Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galalxy...

I’m starting this now while I’m at work as I am very tired and won’t make it far once I get home.  Six new students today.  That means a lot of jumping around for me, gathering student info, finding out what subjects they need, when they plan on graduating, if they can read.  Yes, really, if they can read.  Everybody says yes until you have them read aloud.  Then the ugly truth emerges and a moment of embarrassment quickly passes as I reassure the student that it’s ok as I have material that will help them.  I can’t teach them to read.  I don’t have the time.  I wish I did.

We are at our capacity of 80 students.  That’s an even split of 40 students.  Doesn’t sound like a lot, eh?  When you consider that I teach about 15 to 20 different subjects or different levels of the same subject and the other teacher does the same, it is a lot of work.  No, I’m not complaining.  The law is the law and it is what I follow when doing my job.  They take away some of my salary, then add record keeping regulations that add a significant amount of paperwork, but I still show up.

After 21 years of this, I am ready to move on.  Where?  Where it is warm, preferably. Where the people are warm and tan and healthy looking.  I also mentioned in my last post that I have lived in this town for over 21 years.  I’m ready to move on from here also.  Since I am starting the last decades of my life, I should like to see and meet different people, explore cultures, live in cultures, participate in cultures.  I should like to contribute something to wherever I land.  I’m fairly intelligent and handy.  There are many things I can do.

And if I end up here for a while, it will be with the knowledge that someday I will be able to go and not come back should I choose.  If I did go, there would be no reason to come back.  That’s a very liberating thought.

I’m also done with people telling me I should “find” myself.  I will say that from a young age, I have always known who I am.  It hasn’t always been comfortable but I am pretty capable and get through the worst and the best of it.  I think people who tell me such things are people who have had some sort of personal revelation as to who they are and what makes them tick.  I was lucky enough in 1971 to figure that out with the help of a man who guided me.  It’s been a great story ever since.  And it keeps on going, one adventure after another.  It will be interesting to see what the warmer months bring.  The crocus popped up the other day and the sun has been shining for two weeks.  Cherry branches that I cut in the fall are putting out buds.  It will be an early Spring this year and probably a hot summer, complete with dry weather and the occasional thunderstorm.  The year is barely begun. 

Yes.

It Ain't Pretty...

Pretty Vegas is a song that has been on my mind lately.  I first heard it when auditioning guitar players in my vain, feeble attempt to keep my last band together.  When I say last, I guess it could have two meanings.  The first would be the latest band I was in.  The second, more profound meaning, would be that it was my last, final band.  Learn the song I did and have enjoyed playing along with it ever since.

The song produces a visceral, energetic response in me.  I need to dance when I hear it.  My favorite section of the song is when they break into the bridge, "The party's over and the road is long..."  The ride cymbal is prominent and talks to me, telling me there is rhythm in the world and to just go with the rhythm.  It certainly can't hurt anything.  Also, I listen to the lyrics.  The song picks up for me at the break, "The party's over and the road is long/The party's over and we're movin' on" reminds me of when I figured out I wasn't going to be a musician the rest of my life.  I wasn't that old and hadn't really prepared myself for any suitable long-term employment.  Day jobs came and went but music was pretty consistent.  Too bad I wasn't. That's ok now. I like where I am spiritually and wouldn't be who I am without it. Still, the song reminds us that you can get what you want if you do what you have to do to get it. "So If you think you want it/Just come in and get it/But it ain't pretty."  I think that's what we did as a generation.  I jokingly tell people my sixties lasted all the way to the eighties but it's no joke.  They did.  A lot of people did.  Then we woke up from a big party and the road was long.  We moved on.

Where did we end up?  Most of us had children, wives, husbands, partners, pals, business acquaintances, other unknowns who move in and out of our lives.  A striking thought occurred to me as I listened to this song on the way home from work tonight: This is the longest I have ever lived in Wenatchee in one stretch.  I lived in Wenatchee, grew up here, graduated from high school and hit the road when I was 18.  I came back sometimes for as long as a couple of years but never a stint like this.  At first it was the family, my family and my dad, his wife, Grace, and my mom were all in the valley.  My parents are dead and the kids are grown and gone.  The only Lynch by blood left in Wenatchee is me.  My step mother is a Lynch by marriage but she's all I have as far as a mother goes.

When it hit me, I was driving, and I had to do the math.  I don't do math so I just used my memory.  It worked this time.  I've been living in this valley for twenty one consecutive years.  It just might be time to do something else.  Wonder what it would be like if I had a job where I wasn't in front of people all the time?  Geez, I suppose that insipid need to be the center of attention would find other ways to manifest.  I'm probably better off working my routine in front of the classroom.

I have been thinking of moving on, possibly trying something different.  I have no idea what that would look like or might be.  The will is there.  The means have yet to become apparent.  It would have to be a good fit as the job I have is pretty hard to beat.  I can always teach somewhere, I suppose.  English teachers in korea make dollar.  In fact, Korean teachers are the highest paid in the world.  The world seems to ignore Korea.  When you look at the map it looks like it is the epiglottis of China.  North Korea gets all the press while Korea plugs along, making good cars and good cell phones.  Even sponsored classes I have taken on East Asian history tend to favor the Chinese and Japanese of the Koreans.  Korean potters taught the Chines and Japanese potters their craft (hobby, whatever...) Koreans craftspeople were kidnapped by the Japanese Emporer's army and brought back to make foods for the Emperor and his buddies.  Hey! I have a passport that has not one stamp in it.

Ramble, ramble ramble...I did my tax return today.  If I don't get raked over the coals, I should be able to pay for this frikkin computer.

Today is my father's 87th birthday.  He's been dead for a while but I though of him today.  I don't usually.  Maybe he's thinking of me, too.

They Went Thataway...

I am a potter.  I make useful things out of clay.  They are all made by hand.  That's unusual in this day and age.  It used to be that everything was made in Japan.  Now everything is made in China. In fact, China is where porcelain was discovered and first used.  So, to be a potter is kind of an anachronism.  Out of fashion, but quaint.  Why do I mention this?  About six months ago, my electric kiln stopped reaching temperature.  I had to fire my wares two or thee times to get them the glazes to mature.  Not a good thing.  Once, while in Seattle at Seattle Pottery Supply, the kind folks who sold me my kiln, I happened to talk to one of the employees, Kim, who said she remembered one other lady who had the very same problem.  It turned out that they were sent a "ferric bead" from the manufacturer of the digital control for the kiln to fix the problem.  Kim thought that was probably the problem with my kiln.  She told me she would contact the manufacturer, Orton, to see what could be done.

That was maybe three months ago.  I didn't hear from them so I ordered new elements for the electric kiln.  the thought was that nothing had happened with the manufacturer of the digital control and that the problem was burnt out elements.  This really pissed me off for a couple of reasons:  1.)  The elements weren't that old and should have plenty of life left in them.  2.)  I HATE HATE HATE replacing kiln elements.  I always break some of the brick and they never fit correctly.  Plus, it's a pain in the ass.

I received the new elements but didn't get around to replacing them right away.  I waited a week but decided if I was to make and fire pots, I needed to get this horrible task done.  I did get the top element in and gave up when the wiring fell apart.

Then, a couple of days later, Kim from SPS calls me and tells me that they just got the part from Orton.  Did I want it mailed or did I want to come get it?  I called the next day and asked if I could return the unused elements. Of course.  Ok, then I'll come get it and return $200 worth of electric kiln elements.  It would be worth the $$$ spent on gas.

So, I hopped in the car at about 9:30AM and set out, leaving the dog at home.  I brought my Nikon with me, just in case a fabulous photo op popped up.  You see the result on this page.

I arrived at SPS, which is in the SODO district of Seattle.  Starbucks headquarters is nearby.  I came in the door with my box of elements.  The only person I could see working there was busy so I set the box on the counter.  I wandered idly, which I am very good at. When I came back to the counter, Kim was there and knew immediately who I was and why I was there.  She handed me a piece of paper with a photo and a quarter inch long by quarter inch wide piece of iron with a hole in it.  That's it.  A tiny thing, it is.  About this time, Jim, the owner came out from the office.  "Hi, Tim," he said, "How are you?"  "I'm good," I replied trying to stifle the sarcasm I felt boiling beneath my bosom.

Jim and I go back farther than we have known each other.  He sold clay to my grandfather.  That is probably the only reason I still go to his store.  I'm probably the only potter in Wenatchee who still goes to Seattle Pottery Supply.  For some reason, most of the potters in the valley have a hair up their ass about SPS.  Something about bad service.  What I know is that the people at SPS do not suffer fools lightly.

Kim threw in a 50# box of porcelain for me at no cost.  That was a good touch.  I may not give them as much business at the University of Washington does, but I talk a lot.  I don't say bad things about SPS.

I grabbed my box of clay and my "ferric bead" and headed up 1st Avenue.  That's the vantage from which these photos were taken.  I never made it to downtown.  I was tired.  I've been tired.  I took off driving straight onto I-90.  Going through the tunnels before the floating bridge is such a trip.  Engulfed in darkness except for the lights hanging from the top of the tunnel, the sound of traffic wraps around my ears as I try to stay in my skinny lane.  I see the light in the distance and know what I will see when I emerge.  I will see lots of light.  I will also see Lake Washington and the floating bridge.  Then I'm on the bridge crossing Lake Washington.  Lake Washington is where I first water skied.  We were out in the guitar player's boat drinking Olympia beer.  I was sort of inebriated.  The guitar player picked me up, threw me in the water, then drove the boat a bit away from me.  He threw the water skis at me and then threw the tow rope.  It was hard enough getting the skis on but getting up on the water took almost all afternoon.  I did it.  So I have history with Lake Washington.

When you emerge from the tunnel that goes under the Rainier district of Seattle, it is a different world complete with houses, boats, yachts, and sailboats.  I've never seen a jet ski on that part of the lake.  The bridge rolls out in front of you and even in the midst of rush hour traffic, you feel as if you are the only one allowed to travel on that part of the highway.  It's always a rush for me, no matter how many times I've done it.  There is also some melancholy involved as I'm leaving the city.

I love Seattle.  I think I would rather retire to a city.  Seems like there is more to do.  More to do, live longer, right?

I stopped in North Bend on the way back for some bbq.  Damn good.  I got home and hit the computer to see if I had any fan mail.  None.  Then I called the phone company and had an international calling plan attached.  $4 a month and 25 cents a minute.  Hope I get to use it.

As I started talking to the phone dude, my daughter texted me and asked if I would be home and could she come visit.  Who would say no to that?  Certainly not this lonely old man.  And think of Banjo!  She is his absolute favorite person.  She arrived and I showed her the "new" floors.  She was amazed.  I thanked her.

Then we talked.  And talked. And talked.  She is an adult but feels a bit lost as she is not doing anything her friends are doing like going to college or getting married or traveling abroad.  She takes one class at the local community college where she lives and has a job.  I assured her she was doing just fine.  I just about said look how long it took me to find my way but thought better of it and shut my pie hole.  I listened to her talk about herself and was in awe of the insightful awareness she had.  What a great person she is and will be.  I told her that I don't have hope or faith that she will do well.  I told her I KNOW you will do well.  She wouldn't have it any other way.  I love being around her but understand that when it's time to go, she needs to get up and go.  That anxiety thing can really fuck up your life if you let it.

Anxiety.  Don't let it get you.  It's a mindfuck and it only gets worse if you give it wings.  I'm working on it.  I've got a handle on it and I know that it is just a matter of changing my pattern of thought.  That and a glass of wine can do wonders.  The power of positive thinking?

It works.

So Far Away...

You're So Far Away From Me

Are We Men or Are We Mental?

As a person who has been considered by the medical industry, big pharma, and an ex-wife as having a few mental disorders, most imagined by the power of suggestion, I feel qualified to speak about psychiatrists.  I have seen one shrink in my entire life and that was at least three yeas ago.  I remember that he upped a bipolar drug to an ungodly dosage which I took faithfully for about six months before seeing a psychologist who told me I was not bipolar.  I already knew that but buoyed by the psychologist’s prognosis, I decided to quit taking the bipolar meds.

Before I get to the meat of this essay, I gotta tell you that that I never thought I was crazy.  Maybe horribly depressed, but never psychotic.  Why horribly depressed?  Me?  Mr. Funnybone?  Maybe it was because of the way I was treated as a boy.  Yes, we can all say we got hit, spanked or suffered corporal punishment.  I suspect, though, most parents dished it out reluctantly.  I never spanked my kids so I understand the reluctance.  My parents didn’t like each other.  They were angry punishers, complete with wooden spoons, belts, hands, palms, fists, whatever was handy.  I was ducking a lot, not successfully for the most part.  What the Nurse Practitioner told me was that I suffered from PTSD due to the punishment my parents dealt.  Yes, I am vigilant and notice everything.  I remember being amazed that I could drive down the same road every day with the same person and notice when something was different.  The other person, who had been down the same road with me for the same amount of days, did not notice.  It floored me.  When I was told the reason I noticed every thing was because I was waiting for the next whack on the head, it sort of made sense.  Vigilant.  Like a wolf.http://www.wenatcheeworld.com/news/2013/feb/13/wolf-photographed-near-ardenvoir-probably-just/

Now, my parents are dead.  They died young at 75.  My dad died in 2005 and my mother, uh, a couple of years after that.  Both died of disease.  Dad, lung cancer.  It’s an awful way to go.  People have such hope that they will try anything and everything to buy time.  My dad stuck around because of his wife, who could not bear to let him go.  Even though my dad told me several times he was ready and very tired of chemo, he stuck with it.  That is love and devotion.  

My mother, alone, never remarried.  She died of Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  http://www.alsa.org/about-als/what-is-als.html  It was very ironic for her to come down with this disease as she had been one of the most active people I knew.  She was involved in everything, Kiwanis, Meals on Wheels, and many community activities.  To have a neurodegenerative disease was the most unkind thing God could have done to her.  Maybe it was the twenty years of dating a married man.  I don’t know.  Doesn’t matter.

So, my roaming along point is that my parents died younger than the family average on both maternal and paternal sides.  My guess is that because they didn’t figure out they didn’t like each other until after they married, they carried a smoldering resentment.  I, being the oldest, was the obvious target.  Consequently, I was on the lookout for the unseen hand coming down to whack me on the side of the head.  Vigilance.

That’s over and done and I should be able to deal with it by now.

Ok, let’s get back to shrinks and other people ill equipped to judge mental disorders.  I read an article in the New York Times today about the new DSM V coming to a bookstore near you soon.  The article was written by Gary Gutting, Professor of Philosophy at The University of Notre Dame.  http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/02/06/the-limits-of-psychiatry/  He questions the way a diagnosis is made by the psychiatrists.  He calls them “moral judgements.”  The short of it is that Gutting says shrinks use a moral compass, or societal norms, to make decisions on disorders.  From my experience, I must agree.  I was only asked questions.  It was on my dime that I had a psychological exam by a Ph.D psychologist.  I took a 550 multiple choice exam, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.  I was also shown pictures.  Then the pictures were hidden and I was asked what I remembered from the picture.  I was also given other memory tests such as counting backwards and forwards using multiples.  2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 and on as far as I could go.  It took six hours.  It was supposed to take 8 hours but I did the MMPI much faster than other mental defects.

I got the results and it looked like I was ok.  I guess the test is designed to rule out certain disorders and not really diagnose.  So, I was poorer yet no closer to understanding what the fuck was going on.  My prognosis:  poor life management.  Bad marriage.  Two people together because they don’t know what else to do.  Love lost, gone with the advancing years that harbored disagreements, differences in child rearing, differences in a personal approach to life.  I won’t put all the blame on that because I’ve always been a handful but being trapped, so to speak, makes one anxious.  Subconsciously, I knew what was happening but in the real world, I didn’t want to face it.  Too much to consider.

I was introduced to the big pharma end of mental disorder by a doctor who thought we should find out why I wasn’t sleeping well.  I had already done the sleep test.  You know, the one where they hook wires to you and then hook those wires to a computer and then say, “Good night!”  Yeah, like I’m going to sleep with all that shit hanging off of me.  Like anyone could.  I think if they could, they don’t have a sleeping disorder.

That led to a Nurse Practitioner with a specialty in psychopharmacology.  I swear no tests were given me other than a few questions.  Within one hour I had three diagnosis: bipolar disorder, PTSD, and Chronic Anxiety.  Boom!  Just like that.  I think I was relieved because, one, someone had put names to what I was feeling, and two, I could stay in the domestic situation awhile longer.  When you know, though, deep down in the bowels of your soul, that whatever it is that you are doing is only a temporary fix and that sooner or later you will have to deal with the certainty of outcome, it doesn’t help a whit.

My first Nurse Practitioner moved to Texas to be closer to her sister.  I was moved to the current Nurse Practitioner I am seeing.  Or was.  I don’t think I’ll go back.  We’ve accomplished next to nothing in four years.  She immediately diagnosed me as being ADD Without Mention of Hyperactivity.  (So, if it is without mention, why mention it?)  That brought Adderall, amphetamine salts, into the picture.  Things got ugly quick.  They stayed that way.  I was quick to temper but just as quick to subside.  It was a horrible roller coaster ride.  I was told by the “dealer,” my name for the Nurse Practitioner, that I may have to take them for the rest of my life.

As an itinerant musician for many years, I used and abused many forms of stimulants.  At first it was crosstops.  I would take a few before a gig and then count on being told to quiet down. (I play drums.)  Although I first used cocaine in 1971, it wasn’t until the late 70’s and early 80’s that I got into it as part of my lifestyle.  Performing and partying, staying up for a couple of days at a time, life of the party, crashing hard, sleeping, eating and then at it again.  I look back and think that I probably should have died a couple of times already.  I guess something or somebody wants me alive.

So I knew the drawbacks of using stimulants but I took them anyway because I was prescribed them.  I thought they worked.  I got strung out and stayed there, losing weight and not eating.  All this because someone trained with a certain point of view thought I needed them to cope with my life.  This is what Gutting talks about.  Should we go on using the “moral compass” as a guide to medicating our troubles away?  I think not.  I am still a strong believer in testing.  If a disorder has symptoms and those symptoms are identifiable, then I would hope that more than just a few questions would determine whether someone puts poison in their body every day, three times a day.  Yes, there are people who need these medications.  My brother takes lamictal for bipolar but he is no more bipolar than I.  As he says, he likes the way it contains his emotions.  I thought that was why he rode a bike.  Anyway, the meds do all the heavy lifting for him as far as that goes.  What I have found out is that, yes, the meds do the heavy lifting but to continue to do so you have to take them every day.  If you quit taking them, there will be hell to pay until you learn to do the heavy lifting.  I’m learning to do the heavy lifting.

The inevitable divorce has come and gone.  Even after the divorce was announced, I continued to take Adderall, Clonapin, and Trazadone with an antidepressant thrown in to smooth out the edges.  I quit taking the lamictal after being told by a trained professional that I was definitely not bipolar. (As mentioned, I already knew that.)  In addition, my dosage of Adderall was upped by 20 mgs to 80mgs a day, 20mgs over the recommended adult dosage.  I was cruising, baby, zoooom...

As the separation entered its second year, I knew I was strung out but went with doctor’s orders.  I entertained the thought of how to get off this shit.  I knew that I depended on the boost given me by the meds.  I took the first dose at 7:30AM and then went back to sleep.  By 8AM, I was up and blasting away at whatever.  I took two more doses later in the day.  When it was time for bed, I took the Clonopin and Trazadone to get to sleep.  Classic dysfunctional cycle, yet prescribed.

Someone found me and realized I was not in good shape.  My Christmas present was losing the Adderall.  It was magic.  The bottle of meds just disappeared.  God must want it that way.  I am glad for it.  Probably saved what is left of my life.

So whose “moral compass” was being used to determine whether or not to medicate me?  My then wife?  The Practitioner?  Me?  It is something to think about.  If indeed one uses a moral compass, then many assumptions must be made by the professional.  What input did I have other than answering questions? Of course we count on professionals to know more about the situation than we do.  I know more about teaching than a doctor does.  I formerly assumed that when prescribed a medication, the doctor knew what they were doing but it isn’t that way.  YOU must ask the pertinent questions.  Find out what the side effects are.  If possible, look the meds up online to find out what the long term effect might be.  Remember, clinical trials are performed on a very tiny portion of the population so the effects may differ for you.  Yes, a particular drug may have the desired result for you but the side effects may make that the lesser of the evils.

Ask the doctor who’s “moral compass” are they using to come up with a diagnosis.  You might have to remind them of the Hippocratic Oath.  

Life can get pretty hectic at times and it is up to each individual to decide how to walk their path.  Take care of yourself.  Don’t always leave it up to others.  Realize your strengths and your limitations.  Listen to yourself and listen to your body.  Trust yourself.

I Found God Under The Carpet.

...and one more thing about yesterday's legal procedure.  The judge noticed that the divorce decree did not say who was responsible for making the mortgage payments (me,) so he put that in for us.  What I should have made sure of is whether the credit cards that the ex agreed to pay for got put into her name and out of mine.  Sure, she'll pay them but if they stay in my name, it's my credit score that suffers.  Ok, done.

A magic thing happened the other day.  Ok, a few weeks ago, maybe two or three.  I had been painting one of the upstairs bedrooms.  I finished and put the lid back on the can of paint but did not pound it on just in case I found a spot I missed.  I left it on the drop cloth.  When I came back to it, it had spilled, the lid coming off and paint was pooled between the bedroom and the hallway.  One carpet white, the other a reddish brown.  Now both were blue.  Damn.  What a deal.  Now, instead of just painting, I was going to have to do something with the carpets.  Of course, why not?  It's always something.

I got curious, though, and wondered what was under the carpet.  I pulled a little of it up in the closet and saw sub-flooring.  In between the floor and the wall was a little gap where I could see what was under the sub-floor.  There were oak slats!  Could I have oak floors?  Would that be a goldmine?

I pulled up the sub-flooring in the closet and, lo and behold, there were oak slats that continued on into the rest of the bedroom.  I went to the hallway and looked under the sub-flooring.  Yup!  Oak floors!  You can see in the photo on the left the sub-floor and the oak floor.  There are staple holes in the oak but I like them.  They add character and age to the floor.

So, I got to work pulling up the sub-floor.  I have a staple puller that I bought when alpacas were kept here.  I don't want to talk about the alpacas but if I never see another one, that's ok.  I took the hammer and knocked the staple puller under the staple and yanked.  It made that creaky sound you hear when pulling nails or...staples.  Thing is, somebody must have thought that sub-flooring was going to get up and walk away because there were about 500 staples in the bedroom alone along with 2 full 4' x 8' sheets of sub-flooring.  The rest of the room had cut chunks of sub-flooring measured to fit but still stapled.  I spent a lot of time pulling staples.  I got a rhythm going and it was almost fun.

Hall Floor With Two Coats of Polyurethane

After the staple pulling was done, I got my grandfather's belt sander and started sanding the floor. Oh man, this was going to take forever.  I thought of an orbital sander but the time I used one, it took me for a ride.  I didn't think I could handle one again but I went to Home Depot to look anyway.  The rental guy showed the "latest and greatest" in floor sanders.  It had four rotary sanders that spun opposite of one another.  That way, he told me, the sander wouldn't get away from you.  And as far as sawdust went, you just hooked up a shop vac to the outlet on the sander, turn on the shop vac and sand away.  I took it home and got to work.  I got it done inside of three hours and took the sander back.

After the sanding, I vacuumed with the shop vac.  Even though I had hooked up the sander to the shop vac, there was still sawdust everywhere.  After vacuuming, I got out the tack cloth and started wiping the floor down.  FYI, the tack cloth is a resin coated cheesecloth that picks up the sawdust that the vacuum missed.  If you rub your hand on the floor after vacuuming but before using the tack cloth, you will see very fine sawdust on your hand.  Rub the tack cloth across the same area and the sawdust is gone.  This is a very good idea before putting any down kind of finish.  Otherwise, you put the finish on the sawdust.  Not cool because then the finish comes up when the sawdust works itself loose.  How did I learn this?  Next paragraph, please.

Bedroom Floor Looking In From Hallway

Another View From Hallway

About three years ago I had the brilliant idea of putting electric guitars together.  I bought all the parts from eBay; the body, the neck, and the electronics.  I bought the bodies already drilled for the bridge and pickups but unfinished as far as the guitar body went.  I would sand them with 220g sandpaper then stain them.  I used a dark stain usually.  Then I would start putting coats of polyurethane over the stain and gloss the body up.  I used polyurethane for the first three coats and then spar urethane for the final coat.  I did about three guitars then gave up.  That's how I figured out how to do the floors.  At least it didn't keep me from doing the floors.  It never occurred to me I couldn't or shouldn't do the floors.  I always think, in the beginning of any project, that it won't be as much work as it turns out to be.  I'm an idiot in that respect.  Some people would just say I'm an idiot.  I don't hang out with those people anymore.

View From Inside Bedroom

I got down to it and finished sanding and brushing on polyurethane.  Yes, I wore a mask but still had a bell ringing headache the next day.  And I wasn't finished.  Usually you only have to wait three to four hours before putting down a second coat but, for some reason, possibly lack of proper ventilation, the finish did not dry that quick.  I had to wait a day to get the second coat on.  It has to be somewhat wet still for the second coat to adhere.  I got the second coat on both the hallway and the bedroom.

I posted photos on Facebook.  Somebody commented they couldn't believe I did all that in a week.  Whatever.  Once you start something like that, you don't stop until you reach a stopping point.  I'm still not finished.  There is a second bedroom right next to the bedroom I just did and it has the same oak under the carpet formerly known as white.  I have to get the first bedroom finished before I can start the second bedroom.  The second bedroom has all the shit from the first bedroom in it.  And more.  Which means I have to find a place for all the extra shit.  Probably time for a yard sale.

I probably won't get around to the second bedroom until March.  Someone I love very much inspired me to take this on.  I want her to see the work I've done first hand.  I'm glad to have done it and, while not necessarily looking forward to it, am anxious to get the second bedroom done also.  It takes time, just like everything else.  I've got to finish one before I dig into the other.  Then maybe have a yard sale.  Or a celebration.  Both?  Sure!

Happy Happy, Joy Joy...

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Remember Ren and Stimpy?  No?  That's ok, I do.  A leetle song to celebrate another eventful day in my eventful life.  I am a very lucky man.  I seem to come out on the other end of things ok. Adversity, schmadversity.  Hang in there, dude.  Remember, The Dude abides... Just another in a string of events that make up the strands of my life, which has been a good one, so far.  I expect it will continue to be that way until the coyotes eat my bones.  I have strict orders to my wonderful girlfriend that should I become infirm, I should be wheeled in my wheelchair to the top of Rock Island Grade and leave me to the elements.  I shall drink Cabernet and Everclear and watch the stars come up.  In my infirmity, I will probably wet myself unless I am, as usual, dehydrated.  Either way, I will go peacefully and the coyotes will eat my bones.  It's not as bad as lying in a hospital bed in a permanent vegetative state with machines doing all the heavy lifting.  I've seen it.  No thanks.

Wait a minute, I'm not even going there yet.  That's a just in case.  I have plenty to do in the meantime.  I'm in a very good relationship to which my full attention can be given.  Not that it wasn't but this divorce thing, being legally married, always hung in the background kind of like somebody standing in the corner of the room, listening to every word said.  Now, there is no person listening, not that there was but I thought it a good analogy so I used it.

I'm feeling very light right now.  I've tried repeatedly to get a hold of my beautiful lover but I am afraid she is lost in the jungles of the Amazon and cannot get to me.  There is hope.  That just popped into my head so I wrote it.  I miss talking to her.  I love the sound of her voice and our conversations are perfect.  I never get tired of listening to her.  She is an intelligent person.  Me, too.  It makes it fun.  We have fun together.  When we're together.  We have fun on the phone.  I am excited to follow through with this person.  I have wonderful luck.

As good as I feel, and relieved, I still have work on the house to do.  I have a four-day weekend coming up.  I hope to get the bedroom finished so I can move back in and quit sleeping in the downstairs bedroom.  I found a box of laminate wood flooring, I think it is birch or maple, in the studio.  It was used for the kitchen floor.  I am using it on the landing just outside of the bathroom.  I think I've got it the way I want it so I will start the attaching process which includes adhesive.  I'll put the main part down first, then spend hours, probably, cutting the little pieces.  I'm not too sharp at doing the little pieces but have enough flooring to practice on.  :)

The courtroom today was comical.  The judge was a hoot.  Couples were yelling at each other in the courtroom.  I expected the gendarmes to come in at any minute to whisk the offenders away.  the judge yelled, "Be quiet you two!"  And they were.  Then, as they are sitting down after their case had been heard, the guy says to the woman, who evidently was his ex-wife, "You lyin' bitch!" Then she screams at him and I was positive the gendarmes were on their way but there was only an interpreter to come between them.  I laughed and shook my head.

When it was my turn to go sit in the hot seat, it was very formal.  My ex-wife sat at the other table. I think I was sitting at the prosecutor's table but that could be wishful thinking.  The divorce is uncontested.  The judge read through the stuff and was really nice about us forgetting to put stuff in the statement.  I get the house so he figured it should say I am responsible for mortgage payments.  Never thought of that.  He went through it all and then said, "It's too bad you two are getting divorced.  You seem to agree on everything which is unusual."  I replied, "We decided to go with Divorce With Dignity, your honor."  The two lawyers in the room, my ex-wife, and the judge laughed.  The judge said, "There ought to be a law or something..." to which I said, "You'd think so, your honor."  I knew I was winning huge brownie points by calling him Your Honor.  Then again, I teach Civics and know the protocol.  My father was a judge, too, but I never called him Your Honor.  Even my ex-wife said, "Yes, sir."  I would smile at the judicial faux paus.

What the judge couldn't know as to why we agreed on everything is because we couldn't afford lawyers and really had nothing to fight over.  Oh sure, she got the Chinese porcelain vase I coveted but what the fuck?  That was about it.  We both just wanted it to be done.  Outside the courtroom, my ex-wife offered me her hand.  We shook.  She said thanks.  I said you're welcome.  Then she said, "Drive safely back to town."  I said thanks again but was thinking  Thank God I don't have to if I don't want to.  But I did anyway.  The county seat is at the 3000ft above sea level mark.  Coming down you can see the Cascade Mountain Range in the near distance.  They were capped with snow and the sun was shining.  Voluminous, poofy clouds floated through the blue sky.  There was an air inversion which held some of the clouds onto the mountains with only the mountain peaks climbing above the clouds.  It was perfect.  I felt so good, I turned on the radio and sang along to classic rock.

So, that's that for that.  Next?