Monthly Archives: November 2012

Dena & Carrie

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If left to my own motivation at this stage in life—late-50’s, children grown, empty nesting—I would not clean my home. Okay, okay . . . I probably would, but I wouldn’t be happy about it.

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a diva who grew up with housekeepers. (Actually, I did grow up with a housekeeper—my mother, but she could get snippy and call me things like lazy and ungrateful.)

I’m a professional woman with a demanding job who likes to spend her precious free time doing things (anything) other than cleaning the house.

For the past 12 years, I’ve been able to afford the luxury of hiring someone to clean our home every two weeks. Not just any someone, but two noteworthy women: Dena and Carrie.

If Dena were to write a tell-all book about us, I imagine it would end with: “They were a disaster before me.”

She’d be right.

It was Dena who took me into the living room one day, pointed to the disarray of the television/video gaming area, ripped the veil of denial from my face, and asked, “Doesn’t this bother you?”

“Now that you mention it—”

“You need to buy an entertainment center and get this crap organized.”

Two weeks later, an entertainment center was purchased, installed, and proudly shown to Dena.

“It’s about freaking time!”

When our vacuum cleaner started its slow death, I encouraged Dena to squeeze a few more rounds out of it. A month later, she stuck her head in my home office and said, “Buy a new freaking vacuum cleaner.” I waited until the day before she arrived. When she came through the door, I announced, “I bought a freaking vacuum cleaner.” She said, “It’s about freaking time!”

A few weeks before our son left for college, Dena volunteered to help him organize his bedroom and pack. A week later, she walked up the stairs, saw the expanse of clutter covering his floor, and yelled, “I’m going to freaking kill him!” (Unlike us, she did not cry when he left home.)

When Harrison came home for his winter break from college, she said, “I hope your dorm room is cleaner than your bedroom was when you lived here.” He said, “It’s not.”

She shook her head in disgust as our teenager got off the sofa, walked across the room and wrapped her in a hug. “I’ve missed you, Dena.”

When she grew tired of trying to shape us up, she moved to Lake County. Before leaving, she introduced us to Carrie.

If Carrie ever decides to write a tell-all book about us, I hope she’ll end it with: “I’ve seen worse.” (Since we’ve never allowed her access to the garage, this is likely true.)

Unlike Dena, Carrie doesn’t seem to mind that we neglect things. This is good in the sense that we know she won’t scold us into dealing with it; and bad because apparently we only take action when scolded.

A stack of knitting projects grows under an end table. The upstairs remains a storage unit for much of our kids’ stuff (they have been gone from home for five and eight years.) My sewing room is a mess of tossed fabric. A do-it-yourself bathroom project is going into its second year of non-completion. And what’s that bag of stuff sitting next to the fireplace?

Dena would not have tolerated any of this.

For years, we happily looked forward to the arrival of either of our housekeepers every two weeks. Last year, something terrible happened: Carrie took a full time job at a local restaurant.

I was despondent. I didn’t want to hire another housekeeper. I wanted Dena or Carrie. Three weeks went by. Our world turned to a dull shade of gray as dust grew to a measurable thickness on every surface, and dog hair swirled like flakes in a snow globe. Finally, we put on our N100 Disposable Respirator Masks (available at Matson Building Materials) and started cleaning.

For 10 months, cleaning day was cause for Gary and me to whine and snipe at each other. Then Carrie called to say she wanted to supplement her income and asked if we still needed a housekeeper. I would have thrown confetti and popped champagne, but I would have had to clean it up.

[A note to Carrie’s family: You can take down the Missing Person fliers. She’s doing fine living in a soundproof room in our attic. She’s allowed out once every two weeks to clean the house. We can’t take a chance on her leaving us again.]

Natural Born Killer

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Harrison, our son, was home for the weekend. Toward the end of his visit, he took me to the edge of the back porch and pointed to the right. “See those gray blobs?”

They looked like small cow pies.

“Notice the tails?”

They weren’t cow pies. They were decomposed rats.

I rushed into the house to confront the sack of fur curled up in the living room.

“Why?” I pleaded. “Why have you become a rat serial killer? And why do you insist on bringing the corpses home?”

The cat slowly raised his head and squinted. Now, Kate—.

I stood my ground, refusing to break eye contact.

You used to think I was a girl.

Harrison brought the cat home in 2004, the summer before he left for college. He was told by the litter’s owner that the kitten was a girl. I did not know how one goes about sexing a fluffy kitten, and didn’t care. I had a full time job, three other cats (yes, three), a kid in high school, another getting ready for college, and a host of better things—like laundry—to do.

Gary and I wanted to name her Harrison’s Parting Gift, but our daughter, Laine, chose Lily. I referred to her as Little Sister as she fought her way into the established hierarchy of the older cats.

After dropping her at the vet to be spayed and discovering she actually had to be neutered, Little Sister morphed into Little Mister.

He’s not an overly affectionate cat. He will never sit on your lap. He’ll stand on it (or your chest if you’re lying down) and ask to be petted. He’ll insist on a round of pets whenever he gets up from his day-long nap. He does cuddle in bed at night—at least until one o’clock in the morning when he wants to go out and at three o’clock when he wants to come in until five o’clock when he wants to go out again.

If you show too much interest, he’ll dust you off like a hung over A-list movie star ignoring an autograph seeker.

From the time Little Mister was teensy, I sensed a feral quality about him and insisted he sit in my lap and endure petting whenever he was fed. Without that training I don’t think he’d be as domesticated as he is today.

Over the years, he’s dragged home smatterings of torn up critters, usually of the mole or mouse variety. But this past month, he’s become rat obsessed. He’s presented us with at least 10 of them. He leaves them in the Easter lily bed to the right of the back porch—an area we now refer to as Rat Hollow.

The first several rats sent my goose flesh flaring as I donned rubber gloves to grab their tails and drop them into a plastic bag for garbage can burial. Since then, my traumatized brain will not allow me to look at Rat Hallow. Thus, the last three decomposed to the consistency of cow pies.

Laine, our family cat expert, says that Little Mister’s recent bountiful gifts of rat corpses are signs of gratitude—he likes us and wants to make sure we’re well fed.

I have a difficult time believing that he gives one hoot about us. I think he hypnotizes me into feeling deep affection towards him. He draws me in by allowing a petting session. He’ll lick my hand and rub his head along it multiple times before jumping to the floor, which leaves me feeling used. I’m pretty sure he could suck out my soul as I lie sleeping.

Laine says some cats are just plain killers. They hunt not for food or for sharing with their owners. They kill for the thrill. This seems in line with Little Mister’s recently completed personality profile on The Big Five Personality Test. He got high marks for being closed minded, disagreeable, and high strung. He failed miserably at being conscientious.

Uh-oh, he just hopped on my desk and is reading this.

You only weigh 13 pounds. I’m not afraid of you.

You should be. (He’s thumping his tail.)

Let me give you a pet, my sweetheart. You know I love you.

Of course you do. If you didn’t, I’d steal your soul.

Purity Pairings

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I bought these Organic & Artisan-Baked Doctor Krackers today because:

(a) They are on sale;

(b) They are an example of the many hidden treasures to be found at The Purity; and

(c) They look healthy.

At home, I opened the package and popped one in my mouth. My assessment:

(1) Hay probably has a similar flavor profile.

(2) It is a food that falls into the acquired taste category.

I paired the crackers with homemade tomato soup. My assessment: after eating a cracker, a spoonful of soup somewhat neutralizes the hay aftertaste, making it more—yet still not quite—palatable.

I imagine these crackers might be best appreciated by paring them with Taaka Vodka (kept, for anti-theft or fire prevention code purposes, behind the counter at The Purity).

Follow these instructions and tell me how it works out:

(1) Take a large slug of Taaka.

(2) While your tongue is burning, put a cracker in your mouth and start chewing.

(3) Quickly—very quickly—wash the cracker down with another shot of Taaka.

(4) Guzzle the remaining Taaka.

(5) Lay down on the sofa, place the open cracker container on your belly, and turn the TV to any channel (it won’t matter because you won’t remember what you watched). Enjoy the healthful benefits of eating this snack while your taste buds are impaired.

Neighborhood Watch

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In the past couple of months, I’ve initiated a special weekend event with Wilson called the Homeless Dog Walk. I often see homeless people with well-behaved dogs heeling at their sides without a leash. For years, I’ve been envious of this feat. While I have been successful in training dogs to heel, I’ve never managed to do so without a tether.

I figured that after 14 years and 5,000 miles, Wilson can behave himself off leash for at least 10 minutes. (I bring along a leash in case he ignores me and wanders off.) The first few times, he was nervous— hesitant to leave the yard and turning back home as we ventured down the alley behind our house.

He now looks forward to this taste of freedom. He also maintains a fairly consistent heel. When he starts to wander a few feet away, I simply touch his back to get his attention. I don’t yell because he’s mostly deaf and I don’t want people to think I’m a dog abuser.

The Homeless Dog Walk meanders around the back streets of the neighborhood. This area is so quiet that street hockey teams could play all day with little vehicular interruption.

Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer, says “The walk should be like prayer.” And so it is with the Homeless Dog Walk. I savor each one, knowing it could be the last in the life Wilson and I have shared.

This past Sunday, we got to the end of the alley to find a neighbor trimming a bush inside his fenced yard. Wilson heard the snap of the hedge shears and drifted across the street toward the sound. I trotted after and herded him onto the sidewalk.

(Fun fact: this particular man has lived here about five years. Each time I see him, I smile and say hello. Each time he looks straight at me and turns away. Fortunately I don’t see him that often, but when I do, I continue to smile and say “Hey.” Perhaps he finds this torture. I enjoy torturing him with neighborly cheer.)

Mr. Neighbor said, “Looks like he could use a leash.”

I was pleased that after all these years, he finally acknowledged me. My friendliness had broken him down.

I smiled brightly and chuckled. “He’s 14 and I take him out a couple of times a week for a few minutes. It’s his little treat.”

Mr. Neighbor did not return my smile. “There’s a leash law. You need to put him on a leash.”

“He’s 14 and it’s just a short walk.”

“THE LEASH LAW APPLIES TO EVERYONE!” He turned a dark tomato red and sprouted black horns.

I put the leash on Wilson. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

And then he said in a tone conjured by 13-year old girls when speaking to their mothers, “It’s a good thing you’re so special.” The word special was said with such heat that I swear he blistered his tongue.

I was stunned. I wanted to—let’s just say the hair on top of my head burst into flames and a number of acts of physical violence flashed through my mind.

The sharp blades of his hedge shears glinted in the late afternoon sun. Staring me down with his raging eyes, he clapped them shut and pointed them at me.

I locked eyes with the insane.

Regular readers will know I’m capable of running, but my poor old dog is not. I don’t normally take my pepper spray or shotgun on these walks. And God forbid I’d have my cell phone.

What to do? What to do?

I dropped my eyes, turned away, and slowly led Wilson up the street—all the while keeping my ears alert for the click of a gate latch and the soundtrack from the Psycho shower scene.

I engaged in deep breathing exercises (good juju in, bad juju out) until my hands stopped shaking. A block away, I removed Wilson’s leash. I refused to allow this Napoleonic man to ruin our sweet walk.

Maybe Mr. Psycho is the Neighborhood Watch Captain or self-proclaimed Dictator of the Hood. Kudos to him for keeping the area safe from jaywalkers, sidewalk bicycle riders, and mid-century women taking their geriatric dogs on short walks without a leash.

I sleep better at night knowing he’s on the job.