Lent ’n’ Easter

For the past few weeks, Pastor keeps talking about Lent. As much church as I’ve attended in my half century of earthen wear, I’m still unclear as to what it really is.

Raised by an old banker dad who headed a loan department, I saw Lent as meaning “loaned yesterday,” as in, “I lent those poor borrowers my daughter each summer so I didn’t have to deal with her.” So to me, Lent is more like Passover, as in, “During my childhood, my dad opted to pass over raising me to poor borrowers each summer.” No kidding.

In the old Wisconsin days, my high school buds and I would joke that we were giving up something for Lent. “Yeah, for Lent I’m giving up smoking and liver.” I didn’t smoke, only morons eat liver, and God already knew I wasn’t about to give up the sinful things I enjoyed.

Research break: I just looked up Lent and learned that it consists of the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter and is devoted to fasting, penitence, and abstinence. I’ve fasted most Fridays for years, but if I had to fast for eight weeks I’d look like Gandhi did, all nose. Abstinence—well, if it’s from sex, my Lent began years ago. If it pertains to beer, forget it.

Easter reminds me of my daughter, Ivy. Late on the Saturday night before Easter when she had just turned four, I hopped ’round the house hiding plastic eggs filled with unhealthy stuff like beef, pork, and onions.

To top off this gourmet with creative juices, I took a piece of printer paper, drew two bunny tracks on it, and cut them out. Then I grabbed the baking soda and headed for the stairway.

Laughing to myself at how clever I was, I sprinkled baking soda through the track holes, two paw prints per step. I’ll admit, I was pretty proud of myself. Here was Miss High-tech Businesswoman stooping over stairs at 10:45 p.m., pretending to be a cute little bunny, all for the joy of her little angel.

Easter morning, the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection, little Ivy rose and began searching for her rotten meat ’n’ onions. (Okay, I hid candy, but that makes me sound like a bad mom.) When she tootled toward the stairway, I was psyched, anxiously awaiting her surprised reaction at seeing bunny tracks. I could almost hear her jubilantly say, “Look, Mommy! The Easter bunny hopped from downstairs!” and be all happy.

Instead, this precocious four-year-old ambled down a few steps, bent down, and closely observed the tracks. She wiped her little hand over the white powder, then rubbed her thumb against her fingers. “Baking soda,” she said. “Why would the Easter bunny walk through baking soda?”

“How do you know that’s baking soda?!” I demanded.

“MOMmy,” she replied, as if to say, “Are you really that dumb?”

Sometimes. I suddenly understood penitence. I should have dropped chocolate-covered rabbit turds instead.

Returned to Sender Due to Addressee’s Violation of Postal False Representation Law

When a person is enduring a lawsuit of any kind—divorce, perjury, embezzlement, malfeasance, defrocking, impeachment—walking to the mailbox can be an anxiety-producing event. Opening its cover and seeing what lies within can be like uncovering maggots in your briefs.

Years ago while being railroaded by judicial system thugs—mean, small-minded pond scum who used my daughter as a pawn to torment me and threw law interpretations around like gangsters would a dead cat—I couldn't foresee what deceptive accusations would fall into my mailbox. To protect my soul, my postman would offer to hold certain pieces till I was emotionally hardened and ready to receive the fraud I’d eventually open.

Trauma throughout life can elicit responses to stress that make the brain shut down. Perpetrators seem to have an ability to victimize the innocent to make them feel as if somehow they, the prey, are criminals. Perps are like that.

Six years after my daughter became free from a very abusive situation and my family finally gained some peace, I received a piece of mail that looked official and did the wrong thing: I reacted without reading the correspondence top to bottom. It was a Periodic Report, purportedly from the Secretary of State, informing me I was delinquent (by months) in renewing my $10 annual fee and now owed $225. Indeed, I had not renewed the corporation I started in 1986 because I didn’t use it and had discussed the issue with a gal at the SoS’s office, stating that my intent was to dissolve the corporation. She told me how to told me to proceed, and I heeded her instruction.

The document I received looked legitimate, but it wasn’t. Had I not reacted from Mailbox Fear and read the entire page, particularly the bottom quarter, I would have seen this:

“This product or service has not been approved or endorsed by any Government Agency and this offer [note: offer] is not being made by an agency of the Government. U.S.C. 39.6.3001(d). This is a solicitation for the order of services, and not a bill, invoice or statement of account due. You are under no obligation to make any payments on account of this offer.”

As a very detail-oriented editor, I know that most of our government forms, heck, almost everyone’s printed pieces, are riddled with errors. It upsets me that few respect our language enough to learn it. But in this case, angst replaced detail orientation.

So in reaction to this document, I jotted them a note mentioning the date I talked with the SoS gal and her name and returned the document in the envelope provided.

Ten months later the same envelope I’d mailed with my note was returned unopened with a red, all-uppercase U.S. Postal Service stamp: RETURNED TO SENDER DUE TO ADDRESSEE’S VIOLATION OF POSTAL FALSE REPRESENTATION LAW.

Hmm, I am the sender, so how is the addressee in violation? I went to usps.com and found numerous USPS lawsuits against organizations. All were fraud cases. Many people illicitly have attempted to get victims to give them money. The words transgression of the law were in the USPS claims, which sounded very biblical.

Then I googled the words of the red stamp and found www.ripoffreport.com/small-business-services/corporate-controller/corporate-controllers-unit-pe-69f53.htm

“The solicitation looks very official citing that ‘Colorado Corporations Code Requires Periodic Report’ and ‘CORPORATIONS CODE SECTION, 7-90-301 AND 7-90-501 Colorado Revised Statues (C.R.S)’

“It's not until the bottom of the letter that it reads ‘This is a solicitation for the order of services, and not a bill, invoice or statement of account due’

“Unfortunately, many companies may be duped into thinking this is an official notice for payment by the State of Colorado and end up paying these scammers the $225 fee.”

Also, “By the way, Corporate Controllers Unit, it's U.S.C. 39.4.3001(d) that you should be referencing not 39.6 (which doesn't even exist!). For the intern at CCU the roman numerals are: IV = 4, VI = 6, there is no part 6 of Title 39.”

Bottom line: Don’t let fear be your guide.

You Who

Late one night I went online to read the local obituaries and saw a name that my friend would be relieved seeing, due to the harm the deceased had inflicted upon my friend’s children.

I quickly tapped a one-liner with a link to the obit and included a Clarence Darrow quote, “I have never killed anyone, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction.”*

Immediately the email bounced back because I’d inadvertently sent it to an old address, and thank goodness it did. My one-liner read: “Did you hear you died?” rather than “who.” Ho llew.

* Clarence Darrow, American lawyer (1857–1938), http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Clarence_Darrow

Wearing Diapers Again

Whenever my daughter sneezes, I ask, “Did ya wet your pants?!”

She rolls her eyes at me and, playing my game, answers, “Sure did. Nice ’n’ warm.”

We’re strange like that, springing off each other’s thoughts. Free association, wild style. I’m drawn to quick-witted types who keep my mind humming.

Like my spirit mate of 27 years. Unfortunately, he contracted a nasty case of influenza, so on top of all his regular doctor and therapy appointments, he has had to add another to the docket. What a terrible waste of precious time and energy. Though he’s on the mend and heads into work, his vigor quickly wanes. Never the poorer, he’s endowed with a wry sense of humor.

“Your body is telling you to go home and rest,” I said to him, even though he’s extraordinarily driven and likes spending alone time at his recording studio where he composes symphonies, concertos, and other movements you don’t flush.

He’s a rare person who has become famous, or should I say, notorious, prehumously vs. the more common posthumously. Still, his knees almost always quiver when he’s standing before an appreciative audience. I can relate.

“Hopefully we’ll be able to get together soon,” he said with a slight air of doubt in his voice. Seems when a person is ill, it’s hard to imagine feeling better. When a body’s energy is zapped, tending only to restoring health, it can feel as if you’re never going to be better. “It’s hell getting old,” he said. “Takes longer to heal.”

“Maybe we should reverse the process and start getting younger but without needing diapers.” Then, as if on cue, something flew up my nose. "A-choo! (pause) Whoops! Too late."

If you don’t understand, wait a few years.

Dead Girl Makes Great Date

At book club we’ve been reading Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth since August 12, 2010. I joked with my friend, Anita, that we’d probably never finish the book and end up taking Eckhart to the grave with us. Each month we’d only go through a few pages. It’s not that we’re just learning English or that we find consciousness such a difficult topic to absorb, but we girls can talk!

Imagine my surprise when we finally completed the book March 14, 2012, 19 months after we began.

In the last chapter, Tolle wrote about how Western societies have little respect for the old, who when they’ve breathed their last, aren’t seen anymore. It’s as if death should be hidden. I commented that two of my friends had died in November, as well as two uncles in recent days or months, and cremation has taken the place of the wake.

“We travel from different parts of the country or world these days,” I said, “so it’s hard to get people in one place quickly. Of course, I certainly don’t want people looking at my dead, old body.”

“Well, at that point, you’re gone. You shouldn’t care,” Diana said.

“Yeah,” I continued, “friends would probably look at my corpse and say, ‘Gee, she looks pretty good all plumped up. No more wrinkles.’”

To which Diana volleyed, “Yes, death really becomes her. She should’ve died a long time ago. She looks really good!”

“I can see it now, pictures of the new dead me circulating on the Web. ‘Lookin’ better than ever. The new dead Auntie.’”

“We could put your face on match.com!” Diana exclaimed enthusiastically. “You know, just the head shot taken from the casket.”

“And the pitch: ‘Doesn’t say much. Quiet by nature.'”

“Not much trouble. Cheap date,” Diana threw in. We were on a roll, laughing so hard, tears flowed down our faces. Our other book clubbers couldn’t keep up with the speed and sat with mouths agape.

“Won’t embarrass your family,” I threw in, thinking of my past.

“Discreet.”

“Focused and attentive. A good listener.”

“She doesn’t look so tired. Must be getting more rest.”

“Gotta get the name of that hairdresser.”

“Check out her nails.”

Maybe they’ll even give me boobs.

Nuts

For as long as I can remember, I’ve liked nuts. The hankering likely comes from my dad’s side of the family. During football season back in the 1960s, he’d enjoy a Pabst or two and salted peanuts. At Christmastime we’d take a sledgehammer to walnuts, revealing fruit only an adult would like.

In fourth grade almost every day after school, I’d come home and make a not-so-chocolaty chocolate malt. I’d use a fork to break up the vanilla ice cream, the kind Mom would buy in a five-quart bucket—oh boy!—and add just the right amount of whole milk and malt powder to ensure it didn’t get too soupy. After I had ground the ice cream to a perfect texture and swirled the thick, caramel-colored delight the right number of times (OCD was my normal), I’d top it with salted or dry roasted peanuts. Oh my gosh! Definitely worth the effort.

We’d often travel to a food warehouse in St. Cloud, Minnesota, a couple hours from Montevideo, to stock up on supplies we either couldn’t buy in Monte or didn’t want to pay too much for. Mom would always buy me a huge box of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, chocolate and peanut flavors in one scrumptious bite. Life couldn’t get much better at that time. Honest. I’d store them in my bed’s headboard, a sliding-door cubby, and each day I would allow myself one peanut butter cup. That’s discipline, because each package held two. But the decision was mine, even at eight or nine years old. I owned those treasures. I have always been the type to save the best till last, and I wanted the best to last.

My freshman year of college meant freedom, even though I lived in a dorm and ate at “Hillslop,” our nickname for the cafeteria at the top of the hill in dormland. Freedom for me meant eating what I wanted and in quantities I wanted—not needed, which is a whole ’nother concept. That was in the autumn of 1977.

I never really thought about body weight. Back then it simply wasn’t a big issue. Models were models. Fat people were fat people. And some friends thought I was anorexic. I hung out with everyone, and they hung out with me. We didn’t give weight much weight.

But one morning when I prepped for class, I couldn’t zip my stretchy pants, yes, stretchy pants with a button on top, not that the button mattered at that point since it was two inches away from the buttonhole.

By late spring 1978 I needed a new wardrobe. As I packed my belongings to head from Eau Claire to Wausau for the summer, I thought, How did I grow so? Then, in a sort of dreamlike disaster, I pictured it. After each day’s smörgåsbord, I’d waddle to the ice cream area. A few flavors and every topping you can imagine held up their hands saying, “Eat me! Eat me!”

But I’m not always a softie. I’d pretend I didn’t hear them and walk on by. Then, so they couldn’t see me, I’d dip my hand into the cold freezer and draw out a crisp chocolate-covered ice cream bar. Yum! But something was missing on those babies, something that only my friend, the peanut, could rectify. I’d wobble backward a bit to the five-gallon bucket of smooth peanut butter and slather it all over my ice cream bar—front, back, and sides.

There!

And so my pants wouldn’t button.

I must’ve puffed up like a soufflé those first two semesters, because three months later when school started again, a couple of the girls who lived with me on the fifth floor of Towers didn’t recognize me. They’d grown accustomed to watching the evolution of the Two-Ton Tillie I’d inadvertently become. But over the summer, I’d accidentally fallen back into Twiggie mode. Thank God, ’cause I didn’t really want to buy a new wardrobe.

My nut addiction didn’t wane during my sophomore year, either. I felt grown up that year and raised my standards by buying cans of Planters Mixed Nuts, the good stuff with no peanuts. In two nights, I could magically make the entire 20,000-calorie can of cashews, Brazil nuts, almonds, macadamias, hazelnuts, and pecans disappear. Fortunately, with consistent bike riding to and from work (four hilly miles away, and I had a car), I didn’t regain Tillie status.

In 1980 I entered my fourth and final year of college. Three young women and I rented a large home three miles from UW–Eau Claire and very close to where two of us worked, the Eau Claire School District’s Board of Education building. On decent-weather days I’d bike the distance and, again, develop quite an appetite. To reward myself for biking and not using my car, I’d head over to Randall’s grocery and buy a super-large container of Skippy crunchy peanut butter. Now I know some think Jif is better, but I’m a Skippy girl.

Fearing my skippiness could become pudginess without some budgetary constraint, I would hide the jar of peanut butter from myself under my bed so I couldn’t find it—except at 7:30 every evening. I’d ensure no one was in sight, open the silverware drawer ever so quietly, lift a tablespoon out of its section, then wiggle into my bedroom and gently close the door.

On my belly next to my bed, I’d be thinking how great God was to give me long arms. With my hand wrapped around the wide jar, I drew it closer to my big, blue eyes. Eager and salivating like a dog, I’d unscrew the cover, set it aside, and dip my waiting spoon into the crunch. I was always amazed at how much that spoon could carry, but it somehow was strong enough to reach my lips, where I'd nibble and nibble till it was almost gone. Then, as Mom used to let me do, I’d lick the spoon.

What is it about foods we crave? What comprises its lusciousness that keeps us coming back for more? Hmm, let's see. Between my Kroger crunchy peanut butter and two-and-a-half-pound container of Kirkland mixed nuts, the common denominator is…fat.

Hey, what a way to go.

“Only” 50

On an extremely windy day, Shiloh the Lab and I set out for our daily jog. Glancing up the street, I saw Don, my 84-year-old neighbor who is a thrice-a-day walker, gearing up for his second jaunt of the day. Noticing he was waiting to talk to me, I sped up a notch and heard him say, “Wha’cha doin’?”

Thinking perhaps his mind wasn’t keeping up with his years, I scrunched up my face and looked at him incredulously. “What am I doing?” the wind blew my words up the street to him.

“Naw, I can see what yer doin’. How’re yeh doin’?” he clarified in Kansas speak.

“Ahh,” I realized, sauntering to his side. As we walked together, I continued, “I’m doing better since I committed to writing my book. I went to a writers group last night where we discussed issues and questions important to us. Because of all the publishing experience I’ve had, I was able to share some knowledge with folks, but my questions weren’t answered. The gal who ran the meeting is researching for me, though, and will let me know. I just wish I had someone who’d throw a few hundred dollars at me every month to keep me going.”

“Well, yeh git Social Security, don’cha?” he asked.

“Don, I’m only 50!” blowing off a couple years.

He laughed, “Well, everyone I go to breakfast with gits Social Security, so I figgered you did too.”

So I’m going to breakfast with him in the morning.

Feeling Lonely? Click…

If I were lonely, I could pay for match.com, eharmony.com, or Donna Shugrue’s Perfectly Matched dating service and a matrix-based formula would align me with Mr. Right. And if I were isolated, depressed, and wanted free companionship, I could click Get Your Free Quote at online-health-insurance.com, whose motto is “Health Insurance Online makes comparing quotes and finding affordable plans easy. Apply online or speak to an agent for cheap health insurance options.”

Free. Cheap. Those should’ve been my clues. But it was a Monday.

By applying online and not speaking to an agent (it did state “or” not “and”), I could put a person on the project of researching plans and rates for me, didn’t have to talk to a soul, and could work uninterrupted. Yep, back in management.

After entering my basic information on the site mentioned above—including my telephone number, I clicked for my free online quote. It was definitely a Monday.

The moment, and I mean moment, I clicked for my free quote, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Doug, and I’m calling to talk to you about health insurance.”

“Noooooooo! How did this happen?” I have been on the National Do Not Call Registry since its inception, and I absolutely did not request a call, making his advance illegal.

After telling Doug to take my name off his list and hanging up, the phone rang incessantly till the predator gave up and started calling the next Monday moron. As I glanced at my computer, I counted nine U.S. predators that had spammed my email trying to get a piece of the commission pie. I felt very sick. The phone rang again and I spoke with Antonio, a guy who told me he lived in my city (but in a not-so-nice part of town). I said, “Are you at Daystar Terrace?”

“Ah, yeah. You must’ve gotten my email.”

I gave Antonio a chance after he went on for five minutes explaining to me how everyone and his brother got my information. I replied to his email more formally requesting my free quote. Well, it has been two weeks, and I’m still waiting for Mr. Briceno to write.

I unplugged the remote and powered off the answering machine. At 5:30 that afternoon when I plugged in my phone to recharge it, it immediately rang, as if they knew! I definitely had stepped in a pile of poo via that site I mentioned above.

This fiasco began with an announcement from Aetna, my health insurance provider. They are no longer offering individual plans in Colorado, so by midyear, I must select a new bloodsucker, just in case. Reminds me of an old satirical cartoon: A life insurance salesman says to a man and his wife, “That’s okay, Mr. Johnson, you just think about the policy, and if you wake up in the morning, give me a call.”

Last year I sought a different carrier via ehealthinsurance.com (a good experience), because Aetna had to be watched like I would a con man, that is to say, my ex-boyfriend. With every other claim, of which I have very few, Aetna either wouldn’t give me the agreed-upon rate between provider and insurer, or they’d simply refuse to pay their contractually obligated amount. I’d have to babysit Aetna, take my time to email them, explain their contractual agreement with the provider, and have them reprocess the claim.

Most of Aetna’s customer service reps didn’t write or understand American English, making this dance quite asynchronous. (They’ve recently hired English-writing Americans, probably due to my numerous complaints about having non-Americans wasting my time.) In 2008 it took one year of stressful aggravation and several appeals before they realized they had an agreement with a provider. They could have saved a lot of money had they initially hired native Americans.

In 2010 when I needed Mohs surgery for skin cancer, Aetna’s preauthorization representative said it would cost me only a $50 copay, so I proceeded with the dissection. When the actual bill came in at $2,000, I knew Aetna had erred and contacted them. Upon receiving my email, Aetna’s rep leaned back in her comfy office chair, filed her nails, and wrote (paraphrased), “The rep who told you your surgery would be covered with $50 was just kidding. What did you think the required preauthorization was anyway? It’s a cat-and-mouse game. Doesn’t mean a thing to us.”

Business law states, Aetna failed to honor their oral contract.

In this matter, I was fortunate for two reasons. First, I understand why Aetna would say they’d cover me then renege once the invoice was submitted. My friend works for a California insurance company here in the Springs and told me that when she denies a claim, she gets a kickback. She earns more money by not fulfilling the insurer’s contractual responsibility.

Second, I know about DORA, the Department of Regulatory Agencies, and for the first time in my life, a governmental organization was on my side; specifically, Deanna. This gal unceasingly helped me, from reading my initial request for assistance through completion, a process that took two months. She first contacted me via email, attaching the well-written, factually based letter addressed to Aetna. With the receipt of each DORA letter, Aetna would squirm and plant their heels into the ground, so my advocate, Deanna, would articulately, intelligently, and gracefully pull the rug from under Aetna’s sandy footing. Finally, Aetna admitted their trespasses, and to ensure I have no more claims, Aetna wrote me an assuring letter stating, next time anyone from their company says a procedure’s covered, don’t believe it.

Deanna is my hero and she knows it. I mailed her a thank you note telling her so. After all the travesties and injustices my daughter and I experienced in the Fourth Judicial District, DORA’s Deanna is a breath of fresh air. She’s probably gorgeous too.

So maybe I will start dating. Things are flowing more positively. Excuse me, phone’s ringing. “Hello?…yes, Brian,…health insurance? You have a very nice voice. Single?”

Damn Republicans

What’s a vote worth?

I’m so fed up with Republican calls and surveyors muddying my morgue that I’ve announced to friends I don’t plan to vote for any of the breeders, nor growling Gingrich. For the two weeks preceding Colorado caucuses, my otherwise silent sanctuary reverberated like a school with alarm bells blaring every 45 minutes.

“Hello?” I’d answer in my sweetest “you’re calling to offer me a job” voice, only to receive three seconds of silence as foreplay before the big bang.

“I’m Ann Romney, and I have five children….” Later, “We’re conducting a 30-second survey…,” which lasted more than a minute. “This is Team Colorado calling to remind you of the caucuses on Tuesday at 7 p.m., and did you know how horrid Rick Santorum is. He had eight children and is conservatively consuming all the nation’s food supplies! That’s why you need to vote for our More-men Mittski.”

I carefully and quickly yanked the plug to my remote phone and powered off my answering machine. Immediately a whoosh of peace enveloped my soul—till a dog started campaigning next door.

“I refuse to vote for a breeder,” I wrote my beautiful confidante. “They’re just selfish.”

“What if I paid you to vote for a breeder? Or is that illegal?” she honestly replied.

“What’s it worth?” I volleyed.

“Twenty bucks.”

Sure I believe we need change, but are any campaigning Republican contestants capable of making it good for United States Americans? As with any politician, we’ll see. Look at the current debacle.

And before any reader believes I’m against having children, I’m not. In fact, here's a photo of me practicing to give birth.

One of my closest friends has six kids, but they are from three husbands who didn’t have other offspring. That equals two kids per family. And Arnold? He had four kids. Plus one. That’s two-point-five per family.

I rest with my case—a six-pack isn’t enough.

(Maybe being celibate is getting to me, but what about Jon Huntsman Jr., five birthed, two adopted; Sarah Palin, five; Michele Bachmann, five birthed, 23 fostered.)

Who Tooted?

Whenever someone goes into my kitchen and forages in the refrigerator or cabinets, there’s a 99 percent chance that one LabraDog and one Maine coon will be five feet away, eyes affixed on the forager.

Recently someone was bending over to pull a stockpot from the drawer beneath the oven and simultaneously tooted an atonal tune. Standing up, that someone turned around and said to the gastronomic gazers, “Excuse me,” then smiled,

at which point both beggars glanced sheepishly at their own rear ends.

What Do You Do to Stay Warm?

On Wednesday it was a gorgeous, sunny, 65-degree day, perfect for my hike. On Thursday, the temperature fell like a hawk on a bull snake to 25 degrees. With the furnace kicking in every 20 minutes throughout the night to maintain a crisp 63-degree atmosphere, a memory floated to the surface from my days in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

In the autumn of 1979 I began my third year of college. Nick (Norma), Mel (Mary Lynn), Lynn, and I rented a small, dilapidated, old house on Niagara Street, or Niagra, depending on which sign you looked at. In the dark, musty basement of the place lived the Octopus, a huge-bodied furnace with about eight thick arms that could never reach the two bedrooms upstairs. From October till May that house was freezing, particularly Lynn’s and my bedroom, yet our heating-oil bills ran about $350 a month. I don’t think they insulated houses the year that place was built.

The memory was of my roomies and me arguing about who would wash the dishes. After all, there was only so much hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps we could drink and we all wanted to be warm. So we’d come back from classes, eat dinner, and then, almost in unison, shout, “I get to wash dishes!”

“No, I do!”

“No, me!”

Hands in hot water is one way we could keep warm.

That 30-year-old memory led me to thinking of what others do to keep warm. So I asked a few friends.

Anita, who turns her thermostat down to 59 degrees at night, covers with an extrawarm comforter, and probably blows steam rings from her pillow, uses a little space heater in her office to keep her toes toasty warm when working. Banjo Bill says he puts on a vest.

Sam can’t handle anything less than 70, except his women. When cold weather sets in, he aims the thermostat lever at 80 and books a flight bound for Florida or Mexico where he frolics for weeks till he thinks it’s warmer back in Colorado. If I look at my book, though, I’m pretty sure that every year he returns to cold weather. He should be like my relatives. Mom’s brother and his wife, as well as her sister and husband, each have a home in northern Wisconsin and another in a warmer climate: Jack and Becky winter in Arizona, Shirley and Duane, in Florida.

Cherri, who hails from and moved back to Miami, handled Colorado’s occasional cold weather quite well, even driving in snow, albeit way too slowly. One night we had a sleepover at her place and what she laid on top of us was not an ordinary quilt. It felt like a 300-pound concrete patio. It pushed the air out of my lungs and left me motionless all night. I don’t believe the weight added any more warmth than a light blanket would have, and it reminded me of something I was missing in my life.

In Wisconsin, I remember some gals would pack on weight and guys would grow beards. I guess I could let the hair on my legs grow, but if I ever wore pantyhose…ew! like hair in a hairnet. Joe Namath wearing pantyhose comes to mind—dressed in drag before it came in vogue.

Me, well, I enjoy my morning coffee, half milk with honey, and a vigorous hike after working a while. If it’s too cold to hike, I vacuum and stand on my hands, but not simultaneously. A hot computer sitting on my lap makes work less frigid, and throughout the day I sip tea or my warm, milky concoction. Hot soups, chili, and other tomato-based meals make cold days more tolerable. Even red meat starts sounding good if I can get past the thought of slaughterhouses. Before dinner I might slip into my appetite suppressant, the hot tub that keeps me warm for hours and contributes to a better night’s sleep.

During the day I wear up to four layers on top, two on the bottom, and at bedtime I quickly slip into stretchy pants, socks, and a cami while a heating pad warms my sheets and jammie top. My room probably smells more like America’s Test Kitchen than it does a bedroom.

One story I’ll never forget is when my daughter, Ivy, was four years old, five inches of snow had fallen and was still coming down. I stuffed her into snow pants with suspenders, matching coat, scarf, and boots, then put her toddler’s toboggan in the Trooper and headed for the park.

A long, flat stretch of land runs adjacent to the parking lot and sits only feet from a perfectly sloping hill, great for sliding. The snow was sort of sticky, so I had to push the toboggan several feet to get it going. After a few trips down the hill and trudges back up, the snow smoothed out, making the journey slider friendly.

Being considerate, Ivy offered the next trip down to me, so I climbed in, held on to the toboggan’s edge lips, and Ivy pushed. Halfway down and still not gaining momentum, I turned around to give Ivy a quizzical, I-don’t-get-it look and found her dragging behind me, holding on tightly to the toboggan’s back lip. My shocked look melted the tricky little red-cheeked prankster into a warm puddle of laughter.

We all have cold-weather stories, but what do you do to stay warm?

Conversions

Twenty-eleven has been a year of great change in my life and around our home. My daughter graduated from high school and now attends an out-of-state college. Our home’s atmosphere has gone from moody oscillation to subdued ventilation. I might finally be going through menopause (I’ve had a big pause in men). And though every day I have always repaired or maintained something in our house or yard so projects don’t accumulate, major repairs and maintenance were waving their hands saying, “pick me!” Overwhelmed by all these responsibilities, I listed them and fainted.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’d rather clean a toilet than paint, and indeed I have cleaned a house or two. Is this beneath me. Heck no. I enjoy it. Nevertheless, for the first time since my BGF and I did it in 1996, I painted the stucco portion of the house’s rear below the brick and it looks great! It has a golden glow that really warms the structure and blends beautifully with the brick. Now my neighbors to the south can enjoy the view even more than when I dance naked at night with the draperies open.

I also tricked myself into a lot of touch-up painting. To some that might seem as simple as popping open a can of Coors and guzzling it down, but for me, opening a can of Sherwin-Williams is akin to opening Gorgonzola. But I opened, chewed, and swallowed, and again, the place looked and even smelled better.

But there was the big project, the one for which I could sort of see my destination but couldn’t fathom the path to get there. Dots on a map with empty space in between. You see, two of my many friends who have recently passed away left me their libraries, so I wanted to honor them by creating a space for their books where people could peruse, then check out a book or two. It’s what we already do in a condensed space, and there was only one room in which to comfortable house these books. So I began interviewing every friend who walked into our home. “Come, let me show you my new library!” I’d say. Then I’d ask them for suggestions.

In the lower level of our home is a room with no windows. When we moved here in 1994, I dubbed it my daughter’s playroom, where I could lock her up when she was naughty. It was space in which she could be creative with her friends, keep her art supplies accessible, and hang projects on the cork walls. I believe the room had previously been a torture room, with its sink and long shelf for accommodating chemical baths, or maybe it was a darkroom.

As she got older, Ivy and I called the room her office. We set up a desk with shelves, bought a decent lamp with three movable bulb casings, tossed in her huge beanbag chair, and kept the table for doing projects. But when Cat Number Two came into our lives in 2007 (see “Tattoo and Piercing”), he laid claim to one part of Ivy’s office. He used the cork wall as his scratching post. At first I was bummed to see chunks of cork of the floor and bare spots on the wall, but eventually I just walked past the mess or vacuumed it.

One day in late summer 2011, a month after Cat Two returned from a two-and-a-half-month explore 18 pounds lighter and regained his scratching momentum, I decided to do some cork removal myself. Ed suggested taking not only the cork but the whole drywall off. Attempting this, I soon feared the entire house would collapse, plus I found a wire that I suspected was still hot (wrong again), so I ceased further activity and prayed for a handyman.

Sam suggested keeping the cork on the top half and paneling the bottom, but cork was missing from the top. Two other friends, Michael and Anita, separately suggested placing drywall or paneling over the cork, to which I replied, “I’d be losing square footage in my home.” Michael also suggested ripping out the sink, shelves, and anything fifties in my home. Realizing I’d have to move, I chose another option. My neighbor suggested razing the house and starting from scratch.

Mentally exasperated, I needed closure, so by late October I knew how to proceed. Using a four-inch broad knife, I removed the cork, leaving small bumps of cement and pieces of flesh on the wall. Taking a lesson from the cats, I covered the bumps with paint texture I found in the garage. Almost everything used for this project, I found in the garage: paint, molding, a door, timbers.

I decided on a southwest, rustic motif. Two tones of blue for the sky, terra cotta for the sunset. I previously painted the brick wall, the backdrop to my bookshelves, a latte color and used a blend of warm tan and white for the rest of the room. When the painting was almost complete, my neighbor made numerous cuts with his saws—table, jig, and circular. I was on my way home.

Using my former 36” x 76” front door for shelves and two landscape timbers for spacers, I built bookshelves.

A table frame with Pergo shelves houses my encyclopedias from 1970.

Two stretches of door molding became a chair rail of exactly the correct length on the former cork wall.

Rope light and a six-foot length of molding were all I had to buy.

How cool is that?