the other end

Oh look, the closet is gone too.

end of day results

Today we gutted the tub from the bathroom. We sawed it up and threw it out. Progress in the making. Now what do we do next with the hole.

Sat. January 9, 2010.

Today we discussed the leak. We were planning on doing taxes, fix a leak in the bathroom and just enjoying the day. Well after the mid morning nap time and missing Kenneth's 1st basketball game of the season in which he made a basket, Dad got up and proceeded to make decisions. He brought me all the faucets and asked me which one I would like him to put in the kitchen. The faucet is leaking at the base and making the counter top rot. Not a good thing. I made a decision and he went downstairs to check the leak in the bathroom. Just a minor item to repair. Next thing I hear noises that sound like hammering and hammering. He comes up somewhat disturbed that what he was working on broke off and cannot be fixed. At this point, we stay out of the way. Never get in the way of a man upset over a screw with a hammer in hand.

As the day went on, I stayed out of the way till I hear my name being beckoned. Apparently the screw he was trying to get out to take off the handle of the drip broke and he couldn't get it out. Then after dissembling most of it the pipe behind it broke. Did I say the pipe is inside the wall behind the tub. Yes, it was. He surfaced for air and made his status known while in my arena. I proceeded to explain that all was not lost but I would like to give my opinion about the problem.

We went down and I gave a most wonderful design layout of what could be the bathroom. Take out the tub and open the area into the storage closet behind it. yes. no.

Keep tone neutral, we talked about options. I reminded him that it was just the two of us and the perfect time to consider taking out the tub that was way too big and cracking from years of wear. But, he said, it is a two week project. I said we have all the time in the world. No rush. It's just us. We settled on an option of least resistance for him and I still get a new tub. So what started with a leak has now become a remodeling project. I better get to cooking a good meal cause men don't do well on an empty stomach. It's there nature. Hungry stomachs mean very grouchy men.

Today is part one. check it out. To be continued:

Sleep

Tuesday,

Jan. 5th, 2010

It is 5:39 am. At 3:33 am my dog, who was left outside by my beloved husband, started barking at only Heaven knows what. I was awakened from what was a short but sound sleep. Every time this happens, I relive the memories of my childhood. Times during the evening/night when my dog, Curly, would bark at the neighbors as they would be walking nearby. They were never close enough to touch but close enough to be heard. They would say threatening things and scare the daylights out of me. Threaten to kill the dog or take care of it was the norm. Being a female child, I always felt helpless to counter attack with comment. So anytime mid-morning when Libby is left out and decides to wake me up, I get to relive those same feelings of panic.

Which leads me to wonder, is sleep that essential? I know it is not a fair quality for as I write my husband has since gone back to sleep along with the dog on my bed. The talent to close one's eyes and immediately return to that land of recuperation is to be envied. I, on the other hand, have become wired for action. I will find this moment of desired recuperation around 2pm this afternoon while at work with no where to lay my head. Somehow, the indentation of the alphabet on my forehead isn't very productive. My coworkers find it to be an unwelcome quality.

This should be my time of life where sleep is a gift from the Gods. My crowning moment well deserved and earned. Ha.

As a youth, I wanted to sleep long and often but school crimped my style. I didn't care if I missed something. Children came along and desired sleep was stolen for the good of the cause__bless their hearts. In the not to distance future, I will probably not be able to sleep or the patterns of sleep will be like that of a baby, dysfunctional.

Would someone please make up my mind so my body can get balanced. If I sleep too much, they may say I'm depressed. If I sleep too little, I'm lacking the energy to work. Throw in crying babies, barking dogs, wrong number phone calls, or stormy nights and life happens.

Perhaps I'll let sleep do its own thing and I'll go back to figuring out eating.

Well, the clock says 6am. Time to get ready for work. I wonder if I could give my dog and husband a sleeping pill that will keep them sleeping all night long for my sake.

The numbers 3:33 will be forever on my mind till my head hits the pillow for another try tonight.

Good morning world. If by chance we should happen to pass, I'll be the one with toothpicks holding my eyelids open. I hope your day started off with a good nights sleep. You'll need it.

Genetic wonderings

Sunday, Jan. 3rd, 2010.

First Sunday at church. The beginning of a new year.

On the way there, I listened to a radio show discussing the reasoning behind our behaviors. Scientists have decided that when we are little we are subject and molded by our environment. As we grow to adulthood, we become addicted because of our jeans.(I know)

Personally, I don't like jeans. My butt's too big and jeans squeeze all my fat compressing the innards into a ball. I'm too vain to buy the size I probably need, if they make them that large. Spandex isn't very flattering so vanity is opting out for cover ups. Big, black, billowing, cover-ups that flow gently with the wind.

Back to genetics. Could this be true? Are we subject to genes that dominate our looks, desires, or actions? We possess created bodies from mortal pros and cons twisted and glued by genes, blood lines, and fat cells, do we not?

Do we dare contemplate the idea that all this could become immortal? Oh, my. Let's hope immortality has perfection made from angel dust covered with sun kissed, microscopic measures so far beyond our imagination that dreams cannot be envisioned. It would be beautiful. Like the delicate, golden trusses of a young girl's hair or the sweet flavor of juicy fruit gum with or without your first kiss. I digress.

Have we been created with such imperfections as to remind us that mortality is subtropical? We break through our boundaries of warmth and water to breathe our first breath only to then turn around and learn to snorkel our way back underground and love it.

Since I love warm and cool, subtropical to me is a sweat box with critters and smelly bodies maintaining a level of life way above/below my comfort level. I'm thinking of the Bahama's without a palm tree to hide under or the Amazon with fish willing to fillet your phalanges. Have you seen a palm tree shed its branches? It looks worse than a snake depositing its old for a new skin. Have you seen your skeleton with or without the zit? Just not a sight to savor.

Hence, we mortals come in all forms, styles, and oddities on purpose. It's spectrum genetics in all tropics.

Should scientists be correct, I'll give them their right to position. However, their position contains no hope of change, improvement, or justification. They leave us saturated with only facts. Perhaps my fat is controlled by a gene. Am I doomed to forever bend my elbow to fuel my face? Some days I think so. Hope says not so.

I feel for the child born to a drug addict. A child destined to live and have to wallow in filth. Where does his change ly? Environment does play its part.

Genetics can be set in stone. A child born without a brain stem does not have long to survive. Disease laced bodies so small that the environment has yet to take hold. Reality can be sad. Then we have the other side. The genetic jackpots. The one's with everything including looks, health, wealth, and position. Life can stink.

Do genetics program the heart and soul of a person? Is one genetically disposed to caring, giving, loving, laughing? Does optimism and pessimism come from genetics, environment or both? Perhaps neither?

Life is not balanced. Some have it all, while others live and die with naught.

Be it genetic or not, life requires that we put it all together and find meaning in the pot. I've heard it called the melting pot.

How do we blend with those around us? Perhaps we share those jeans. Heaven knows I'd love to have a 36" butt. That's why we endorse DI Industries and Goodwill Stores to blend the haves and have-not's wealth. Would we have tried the blend if we all were the same?

I suspect genetics have established a definite impact on our lives. Like interlocking puzzle pieces, it is what makes us different, odd, yet connective. Do we take these genes with us? I don't know. I hope not. They are, however, what keep us mortal. A step above the animals. Add our spirits to these genetic bodies and we have a soul. We experience the unique difference of having a choice over just eating, breathing, and breeding.

Which brings me to the question, do genetics play a roll in our spirits? Hum.. No!. I want to believe that spirits have an eternal make up unaltered by genetic mortality. A spirit that encompasses a higher law of values. An eternal perspective that surpasses the mortal realm. An inner sense that when spoken to us and should we listen, can redirect the genetic disposition that disposes our mortal nature.

And if all else fails, find hope and joy in a justice that will cover a multitude of losses and shortcomings brought on through mortal genetic failures. Scientists have long faltered in comprehending the full reasoning for the genetic makeup of mortality.

For the moment, we coexist as part mortal and part spiritual in the hope that genetics will die and eternal laws will resolve all genetic failures to come.

While I wait, I still wish to be a genetic 36, 24, 36 ...

Reflections

January 2, 2010,

The holidays have come to an end. It's sad to see them gone and yet the silence gives a calm relief and time to ponder some. I got a gift, a special book "Reflections" is the name. The author gives to writing on the merit of the game. It's the game of life and how we all do actually share some fame. Our style, although it different be, has a similar refrain. I heard myself saying as I read; I know that line, been there, did that, I said those words, hooray.

Tonight I went to see a movie by myself. The room was crowded and seats were scarce. Couples, families, strangers all around. I was determined not to leave. I can do this I said. It will be, OK. I don't need someone's hand. The sky won't fall and the earth won't cave if I plant my body next to one. I laughed and cried.. totally enjoyed the scenes.

It's strange an experience to take your place and function as a one. For many this issue is not a thought, for some a grave exchange.

As the movie went on, I heard a message while sitting in my seat. I am the master of my soul. I need to find my beat.

We all make music. We beat our drums. At times, we're in a band. The solace of the individual demands we make a stand. But, what of those who never learned to make their music sweet, who followed, copied, or stole in part some other's pounding feet? How does the child who held so tight to hands or legs so dear, make way for new when years of old have furrowed graven fears?

While driving home, I started to cry while saying I know not why.

At that moment, I mourned for this little child. A child that got lost in an adult maze but gave, I know not how.

There was a life of opportunity, of talent, and success. But few gave the slightest chance to this child of mostly less. Should of, could of, would of are words of ignorance and hate. Be gone, get lost, how dare you show your face. How does one console the loss of their youth or look beyond disgrace?

Then fight as you might to ignore the maze. Lift up your chin and stretch out a grin cause an adult has a different gaze. Onward we plow like a cow in a crowd making milk and cheese out of grass. And Heaven help should we stop for awhile and sit on our big fat a.....

At some time without rhyme, the child within reaches out. It looks for a friendly hand. Is there someone out there who will walk with the child and comfort its needs on demand? The hands are extended but the child is apprehensive cause the adult expects to repair. A quick fix of leather, a hot iron-on for weather, but to the heart it cannot adhere.

Caring is hard cause the loss can't be fixed in spite of those raising the bar. The heart and the mind have a connection combined and "I Love You" has limited par. Will they succeed to convince the child over time that her value has weathered the brine.

Perhaps, one would hope that the child will grow up to believe in those whom she calls her friends.