Terror in the Night

When I was young(er), I was a championship sleeper. If it was an olympic event, I could have taken home the gold for sure. Ten, twelve hours, no problem. You could have marched a band through the room and I wouldn't have even rolled over.

Not anymore. Now, it seems like I wake up several times a night just to roll over. Most of the time, I am able to get back to sleep fairly quickly, unless something grabs my attention. Like last night.

As I snuggled down under the covers a little deeper, hoping to drift back off, I heard it. Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. Hmm. Was that rain hitting the skylight out in the hallway? Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. No. Too loud and heavy for rain. Sleet? Hail? Pieces of the satellite they shot down last week?

Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. Creaaak. Groan. Okay. Definitely not any of the aforementioned possibilities. Rain does not creak or groan. In fact, it sounded like it was a lot closer than the hallway.

Immediately, my mind jumped to the worst case scenario (Yes, I can think of something worse than getting taken out by a satellite). What if the floorboards in the attic had weakened over the years and the heating/air-conditioning unit up there was about to come crashing through the ceiling and crush us into paste? (See, I knew I could come up with something worse. I am not my father's daughter for nothing.)

But before shaking Tim awake and dragging him to the southeast corner of the basement (no, wait, that's for tornadoes), I mean, making him stand in the doorway (oops, that's earthquakes--what do you do in case of death by household appliances?) I decided to give one more listen.

Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. Creaaak. Groan. Wheeze. Wait. It didn't sound like it was coming from above after all. It sounded as though it was coming from somewhere even closer, like next to me.

Uh oh. Was this where I rolled over and came face to face with some gruesomly disfigured evil spectre that was looming over Tim's prostrate form while weilding a sharp knife dripping in blood? (Maybe I shouldn't watch the history channel before bed anymore, especially anything with the words Violent Past, Blood, Death or Destruction in the title. Perhaps I should stick to reruns of "The Beverly Hillbillies" and then I would only have to worry about seeing Granny swimming in the cement pond. Oh. Wait. That's not much better. Never mind.)

Plooop. Creaaak. Groan. Wheeze. Dear God, what was that noise?

Steeling myself for what I might see, I rolled over to find that the horrible, scary noise was worse than anything my imagination had conjured up...it was Tim, trying to breathe through his nose.

Apparently, allergy season is upon us. So much for sleeping through the night for the next couple of weeks/months! All in all, I might actually prefer the spectre. Or the satellite.

The Timing is Everything

Tim has the most amazing sense of timing.

I could sit by the phone the entire day without hearing from him, but the minute I am in the middle of something, that's when he calls.

This week, it started on Monday....late morning....the mall.
I had just gotten to the mall after running about two hours worth of errands, and I needed to use the bathroom (four cups of coffee and a bottle of water will do that to you). No sooner had I gotten in there when...you guessed it. Tim called. Since I was not wearing Depends, I decided to let it go to voicemail. Could his timing be any worse?

As I was washing my hands, the phone rang again...Rose. Good timing. But while I was talking to her, Tim called again, so I tried to click over, but missed him. For most people, this wouldn't be a problem, but this is me I'm talking about, so nothing is easy.

Like every other electronic device in my life, my phone is out to get me. If I click over and miss the call, the phone will not disconnect. It doesn't matter what buttons I push, how many times I curse, or even the force with which I hurl it against the nearest wall, it won't let the call go.

The only way I can place a new call is to power it down and pop out the battery. By the time I completed the necessary maneuvers, Tim wasn't available.

Risking another poorly timed call, I met Rose and, of course, just when I was in the middle of returning an outfit from last weeks fun-filled search for something to wear to a black-tie event, Tim called. Does he have a Lojack on my phone that I don't know about, so whenever I stop moving for more than two minutes, he knows I am in the middle of something, and therefore it is a really bad time to call?

The next time was Wednesday...mid-afternoon...the grocery store.
I hadn't heard from Tim since first thing in the morning. There I was, using the self-checkout when, naturally, he called. Cradling the phone against my ear with my shoulder, I reached for a bag of tomatoes. As I picked them up with my free hand, the bottom of the bag ripped, and...tomatoes everywhere. They just love me at that store.

And so it continued today...late afternoon...the car.
Around 2:30, I called Tim, but his assistant told me he was busy and would call me back. No problem. Grocery store...still no call. CVS...not a word. Photo store...nothing. 3:45, getting out of the car, loaded down with bags, getting rained upon, guess who calls.

Feeling obligated to answer (if I don't he will just keep calling. I know this from past, painful experience), I once again jam the phone between my ear and shoulder (and I wonder why I have neck problems?) and jam my hand in the car door as it slams shut (Hmmm, now I know what is worse than having a full bladder when Tim calls).

Unperturbed by the stream of obscenities I unleashed, Tim asked if it was a bad time to call (does he ever pick a good time?). Telling him to call me back on the house phone in five minutes, I managed to free my mangled hand, and make it into the house before the neighbors called the cops and had me arrested for disturbing the peace.

Ten minutes later, I still hadn't heard from him, so I did something about it. I hauled out the step-ladder and climbed up to put some dishes away in the top cupboard. Sure enough, I had no sooner gotten to the top then the phone rang. Sure enough, it was Tim.

Finding Advil

This weekend, we took our niece and nephew to see the Disney show on ice, Finding Nemo ...along with twelve million other screaming kids. No need to turn off the cell phone here. You could have an amp the size of Mt. Rushmore hooked up to it and you still wouldn't hear it go off.

Act I (the headache begins--want Advil)
Cotton candy and sno-cones. Oh Goody. Wet and sticky little fingers covered with pink and blue food coloring. But hey, they give you one whole wet wipe the size of a postage stamp to help.

Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Goofy skate onto the ice to introduce the story, but first...they promote their next ice show. Wow. Thanks for the heads up. We might have missed getting this vital information from the ads in the program, the people greeting us in the lobby with the flyers, or the announcements over the PA system.

Finally though, the show begins. And so do the questions from our four year old nephew. "Where did Goofy go? Is he coming back? Why did he leave? Is that Nemo? Where is Nemo? Why do they have rocks on the ice? What are those things? Why are the sharks chasing them? Is that scary scuba man? What did he do with Nemo? Why does he want Nemo? Why doesn't he take his mask off? Why is his mask on the ice? What happened to Nemo? Is Goofy coming back?"

Fortunately, the child behind up interrupted the inquisition for brief periods of time by randomly shreiking, "Nemo!" at the top of his lungs...in my ear.

Intermission (the headache builds--must have Advil)
Popcorn, giant pretzels, two spilled melted sno-cones, napkins stuck to shoes, shoes stuck to floor, pants (thank goodness they were Tom's and not mine this time) stuck to leg.

Act II (forget Nemo-- Find Advil. Now.)
We resume playing twenty (120) questions.

"Are the turtles good or bad? Why isn't Dory moving? What's wrong with Marlin? Is that whale going to eat them? Why are the other fish doing that? Is that the mean niece? Why did she kill him? What are those things? How are they going to get out of there? Is the bird going to eat them? Where is Goofy?"

Apparently, "wait and see" and "I don't know" are not acceptable responses to these questions.

Oh, and once again, the Nemo fan club behind me shared his enthusiasm for the show.

Finale (Advil. Advil. Advil.)
Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and, yes, Goofy reappear just in time to satisfy Tommy and make another pitch for the next show (Yes, we know. Our niece reminded us every ten to fifteen minutes about all the wonderful upcoming events we can't miss. Thanks anyway.).

At last it is over and we fight our way through a tide of sugar-crazed kids humming the Mickey Mouse song trailed by bedraggled parents wondering how large the trap would have to be to silence Mickey once and for all.

Somehow, I think I might not be the only one looking for Advil.

Black Tie Optional

Guys just don't get it. For them, the words, "black tie" means one thing: go rent a tux. For us, it means: Red alert! Danger Will Robinson!

So when we received an invitation a few weeks ago for a formal affair this week, Tim shrugged and grumbled about having to clip on the tie (poor thing, how will he survive?) while I went into complete panic mode.

The dress, the shoes, the accessories, the dress.

And so it began. Tim, who can spend endless hours deciding bewteen a blue tie with red and yellow stripes or a blue tie with yellow and red stripes suddenly can't tell the difference between basic black and pink leopard print with sequins.

"What do you think of this?" I ask, holding up sample number one.

"Um...okay," he offers, glancing longingly at the nearest exit.

"Or, how about this one?" I press, holding up sample number two.

"Yeah. Whatever." He inches toward the door, but I'm not letting him off the hook that easily. I believe he promised for better or for worse???

"What about this?" I hold up yet another dress.

"Uh, no, it doesn't make you look fat." Nice try, but you're supposed to wait until I have it on to say that! Since he has decided to be about as useful as a parka in July, I decide to let him escape to Sharper Image, and look elsewhere for guidance...my blackberry.

After e-mailing and/or calling everyone else I know who is attending, I am in no better shape. Apparently. they also have "nothing to wear" and no ideas. Great. So basically, if the invitation said, "clothing optional," we'd all be set.

What to choose? The more I looked, the more confused and discouraged I became. Shop after shop, it seemed as though the "formal wear" was falling into four basic categories: Victoria Secrets model (six inches of fabric streched to cover considerably more real estate), Vegas showgirl (six inches of fabric covered with sequins, and/or beads, and/or cubic zirconia), Princess (before model: ragged hems and necklines that looked like Cinderella's mice had been gnawing on them, or the after model: big pouffy taffeta --enough said), and last, but not least...Grandma (lots of loosefitting knit "separates" that cover you from chin to toe).

I quickly learned not to turn to the salespeople for help since they apparently all work on commission. Skirt doesn't fit? Roll it over at the waist. I don't think so. Jacket too roomy? Buy a padded bra (or perhaps I should just stuff two grapefruits in there and be done with it.). One size too big, the next too small? Choose the smaller one. You can hold your breath for five or six hours right? (At least I think that's what she was saying, butI think I may have passed out for a minute or two there.). The front looks great. See? No,no, don't turn around. Take my word for it. The back looks fabulous!

Right.

In the end, I found there was really only one choice after all...the basic black dress, (literally, there was only one ) , and when I put it on tomorrow night, Tim had better tell me that it doesn't make me look fat!

Online Aggravation, I Mean Registration

Every month, I get buried under a stack of bills. Between the bills themsleves and the checks I have to write, I figure we must be responsible for the deforestation of at least half of Oregon.

So this week, I decided to try and pay some of them online. I've seen the ads. It's supposed to be faster, easier, better. I can do it during the commercials while the popcorn pops, or while I'm waiting for the coffee to perk (Well, maybe not. Too risky to do anything before coffee.) Then, I can use all that lovely extra free time to bounce around the house like Mary bleeping Poppins. Yeah. They lied.

First, you have to register on each site. This requires a username, password and security question. At least. Some want blood or your first born child.

Username. Okay. How about my name? Taken. Tim's name. Taken. Our names combined? Taken. Seriously, what are the odds of other Tims marrying other Anns and signing up for Verizon Wireless with the same last name as us? Apparently, they are pretty good.

After a fun ten minutes of trying every possible combination I could think of, I ended up making up usernames that I will never remember. Oh, and it can't be the same username for all the sites. That would be too easy.

On one site, it has to be between six and ten letters. No numbers. On another, eight to twelve characters, including at least one number and one letter. And on yet another one, all numbers, no letters.

Great. I can barely remember where I put the car keys that were just in my hand, and now I'm supposed to remember eighteen different usernames? Then, to add insult to injury, on one site, if you have multiple accounts (which, of course, we do -- cell phones), you need multiple usernames! More fun.

Once you have cleared this hurdle, you get to choose your password. No less than six letters, no more than five. At least two numbers, no numbers allowed. Naturally, all of them are case sensitive, so you have to remember where and if you used any capitals.

Some sites though, don't let you choose your own password. This is for security reasons. You can't complete your registration until you get your super-secret password in the mail. Oh goody. Does it come with a special decoder ring? Or maybe it self-destructs five minutes after opening the envelope.

Twenty randomly assigned numbers to remember. They've got to be kidding. Secure? You bet. From me!!!

And speaking of security...they are not done with you yet. After settling on usernames and passwords that you don't have a snowball's chance in hell of remembering, you have to choose a security question to answer. But, again, each site has different questions.

Therefore, I now have to remember my favorite book, movie, hobby, color, actor, actress, author and high school teacher. Which would be great if I actually had a single favorite in any of those categories. After all, I really liked Mother Goose and Captain Kangaroo at one point, but I hate to think I'd be stuck with them for the rest of my life. Oh, and I am so over Tom Cruise too.

Ahh, but once you get past all that, you get to access your account, and choose the method of payment, etc. Which is great, except that with all the "print for your records" pages and lists of usernames, passwords and security questions I've printed out this week, I think I may have deforested the other half of Oregon.

Welcome to my World

I'm glad it's not just me.

Last fall, I decided it would be a good idea to make the basement more acceptable (see Oct. blogs). Turns out it wasn't.

Eventually though, the basement room was finished, and two weeks ago, the guy came to install the cabinets.

Two days, he said. Easy, he said. Yeah. That was before he had to schlep the cabimets down to the basement himself because his delivery guy wouldn't bring them further than the porch (he claimed insurance liability, but I'm thinking Friday happy hour).

Then, there wasn't a base for the pantry cabinet, or glass for the upper ones. The plot thickened. He he he.

I warned him about the sloping floor, cinderblock walls and heating duct. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he nodded. Three days later, he was almost sobbing. "It took longer than I thought. Did you know you have a sloping floor, cinderblock walls and that this (frustrated hand gesture here -- there may have been a middle finger involved) is a heating duct?

No. Really? Do tell.

Oh, and let's not forget about the whole lighting debacle. Lights in the cabinets? No problem. We'll just drill two holes, like that, then punch a hole in the wall to run the wire through here...no here...um, maybe here... Uh oh. Are you sure you want lights?

Well, yes, now I need them to cover the holes you've put everywhere!!!

"This project was not easy," he grumbled to me last week. I just smiled.

But at last his part was finished, and yesterday, it was the granite guy's turn. Lickety-split, he measured the space, then called his office for a delivery time.

"No, it's just a single, solid piece." Pause.
"It's not a kitchen." Pause, and eyeroll.
"No, there are no cutouts; it's just a single, solid piece." Pause, eyeroll, deep breath.
"No, it's not a bathroom." Pause, eyeroll, deep breath, forehead slap.
"It's a room with a refrigerator, but it's not a kitchen. We just need a single, solid piece." Pause, eyeroll, deep breath, forehead slap, search for a gun with a single bullet.

As he became more deeply enmeshed in the same Abott and Costelloesque routine that I had been sucked into back in October, I just looked at him...and laughed.

I almost can't wait to see what happens when the painter shows up.

Breathe Deeply and Relax

The sound of running water is supposed to be restful. They put it on those sound machines that they sell at places like Brookstone or Sharper Image.

FYI: They are wrong.

Everytime it rains, the roof of my yoga studio leaks, which always makes class... interesting, rather than restful.

Buckets indicate known drips, and putting your mat next to them will slowly drive you crazy (which for me is not a far trip).

"Close your eyes and take a deep breath." Plop. Plop. Plop-plop-plop.

"Feel your ribs expanding as you send the breath into your back." Plop-splash. Plop-splash. How about sending someone to fix the roof? There's an idea.

Chairs or piles of blankets indicate saturated ceiling tiles which, although they are not currently leaking, may come crashing down at any given moment.

"Imagine the breath sending energy through your body." Imagine my head being crushed like a grape when the ceiling collapses.

"Picture a clock on the ceiling. Move your eyes diagonally from two to eight." How about if I just move them from the big leak that is threatening to drown me to the large tile that is threatening to sever a major artery when it lands point-first on me?

And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. They decided to fix the roof (Wasn't it Buddha who said:be careful what you wish for...?)

"Breathe in to a count of four, exhale to a count of six, hold your breath for a count of two." Bang. Bang. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Wait. Was thet 4-6-2 or 2-4-6? Do I breathe in on the thumps and out on the bangs or vice-versa?

"Place the soles of your feet against the wall and straighten your legs as you raise yourself up on your hands." Bzzzz. Thump. Bzzzzz. Thump. Okay, I can barely keep my balance when the wall is not vibrating.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse...the lights went out (I swear, I did not ask for this).

Goody. Yoga by candle and emergency exit light. I just love new challanges. Well, at least the power tools were silenced.

After checking with the front desk, the instructor assured all of us that the power had been temporarily shut off in the building, but there was no danger, so we could continue with class. And so we did our downward dogs and dolphins and cobras by feel.

The upside was that when you over-balanced in tree pose and toppled over, no one could see you. The downside was that when you can't see the instructor demonstrating a new pose, it's like playing limbo and twister at the same time. You can end up trying to wrap your leg around your neck while balancing on your pinkie, and taking out the person next to you.

Finally though, class was drawing to an end. It was time for relaxation (You get to lie down, cover yourself with a nice, warm blanket or two, and drift off...my kind of exercise!)

"Feel your muscles relax as you -" Bzzz. Bzzzz. Thump-bang. Thump-bang. Ah. Power was restored. Thank goodness. For a minute there, I was afraid I would actually be able to relax.