother is telling me. “I was finally feeling good again after 7 months of being sick from that flu shot. I felt so good, I went out to plant my garden and the next thing I remember is being on the ground. I think my ankle gave way.”

I bend forward from my chair to look at the offending ankle. It’s puffed up but it looks good in comparison to some of the rest of her.

Mom and I are sitting on her deck having a cup of tea. One side of her left arm is purple and green and red and the left side of her face is swollen into a large square shape. The skin is mottled purple and red around her mouth, chin and neck. Mom assures me that there is more damage that isn’t showing.

“I bled all over everything!” she says. “Go and look!”

I get up from my garden chair and obediently trot down the deck’s steps to the part of the garden my mom points to. I notice blood splots all along the concrete path.

Mom has parked her wheelbarrow up against a low bricked area. Yep. There’s blood all over the bricks and blood all inside the wheelbarrow. There’s blood on the petunias still in their trays. Yikes. (more…)

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Life Is A Round Egg

Thursday, May 14th, 2009

My ex-husband Ken, has given me total permission to say anything I want about him on this blog. Is he crazy? Or, was he drinking when he said it? I can’t remember, so that’s good enough for me, I will just imagine that he said, ‘yes’ while he was in his right and usual mind.

Ken is Summer’s dad. He is also known as Bumpa to our grand kids, Lexi and Loch.

Ken is going to build me a chicken coop. I have it in my mind that I want three red laying hens: Stella, Lolly and maybe Louise.

Ken asks me how soon do I want this coop. I say, “Right now. Immediately. I have already met my new chicken friends at the Diamond D Feed Store.”

We work out the perfect spot on my property. It’s almost under a giant scrub oak tree.

Ken paces out the size, raises one of his arms in the air and says, “The nesting boxes are just past my armpit.”

Then, he goes home.

He emails me several days later. “When I drive by in a few days on my way to my house in the desert, I’ll pick you up and take you to the desert hot springs.”

I email back and say, “No. I have a better idea. When you come by let’s go up to Ransom Brothers hardware store and get all the materials to build the chicken coop. Then we will come back to my house and build it. My chickens are waiting.”

Mother’s Day comes around and Ken is here at my house, babysitting our grand kids while my mother, my daughter Summer and four sisters and a woman friend, lunch and party.

Bumpa takes babysitting seriously. He sits on a chair near the end of the patio and watches the kids make mud pies, just beyond the metal gate. For hours. He watches the kids like an interested guard dog.

Meanwhile, a few drinks into the outdoor brunch, my daughter Summer mentions that another scrub oak’s arms are too far into part of my patio.

“Mom, no one can walk through here. We need to cut those branches out.” (more…)

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Mother Reads Venus’ Tea Leaves. Oh My!

Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009

 

My Mother

My Mother (At 86 years old her teeth are real)

 

 

It’s 85 degrees on my mother’s porch. My mother and I are sitting here in lawn chairs, sweltering and sticky even though we have the silver awning rolled out overhead.

My mother is dressed in her loose orange wool pants (worn backwards, I notice) and a long sleeved fleecy top that matches nothing in her eclectic closet. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. 

“It’s so hot,” she says. “I’m so hot. It’s hard to remember that it’s winter.”

I suggest she take off all the winter clothes she’s wearing and find a pair of shorts. She ambles off to do so.

I’m hot, too. My jeans grab my legs like a pair of hot hands and my short sleeved blouse just isn’t short enough. I reach under it, un-hook my bra, then slide another hand up my sleeve and pull the bra completly off. Ahhhh! Comfort.  I kick off my shoes and sling the bra to dangle over the porch railing. This is how I lose so many of my bras and shoes. I forget where I leave them.

We have a pot of hot steeping tea and two cups on the glass table in front of us. I have come to chat with my mother and apparently, to also have my leaves read. My Mother is a wonderful tea leaf reader. She sees amazing things and the woman is always right. She is spot on and she is nice about it. If she sees something that an ordinary person thinks is disgusting, my mother makes them feel like they are really lucky and indeed, they are.

Mother shuffles out of the house and onto the deck. She’s now wearing her blue see-through plastic garden shoes with socks, a pair of old stripped shorts from the 1950′s and yet another blouse that doesn’t go with anything in her closet.

She sits, ‘kerplunk!’ in the chair next to mine.

“I have to practice reading leaves,” she reminds me, “because you Venus, set me up to read leaves at the Historical Society Tea! I hope I can still remember how to do it. So, I’m going to practice on you, Venus.”

“I’m not worried,” I say. “You have the talent and you can’t lose that, even though you are Profoundly Deaf.”

Mother has been labeled ‘Profoundly Deaf” by the local hearing specialist and she does indeed have a difficult time hearing anything, but she can always hear when I whisper something about her to my sisters! We find this very puzzling, but then my mother can do many things that are out of the ordinary. She could grow gnat wings and fly over the porch railing if it struck her to do so.

Today, we sip our black tea rather quickly because even though we have dressed down it is still darn hot on the porch.

I pour most of the dregs of the tea into my saucer, then swish the leaves around in my cup with the rest of the tea and hand the china cup to my mother. I wait with high anticipation as Mother peers into it. 

Generally, I get a reading that goes something like this: “You have many ideas and are building many things. You’re taking off. You have some new job idea. There’s lots of money in your cup!”

Sometimes I get a long silence and then an, “Ah Oh.”

That’s when I start to sweat.

I used to get more exciting cups, filled with lovers and sex appeal but I have toned down a bit through the years and generally have my thoughts and actions now on so called ‘Higher Enterprises.’ Duller maybe, but higher.

Today, my mother slings me a zinger.

“Well. There you are Venus. Riding a wild horse! And look! There’s a big wedding bell over your head and you’re trying to get away from it. It’s like you want to get married but you really don’t. You’re still too wild to marry some man. You’re a wild one and none of them have been able to tame you.”

Gulp. Bam. My mother hits the truth of the matter. 

I haven’t been married for at least twenty-five years. I’ve been asked many times but I never can say ‘yes.’ Sometimes I think I want to, but I just can’t bring myself to choke out an ‘OK, good idea.’

Even lately, strangely enough,without dating them, I have had several marriage proposals and I think, ‘My, these are darling men and now that I am older and getting even older, wouldn’t it be nice to be all settled down and have a secure life and no more dating ever again?’

But, I just can’t do it. I try, but I just can’t do it. Maybe if I could marry two of them? Or three? That might work.

Even when I was a little kid I always thought I wanted to have two husbands. At once.

Or, maybe I can work out a deal where I know several or more men who adore me and I can see all of them and that will be OK with each of them?

My grandmother did that. My father’s mother was a model in New York with a waist that a man could put his hand’s around. She dyed her hair red and smoked cigarettes when only ‘bad’, ‘wild’ women did those things. She married my grandfather, a wealthy man, thirty-five years older than she was. 

My father remembers how when he was a little kid, “Momma was almost kidnapped by White slavers. We were walking down a street,” he used to tell us, “when a long, black limo pulled up beside us and a woman and two men jumped out. They grabbed Momma and tried to drag and push her into the car! Momma and I were screaming and screaming and Momma was fighting and somehow she was able to slip out of her long mink coat and she got away. We both ran screaming down the street. Momma always said it was the White Slavers trying to kidnap her because she was so beautiful!”

Momma always echoed my father’s story, with a “Yes! It was the White Slavers and they used to kidnap beautiful women and those women would never been seen again!”

Momma also had a constant and steady round of lovers. She preferred doctors and she would move them into the house with her, my father and his father, Poppa. My father said he could never understand why Poppa put up with Momma’s lovers, especially living in the same house, but he did.

When I knew her in her 70′s, Poppa had died and she was married to a much younger man, a fellow with slick black hair, who we called Uncle Bob.

When it appealed to her, Grandma would hop up on our kitchen table and do the grinding Tahitian Hula, the one where you bump your hips in mad gyrations. She also liked to belt out a song called ‘Sam, Sam The Lavatory Man’, but no matter how much we kids begged, she would never finish the song. “Your father won’t let me,” she would say piously.

Poppa had an interesting background, too. His father and his many uncles were Real Gun Slingers. They lived and died by the gun. They also had a habit, in their 80′s, I’m told, of leaping onto their horses. This is how my great grandfather eventually met his death. Close to 90, he leaped onto his horse, miscalculated and flew completely over the horse, hit the ground and broke his hip. The break eventually killed him.

I’m thinking about my genetics as I reflect on my current tea leaf reading. I look at my mother. Her mother didn’t marry until she was thirty-five. 

“Why should I get married?” my grandmother said to me. “Just because women are supposed to get married?”

When she did marry, she married a younger, very handsome man, (and younger men weren’t being done at the time) and then she drove a model T across the country, wearing jeans, (which also wasn’t being done by young women at the time!)

Now, I sigh. I think my way of thinking is just in my blood. It may be genetic and it’s hard to change the genes. It’s impossible, actually, to change a person’s Real Nature which is why, by the way, women should stop trying to change men. It’s not possible and it just wears one out. Give it up now if you’re guilty and you’ll save yourself some suffering that you don’t need.

My mother looks over at me and maybe she is reading my mind. We do that in this family.

She is trying to soothe me.

“I think you might eventually get married but you would have to feel the same way about some man, that these various men feel about you.”

She looks at me; peers at me, really.

“It’s getting kind of late in the day,” I say.

“Well, what about me?!” Mother says. “It’s a lot later in the day for me than it is for you.”

And, then she rifts off into why she doesn’t want to marry The Old Friend David or Skip The Much Younger Man or the Suitor Who Just Died, which I remind her is a given, that it’s to late to marry that one..

And as for You Out There; my friends. Think about it; man or woman, what is your Real Nature? 

When we’re young, most of us tend to go along with what our culture says we should do and be and think, which means that we’re sometimes locked  inside a little family house, intently blowing on hot oatmeal for the kids when we should be sitting outside in a long green field, naked, wearing big ruby necklaces and eating crepes while someone plays the violin for our amusement.

I think it’s time I just finally accept my genes and My Nature and see if I can ride the Wild Horse forever, perhaps just always a pace ahead of the ringing wedding bell.

Or not?

Please go to the COMMENT’S SECTION and tell us this: If you could just have it YOUR WAY, how would you do it? I mean, really? How would you do it? Take all the rules off your life and really look and see who is there and what it wants. Hey! Your sufferings may be over!! Maybe you have been suffering all this time because you have been trying to live your life in opposition to your Real Nature and you didn’t even know it.

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*FLOWDREAMING TELECLASSES FOR *LOVE AND *MONEY! I will be doing MY MOTHER’S LOVE MOJO during the Feb 14th LOVE  class. The Money and Prosperity Class is Feb. 7th.  To read about the classes and how they work to BRING GOOD THINGS INTO YOUR LIFE…or to sign up for a teleclass, please go to www.flowdreaming.com. Space is very limited.

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*And yet ANOTHER CHANCE TO WIN A FREE 15 MINTUE PHONE SESSIONS WITH VENUS.

During each live radio show I will be pulling at random, a name from my list of email addresses that you have sent me via my website. (See ‘Free sessions and More’) My show is “The Dear Venus Show,” every other Weds at 9AM Pacific/Noon eastern. You can listen to the show in the Archives BUT the offer will be valid for only one week from the time of the live show.

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The Looong Days in Lotus Land

Tuesday, August 12th, 2008

This sets the scene:
There are two kids who are two and five years old, two young very energetic cats and one fish. I am at my daughter’s house at the coast, in Lotus Land where the climate is perfect and the sun shines smartly and the fog drifts from the sea over God’s Lucky Sun Tanned People.
I am baby-sitting for fifteen days while my daughter Summer and her husband are in Australia.

DAY 1, Wednesday:
Lexi who is five, screams and screams and clutches her mother as she and her dad are leaving to catch the plane.
“No matter what happens!” she chokes out, “no matter what happens, I will always, always love you. No matter what happens!”

Summer and I exchange looks over Lexi’s head. Summer has had anxieties about the long trip and the long time away from her kids. She has mentioned that two year old Loch has told her over and over how much he loves her, which he has never done before.

I have told her to take a Xanax and relax but she hasn’t and is leaving ‘cold turkey.’

The back yard is torn up and has been for months. Summer has told the handsome, young contractor who formally worked for my sister Candy, that he must have everything completed and set back to rights by Friday “as my mother is an older grandmother and she has anxieties. If you doubt that, just ask her sister.” !

When I strenuously object to this verbal picture of me, she says, “Oh Mom, I just want to make sure that he cleans up everything like he said he would.”

Later, Lexi sleeps with me in the big bed and the two new cats race over us all night, only pausing to bite our toes and grab out legs with their claws.

DAY 2, Thursday:
Loch has had diarrhea ‘like water’ for a number of days and thank heaven, it finally slows. Both kids eat all day long like wild horses.

Summer arrives in Australia and emails, “We’re having a wonderful, relaxing time. I should have used that Xanax you gave me when I really needed it.”

Aside from the cats keeping us up much of the night, Lexi is still demanding that I wear pajamas and not wear a nightgown to bed.
I wear the nightgown.

“BaBa, do you have underpants on under that?”

“No.”

“Then, I can’t sleep with you! You know how I am! I will have to sleep on top of the covers!”

“Fine. Do that.”

DAY 3, Friday: Loch comes up to me and announces, “I have a big poop.”
Indeed he does. The diarrhea is entirely finished. His mother will be so pleased with The Big Poop News.

There is much screaming and loose ‘fits’ by the kids all day and refusals to eat the foods we have in the house.

There is much excitement for Loch in the early morning when the ‘Big Cement Truck’ comes to pour concrete in parts of the back yard. Loch notes over and over, “All the hard working men!”

At lunch, he refuses to eat “The Man Soup,” I offer him. I realize later he has misheard ‘minestrone soup.’

I am trying to get a bit of rest from the constant chaos when Lexi tells me she has accidently locked us out of the office where I have my computer which is my link to her mother, in Australia.
I hunt for and find every key in the house. The last key unlocks the office door.

I step barefoot on one of Loch’s hard plastic spiky toys and fall against the couch. As I limp away, I teach Loch and Lexi a new word for their vocabulary.

Everyday is punctuated by constant storms of emotion by both children, and me. We are all trying to adjust.

My sister Polly is having a birthday party. Her birthday falls on 8-08-08 and it is a big, prosperity celebration. I am not there. It would be too hard to pull the kids all together between Loch’s nap, his dinner and bedtime and drive two hours, total. I am sitting at the table with two kids refusing to eat what I have made for dinner while cats careen around and over me.

My family calls from the party where I hear everyone laughing and shrieking with joy and they tell me what a fabulous time they are having. The kids are crying and I start to cry.

DAY 4, Saturday:
I escape with the kids to my home in the mountains!
We’re visiting my mother; sitting outside on her porch, drinking ice tea. Mom suddenly shouts and jumps in her chair. I look and there is a large, triangularly shaped, green beetle hanging off one of her eyebrows. I quick, brush it off her eyebrow and it flips into her white hair where it burrows and kicks around. There is much head flapping and shouting before the beetle disentangles itself and flies on.

Wheew. That was fun.

The kids, meanwhile are eating from a bag of chips that they have found on my mother’s kitchen table. I remark that eating chips is a treat for them.

Mom says, “Oh. I had that bag on the deck table here and the squirrels chewed a big hole in the bag and were burrowing inside it for and running off with the chips.”

I go and collect the bag from Loch and Lexi.

“We won’t be telling your mother about this,” I tell the kids.

DAYS 5 and 6 and 7:

We are back at the coast and I have decided not to bore you with the daily report. I think you get the drift.

I clean the cat box every day, fend off cats at night, I never get enough sleep, I listen to lots of screaming from both kids and big ‘NO’s’ from the two year old. I deal with poop and pee and wash lots of clothes, fix meals that no one approves of and try and keep the house cleaned up. We three sometimes go off and ‘do things’ in the big world, but that isn’t easy.

There are eight days left of the same.
Actually, I hope it will be the same. Everybody is healthy! We’re all falling into a routine. I am lucky to be spending time here with my grandkids and at the lovely coast. I know I will miss all of it when I am back, alone, in my own house! I will wish I could hear all the screaming and the complaints and the general fun of living with a two and five year old who are the most beautiful and the smartest and the most brilliant of any children I have ever known. Aside from their mother, of course.
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Venus and the Dog Bones

Monday, May 12th, 2008

Here’s how I clean my house.

I have miles of new laminate floors. They are like a sea of fiendish polished wood, rolling with wads of and long fat wisps of gray cat hair, dried weed stems and yellow stickers, grit and dirt. Blotches and blobs of dried spills are dotted everywhere.
I am overwhelmed by my floors.

Here’s my method.
Dust everything high up. Think about cleaning all the imposing dark granite counter tops in the kitchen but that can wait. Maybe for a month.

Get out the broom and sweep all the base boards and the sides of all the rooms and into the corners.
Step barefooted onto a sharp dog bone. Scream.

Go and lie down.

Sweep all the floors.

Check my email.

Wide sweep all the floors with a big commercial duster.
Moan long and loudly.

Bill opens the door from his adjoining studio and says, “OK that’s enough cleaning. I hate to see you suffer like this. I told you this last week.”

Ignore him.

Wander outside to the patio and lie exhausted in the ratty chaise lounge and get some sun.

Vac the floors.
Get myself wound up in the vacuum cleaner cord, step on another pointed dog bone, scream and fall to the floor.
Moan.
Look around and say, “I just can’t do this. This is too much for me.”

Vacuum some more. Vacuum up the white tassels on a small oriental rug. The vacuum cleaner coughs and quits.
Moan and cry some more.

Bill opens the door from his studio and comes into my great room.

“Why don’t you hire some help?” he says. “You look terrible. You can do lots of things very well but you’re not good at this. I mean it, give it up. You’ve been moaning for hours. You’re losing the whole day.”

I tell him to leave me alone.

Get down on my hands and knees with a small, wet yellow sponge and clean the base boards by hand.

Sign heavily and sit against the wall for awhile.

Wet the sponge again and wipe and clean all around the outside of the rooms and into all the cracks and corners. Forget to keep a bucket of water at hand so make many trips to the sink to pull all the hair and grit and dirt off the sponge and re-wet it.

Lean my forehead on the kitchen counter.

Look around at all the stains on the floors. Think about getting out a mop. But first, get down on my knees and scrape off all the unidentified stuff that is three-D.

Get out the wet mop.
It’s new and I can’t get the handle to expand or the sponge to release. I can’t even get all the cellophane off the sponge!
Throw the mop against the dining-room table.

Go into my bedroom and rip the sheets and pillow cases off the bed and the pillows. Carry the pillows outside and put them in the sun.
Sling the brown feather blanket over the pool fence. Sling it too far and part of it drops into the pool water.
I say a bad word.

Go inside and lie down on the bed.

Get up reluctantly and take the dirty sheets and pillow cases and put them in the washer.

Check my email.

Wander outside.

Come inside.
Try and turn the mattress on the bed. Can’t do it. It’s too heavy for me.

Look through some of the tall, crooked piles of books that I have stacked by my bed.

Tip the small bedside table over to see if it still has black widows on the underside.
There is a tremendous racket as all the vitamin bottles and books and pens and nail clippers and all the stuff of life that is stored inside, rockets to the back of the table.
The bedside table is too heavy for me to hold at tilt position and it falls hard on it’s back. I go with it.

Bill appears in the doorway.

He has his cell phone camera. He’s very amused as he takes my picture.

I decide Bill is right. I can do many things well but there are a few things that I do abnormally badly. Housekeeping is one of them.
And then there is my cooking.

When I was in college, I had my two younger brothers visit me at my apartment. I made them dinner.

Years later we are talking about that evening when my brothers say, ‘You made the best pizza we ever ate!”
I’m puzzled. “I never made you pizza.”

“Oh, yes you did,” my brother Jim says, “Art and I agreed it was the best pizza we’d ever had.”

Suddenly, I remember.
“That wasn’t pizza!” I yell. “That was meat-loaf!”

Sometimes you just gotta’ say ‘Uncle’ about some things in life and concentrate on where you shine.

Tomorrow, I’m seriously looking for someone who shines at cleaning houses. And, when I find her, I will pay her well, and fill her arms with lilies and compliment her lavishly, but I will not make her meat-loaf or even attempt to make her lunch. I won’t want to lose her.
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