Well all of the words you said to me are still vibrating in the air.

My neighbor died this morning, the Jesus one. She had a stroke. I don't know why this is so hard for me, but it is. My other--horrible--neighbor had her house foreclosed on about two weeks ago. So now my little cottage is surrounded by empty houses. Empty houses. There she goes, my beautiful world. My neighbor H. says that the police are going to have to lay off one of their officers now that there won't be problems up here on Nob Hill, where we live.

This has been a year of loss and change and loss and very little gain. And it's been just a bit crap. This week is Thanksgiving and I bought myself a turkey yesterday. I have this stupid idea that I will make myself a lovely Thanksgiving dinner and feel better about things. A righteous pumpkin cheesecake. I suspect, though, that I will stay in bed for the day. I have this electric blanket that H. gave to me on Saturday when I found out about the stroke and couldn't stop crying. He tucked me up in the trailer I've been sleeping in while remodeling my house and then he took away my laptop. He said my online life was kind of doing my head in, and he was right.

The other day, I stole a little Christmas ornament from the hardware store. It's a snowman, about 3 inches tall, and is a snow globe with a light in its base. It changes color from red to green to blue to purple to white. Last year, my Jesus neighbor, previously referred to here as Mags, gave me some Christmas ornaments cos she was sort of done doing that kind of thing. I really enjoyed them, especially this rustic Santa Claus that I hung on my door. Okay, I put the manger scene in a box that I store in the basement. Previously, I have hated the way this country jumps from one fucking holiday to the next in its freakish need to commercialize everything. But maybe Christmas will somehow have a healing effect on me?

(C'mon skinny love.)

My house is torn up. I've been insulating. I like it this way. I've hung two more pieces of sheetrock today. I've got the floor half sanded--I'm using a belt sander this time around and taking them down to beautiful clean oak. Everything's going to be okay, right? Lie to me, if you have to. Yeah, just like that.

Sometimes I lay in bed and bits of songs go through my mind. I don't even know the words at times. I like that about music. It gets into your head and runs around like a hamster at times. Of course that only happens if your mind works that way. I hope for your sake it doesn't. I wish I had one of those big hamster balls. I could throw my head in it and run it down the alley like a bowling ball for a bit. That might give me a lickle relief. ("Gonna wash my bones in the Atlantic shore...")

I've been reading through this blog today. I have misplaced or had stolen my Passport external hard drive on which I saved all the blog posts from that other, dirty place. It's a bit sad. Partially cos I have a bunch of torrented episodes of Hung on there and that sucks. The thing about a blog is you can go back and see how things were for you at a given moment. Like a diary, only less gay. I had a chance to go through and see what it was like to first meet Mags, and to get through some crap times with her as well. It makes me less sentimental, and I look prettier that way.

I've been chatting around with some folks from around the world. "No one wastes time quite like I do; I can waste time like nobody else." Me and The Duke Spirit. I don't know if that's a good thing. I suspect it's very bad. Particularly when the some folks are married. I don't think that can be good. I guess if it makes me more fucked up, that's good for my psychological evaluation tomorrow. Maybe after that gets over with, I will start being more sensible. Make a turkey and so forth. Either that or hide under the new electric blanket until the new year. I'm pretty certain 2010 is going to be the year I stop being a masochist.

Cheers, Mags! I hope you're right and are sitting near Jesus. I hear he can turn water into wine and that's one hell of a thing.

And nah, that's not me. That's Nick Cave. And a couple of other people from the playlist. Thanks, mate.

Yesterday, when you were young everything you needed done was done for you.

This morning, I put on my hiking boots and overalls and hit the highway with my 81-year-old neighbor. Well, we hit the side of the road for the Adopt-a-Highway program. The Adams County Democrats maintain a four-mile stretch just outside of town. And these days that pretty much means me and my neighbor and occasionally his wife. He sits in the truck while I wander into the brush and skeleton grass and look for the stuff people throw out their windows while listening to loud music or arguing about dumb stuff.

It's hard for me to imagine what kind of nerve it takes to carelessly fling garbage from a car or truck, but of course I envision most of the offenders in 4-wheel drive vehicles cos I hate them so much. Since picking up trash is sort of a meditative activity, I started making up little theories about this and that. For awhile there, I was noticing that most of the beverage bottles and cans were for soda or beer. I thought to myself, "Ha! People who drink water are more conscientious." But that theory didn't last long. I reckon I picked up about 35 empty water bottles. I don't know why I ascribed that higher level initially. Maybe because I drink water like a fish? (Do they, in fact, drink water?)

My friend drove along the side of the highway, and I would look around a patch and pick stuff up and then hop back into the cab of the truck and we would drive on a little further. At one point, after I picked up this huge plastic bottle of what I thought was iced tea, he told me that I didn't have to pick up urine bottles. Yikes! I wasn't really current with that particular cultural phenomenon. (Also, someone needs to tell that guy it looks like he might have a kidney infection.) After that, I started noticing the bottles more. My final piss bottle count was five. My friend told me to be careful in particular of wide mouthed containers and I restrained myself from making a remark about penis size, etc. You guys know how delicate I am.

I picked up two pairs of men's boxer briefs, both heavily soiled either by the elements or the lack of an appropriate container for that particular bodily function. I did not look too closely. I found no women's apparel of any sort, although I picked up three dish rags and one pot holder. (By the way? I have one of those picker-up things so I don't have to touch stuff AND I get to wear an official orange safety vest.)

Another trend? I found three separate cardbox boxes which formerly contained Coleman camping products. Another illusion of mine shattered. I thought campers would be more attuned to the environment. I wondered if they all came from the same vehicle. You know? Somebody sitting in the passenger side of the car, happily opening up newly purchased goods to admire and covet and then discarding the boxes as they went?

Almost every single beer can that I collected was Bud Light. That says something, right? No Fat Tire bottles thrown from windows. Thank fuck I can hold that ideal near and dear still: people with good taste in ale are not litterers.

In the end, nothing huge was revealed to me. But I was pleased to know that the Adams County Democrats have the cleanest strip of highway in this part of the country. Of course, the Republicans haven't adopted anything at all. Right-to-lifers are like that, I guess.

And nah, that's not me. That's The Weepies. "Walk on, walk on, walk on. You can't go back now."

It's been awful hard to just stand on my feet. I think I'll slow down if I am able.

Wow. It's been a straight-up year to the day since I've added anything to this blog. I wonder what that means. Nothing good, in all likelihood. I've been talking recently with an old friend who used to read my blog on another site, and he said he's hoping to see me write some more ruthless girl2-style stories. He claims he likes my ruthless wit, read: hard-core bitchiness. I think he was hoping for drama and perversity. I definitely can deliver that in spades on a good (bad) day.

And please? Don't think that kind of thing has been missing from my life, cos it's hasn't been. Just ask Alex, I think he'll know. His new squeeze may have a thing or two to say on that score. Vodka under the bridge, I mumble.

I went to Spokane, Washington, today for not the first time -- usually I go to synagogue or Costco. But this time I had an appie at a hospital and then went further downtown. I guess I thought the little city would be sort of half-assed and mangy compared to Seattle, my hometown. I've been here over a year and I couldn't be arsed to take the tour. (Plus there's my Generalized Anxiety Disorder keeping me from hopping the free bus, a freight train, or even into the car of a boy with pretty eyes.)

And Spokane is kind of mangy in places, which is a beautiful thing. I remember the good old days back home where you could get soome really greasy eggs at The Doghouse Restaurant or a six egg omelette at Beth's at 3 a.m. all the while pointedly ignoring the boys in the bands who would hang out in those places after gigs. Now it's all tapas and prix fixe menus written on blackboards by boys with studied arrogance and too much hair product. I hate that shit. I miss Bimbo's Bitchin Burritos, although it passed away not so very long ago. Ernie Steele's is now Julia's and you can't get the waiter to even look your way. What I'm saying is I miss ripped red banquettes and snarky waitresses who brought my bloody marys as the result of just a glance. Ya feel me?

I dunno. The bookstore in Spokane was really pretty and I found a second-hand autographed copy of Kay Boyle's Fifty Stories and how cool is that? Next door, my friend and I had quiche and salad; I admit I also appreciate restaurants that bring carafes of cold water to a table set with linen napkins. I like the juxtapositon of old apartment buildings and nice libraries. And though I love dives and corner beer bars, I also miss the opportunity to lust after pretty knobs (the kitchen kind) at Restoration Hardware. Being there elicited memories of good times with friends in other cities and let me know that that there is the possibility that life in Eastern Washington may not have to be all about old men, overalls, and neighbors who speak in tongues.

I came home and got back to a little mindfulness. You know? That thing that I do when I'm not obsessively calling for my cats to come home or making smart remarks in chat rooms and checking for the 80th time that the front door is locked. So, immediately home and in a white linen dress, I pulled up all my top-heavy sunflowers and laid down some good soil for next year's delphiniums. I took a risk and transplanted a semi-dormant Long Tall Sally Rose. I trimmed my tomatoes and took a good harvest. And guess what? I found one perfect little wild strawberry hidden beneath my overgrown chives. Ah. Promises, ripe promises.

Here are the tomatoes from today. I don't know what I'll do with them just yet -- probably donate them to the senior center or make gazpacho. For today, though, I'm keeping them in their pretty bowl, on the corner of my desk. Cos I've got to figure out how to reap what I sow, at least when it's the good stuff. And even if I'm a girl, I too can be all about the visual.

"I won't drown in the ocean, Or starve in my place at the table."

And nah, that's not me. That's Band of Horses. I sure like them. I wonder where they eat their late night brekkies.

Bloody your hands on a cactus tree. Wipe it on your dress and send it to me.

Well, I didn't go that far, but I did wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts today. I can't sleep lately and this morning decided to just get out of bed at 5:30. I wasn't going off with Morpheus and everyone knew it. I got up and had the first cup of coffee I've had in a week. I ate a plum while it was brewing. I rustled up Alex and we shared the coffee ritual, morning for me and afternoon lunchtime for him. I don't think he had a plum, probably something Fh-rennch.

I got an early start on the chores du jour. I weeded the garden. I dug up some earth and moved it to a spot that needed it more. I mowed the lawn. Then, I watered everything. As I stood watering, I realized that watering is one of my most favorite things to do right now. Last night, I was reading to Alex from The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh. He'd chatted me through doing the terrible pile of dishes in my sink a little earlier and now he was going to sleep. He's more advanced with mindfulness than me. Never mind, I was reading the first chapter which talks about the "essential discipline," best illustrated through the simple: "When washing the dishes, wash the dishes." The thing that struck me was that he said by rushing through one thing to get it finished and move on to the next or being preoccupied with something other than what you're doing, you're not experiencing life, because you are not experiencing that moment. He said in those instances, we are living the past or the future. Not in the moment. I'm sure my explication is sloppy but, well, I kind of saw what he meant.

I'm in therapy yet again and the new therapist asked me about my spirituality or religion. I tried to come up with something quick-like. My eyes darted about the room. I told her, well, I've been reading about mindfulness lately (meaning last year). She liked that and decided that one path out of my own confused and clumsy approach to life would be through the practice of mindfulness. One thing I noticed when reading aloud from the book last night was that mindful people can repeat the same words in sentences a lot and nobody says anything bad about them.

Today, when I was watering, I was watering. It's easy to do with that task. The sun was shining, I have my new nozzle, the plants were all "Hey! Cool. And we mean that literally!" I felt good about what I was doing and decided to just water. I mean, I think you're allowed to think other thoughts like, "Oh, that flower is starting to bloom" while you are watering. Or at least I hope so. I think it's possible, when admiring the flower, to admire the flower while watering the grass, all mindful and such. I had a long day ahead of me, but I stayed focused on the gift of water for the moment. It was pleasant. I enjoyed misting the plants especially.

Then I tried to practice mindfulness with everything I did: spray painting a wicker ottoman, talking to my neighbor about tools, scraping the blistered paint from my house, applying primer to the bare spots, eating a pastrami sandwich. (In this town, there is a loud horn that goes off at noon, so I always know it's lunch time. It's old-fashioned and wonderful, the horn.) I practiced mindfulness pretty well, I must say, although the lure of the computer was tugging from time to time. I finished at 3ish and met Alex back online. We were interrupted by a man coming around to look at a print I am trying to sell so I can buy more paint. He didn't like it. He said the woman, posing nude for Modigliani, was beautiful but her eyes were empty. He mentioned "the window to the soul," even. I was disappointed. We'll meet again though, as he invited me to coffee. He's also from Seattle. I may have a friend.

After that I stopped practicing mindfulness. I fretted about time wasted; I thought about money lost; while talking to Alex I was not talking to Alex. I was talking to myself, I guess. Old habits. We got back on track after a break, and I read from Franny and Zooey, one of my favorite books and one that led me to the poet Issa, I believe. He fell asleep. I tinkered with my malfunctioning laptop and then made dinner. I tried not to rush dinner and afterwards, I enjoyed washing the dishes though mostly because there were only seven of them from the day. After a little bit, I remembered the ice cream sandwiches I bought today. They were on sale, and a brand I didn't know, but I figured what the hell. It's almost impossible to make a bad ice cream sandwich. Nobody cares if it's Häagen-Dazs ice cream in a sandwich. They really just care about the mush of the sandwich cookie part again their fingers and the melding of flavors--graham crackery chocolately cookie and semi-soft vanilla ice cream. I was right, Blue Bunny ice cream sandwiches are delicious. And I returned to mindfulness with mine. I was all about the sandwich. I think I may have to practice mindfulness a little more tonight before I go to bed.

And nah, that's the Pixies, not me. They're so dramatic!

For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.

It's late. I've been watching the carnivorous television show Mad Men for a couple of hours, in between moving around furniture and trying things on for size. "For size" is literal, my house is 360 square feet and every inch counts. You know how I feel about the inches.

For some reason, I got sad about poor people tonight. It's funny cos I'm one of them. But I was remembering how I feel (or used to feel) when I'm in line behind someone buying just a can of chili and a box of Saltine crackers at the store. (Oddly, this feeling often prevents me, myself, from buying Top Ramen noodles when I might really be craving them.) It's a paternalistic emotion, some would say. But I reckon that feeling is more maternalistic than anything else. And don't call me sexist.

When I went to the store tonight, I decided I couldn't afford a pint of good ice cream. I regret that decision. I want that ice cream muchly. I do not even care what flavor. I regret not buying it like I regret trying to shave my legs at 11 years old; like I regret trying to use that brick to hold down our "diving board" when I was five. Even, like I regret not stopping for that hitchhiker back in the late 90s. Now? It's all I can think of, the ice cream. Let's call it sacrifice and then raise it. By a dollop of whipped cream and two tablespoons of chocolate syrup.

There was a paragraph here that I wrote and lost. I can't be bothered to rewrite it. It involved the Teamsters, my decent health insurance growing up, the hoodlums that use to run the organization, working people undervalued, and the price of food. You know, shit like that. What it said was that I am in favor of unions. What it said is that I can thank my teeth to the Teamsters. My dad got paid a living wage. And what it said was "Yeah, those Teamsters got all Mafia up in this bitch," or as someone I know likes to say, "power corrupts." But unions were formed so that working (class) people weren't screwed. So they also didn't have to shop at the company store nor find themselves homeless as a result of a home mortgage crisis. That their kids didn't go off to war cos it was a job and MacDonald's wasn't hiring.

Fuck. I lost more than two paragraphs. The universe at work, I'm sure. It sneaks up from behind me at times, particularly when I'm putting on the high hat. God. What an editor.

Reader? I'm poor and prideful. Not the best combination. Tomorrow I've got some money on my side to buy food and coffee and Top Ramen. The last time I shopped, when I was clearly surprised by how much I spent, the girl said "That's what happens when you buy brand names." I was like, "Uh, this is what you consider a brand name? Hunts?" Sheesh. So, until I sell my novel about the adventures of two cats in a dysfunctional household, it is Western Family for this western famly. It's either that or dumpster diving. And yeah, my ass looks fat in that dumpster.

The photo is, of course, by Dorothea Lange. WPA and all. I almost took a house near the Grand Coulee Dam, built for workers in the 1930s. It was beautiful and perched just right to see the lake created. The foundation of the house, however was rotting away. A metaphor? Or just a shitty place to buy?

And nah, that's not me, that's Rainier Maria Rilke, a deep fellow, I heard. And this? This is a prelude to Pasternak, who speaks beautiful paragraphs about Rilke. Boris was an efficient writer and, you'll see, eloquent.

I'm going to heaven in a ground pea shell.

I've been outside watering my yard. I have to admit it's a relaxing chore, standing in my yellow monkey pajamas, spraying a shower of water over good stuff what grows on the ground. It's just water, coming out of an old green hose. I should confide that I bought myself a new nozzle at the weekend. The other one was leaking and getting me wetter than the grass. It's an $11.49 version of a new party dress. And goddamn if I don't love it.

I don't have any money. I've mentioned that, yeah? A few weeks ago, I applied for a job working a couple of nights a week in the grocery store. I didn't get the job. I didn't even get an interview. I see the manager hired her boyfriend. They were in the newspaper the other week, in the police blotter, after some hullaballoo at their house, a few doors away from mine. I had thought I was a shoo in, but apparently they went with someone with a little more domestic violence experience. If I asked you to be a reference, you can stand down.

I took a nap tonight. It wasn't a luxury. I haven't slept in a couple of nights. Look down there. The bare bulb? Still burning. It's symbolic, or just fucking ugly. I can't bring myself to hang up some old raggedy ass dark blanket by pushpins. I have pretty sheers and that's the way it's going to be, buster. My neighbor hasn't been home now in at least a day and a half. Her son-in-law, meaning the 26-year-old boy who knocked up her 18-year-old daughter, was walking the dog. I asked if she was coming home. He said no. I said, I can't sleep with the light on, is there any way you can leave it off? Apparently not. He wants people to think someone is there, he said. I was going to suggest they water the lawn once in awhile, but for some people, nothing screams Home, Sweet Home like a bare bulb and some shitty brown grass.

My 80-year-old neighbor, Herb, must have seen some activity down here, because he was tapping on the door post-haste. He brought me "Mr. Blister." Seriously, that's its name. It's some heater thing that warms up the glazing compound one uses when replacing panes of glass, which is one of my projects. It's called "Mr. Blister," Electric Paint Remover. "Mr. Blister" is old and has one of those cords that used to light on fire. You know, stripe-y? I can also use it to take off difficult blistered paint. Let me tell you this: it was made in America. In Plainville, Connecticut, to be specific. Some people know I have a fondness for Connecticut. Cos of the drum kits. And the power tools. I want to play with Mr. Blister. Would it be really bad if I went outside now?

Herb drives around town in a golf cart. He just repainted it. It's fuel efficient. The impregnating boy drives a big black truck from his house to my neighbor's. They live precisely four and a half houses away. I am sorry not to have pity on people who drive; I do admit I am hoping they start having some common sense when it comes to wasting fossil fuels. (God fucking dammit stop driving every minute.) This is easy to say because I cannot afford a car or insurance or gas. I never have been fluid in this regard. And? The last car I had I burned the engine cos I never checked the oil; it was a 1972 Volkswagen.

I've been watching Mad Men on recommendation from a friend. I think he was in advertising once. If you ask me, it's kind of crap. Throw a bunch of one-liners at three martini lunches and put a tight dress on the girl and call it a night. Nice work if you can get it. And if you get it? Won't you Western Union me $150? Baby wants a t-bone and some chives on her taters. And by taters, I mean taters.

I don't know about this political stuff. Four years ago, I decided to take a long nap. It's hard for me to say more than that about the state of the world. It really is. What's there to do, short of grabbing a sharp machete and a really good bean burrito? Here's a secret: I was a big Lord of the Rings (movie) fan. It was a surprise to me, too, believe me. Not to sound gay, but that heroic shit inspired me. Inspired me to get more popcorn, it's true, but it was organic popcorn. In the movie, they said "This is a good day to die!" and they didn't mean, "Let's die for oil and then the rest of us go back to our hovels with one leg and a can of Diet Pepsi! We can drink vodka and Red Bull from the first to the fifth!" I honestly don't know if there is any solution or solution or, um, solution to try to combat these evils. It doesn't seem like it to me. I don't really believe in evil. I believe in horrible. And Clorox Wipes. More on that later.

I'm not here in this lickle town to skulk and yearn for days of yore and justice. I'm here cos I kept getting fired and evicted and my mom bought me a house she could afford. And because sometimes, it feels like the only thing I can do is water my plants and pitchfork some steer manure when I'm feeling wealthy. Me, the water, and the Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

And nah, that's not me. That's Mary Lou Lord. I heard she even pawned her old milk cow. Damned Freddie Mac!

This is not a joke so please stop smiling.

It's 3 am and I can't sleep. It doesn't help that my semi-white trash neighbor often leaves her porch light on and the naked bulb shines right into my window, illuminating the entire little house. No, that doesn't help at all. I also should not have watched a bunch of Dick Cheney YouTube videos before retiring.

Any excuse for cocoa, I say, cos I'm a mug half full kind of girl.

My neighbor to the semi-east of me (this town is not on a NS/EW grid and I find it maddening)--you may remember her as "Mags" from an earlier post--has the most horrible screeching voice and reminds me of the Wicked Witch of the West. She also claims to speak in tongues. I bring up this up because she and I have a little feud going and something has scared my poor cat, Jonah. I believe she chased him with a broom, babbling like a brook. Yes, that's how bored and paranoid I am. The feud mostly exists in her head; she seems borderline bi-polar and believe me, I know my mental disorders. Jonah has been hiding in the closet for five days and has only recently joined the rest of the family in the "big room." This sounds ridiculous, but yesterday I kept going over to him and petting him and saying, in all sincerity, "Oh, Jonah. I love you so much. I'm so glad you came out of the closet." And then, of course, I giggle, imagining myself saying that to a person who might be my child. And I feel very much like a progressive parent. I've obviously watched too many Lifetime™ movies. And yeah. It's all about me.

Yesterday, I mowed my 80-year-old neighbors' lawn using their electric push mower. I mowed it last week too, but yesterday it felt like I was pushing around a red elephant with its heels dug into the ground. And the heat. Oy! The heat! Herb likes to supervise the mowing. I feel like a teenager when he says, "Watch the wire, yes, that's the trick, keep it behind you" or trails behind me, holding "the wire," otherwise known as the extension cord. He gets tired and sits in one of his yard chairs, sipping Coke or Squirt. I've never known an old person to enjoy soda so much. Of course, it's another one of his endearing qualities. At one point he said, "Oh, and can you help me put a ladder into my truck? And then we need to oil the two chain saws before we use them again and I've got a load of bricks out back that you can take home for the patio you're making and we should probably take some wood to the bin soon and I wonder if you could look at the broken ice maker because you have much smaller hands." I looked at him and asked, rather pathetically, "Today?"

Terry, his wife, gave me some upside down apricot cake with pineapple for sweetener. She said, several times, "I know you're going to like this cake!" I was like, since when don't I like cake? She showed me some Japanese irises that she's going to dig up soon and give to me for next year. Her garden is worth coveting and losing sleep over. She's already given me several things, including my prized delphiniums. My garden is a poor girl's, made of seeds and starts from my mother and from Terry. It's coming along; the seeded plants are starting to raise above 3 inches and it's thrilling.

Good fences make good neighbors. So do chain saws and upside down cake.

There is so much work to be done here that it's overwhelming, and I get depressed about three times a day. That I can actually point out three times that I am depressed is an improvement over the former state of things back in the city when I could maybe find a few hours here and there when I wasn't depressed. It's like Bizarro world, everything is opposite. At my parents' house my misery was, happily, fodder for blog posts. (Alex might disagree about the "happily" part as he had to coax the funny out of the scenarios.) Anyway, I'm almost done whitewashing and finishing the floors and I've started to scrape the bubbled paint off of the exterior of the house and I'm midway through my ridiculous though valiant attempt to make a patio out of dirt and salvaged bricks. In between, I stop to smell the flowers and check my cats for ticks.

And nah, that's Wilco, not me. Jeff Tweedy is trying to break your heart.