That Time I Thought I Could Do A Thing

   The last two years have been wracked with my failures. Which is fine, we all need to fail to move forward. It just sucks when you've crossed 50 and it's still happening and it, by the way, your career that you have failed at.
   Apparently I am a glutton for punishment, as I continue to look for Things To Fail At. Recently I chose Installing Hardwood Floors In The Small Spare Bedroom.

  Big History -When Jim and I owned the house on Grant, we did some minor renovations ourselves, relatively successfully, before giving in and hiring someone to do the kitchen. Which was a horrifying debacle and made us fear all renovation projects. Because I am a theatre teacher, I can build and design ish, for theatre. I paint hardwood floors or tile on the stage. I paint wallpaper or have wallpaper put on the flats. I do not use an air compressor for nails or staples, as they are a safety issue with students. I do it old school and I do it well enough for it to stand for two weeks, and then I demo the whole thing. When we moved into this house 18 years ago, it desperately needed updating. We carefully selected recommended handy men for the floors and painting and kitchen, and asked a family friend who did staging for realtors to design for us. We believed we would do the big stuff at that time, and come back the next year for the smaller rooms--the bedrooms and bathrooms. Then the bottom fell out in 2008 and most everybody knows Jim was unemployed for 3 years and we almost lost the house. We were able to hang onto it thanks to the grace of family, but the next step reno never happened, as digging out of that financial hole is still happening.

  Immediate History As we are shakily reclaiming our financial ground, we started feeling hopeful.We started talking about it. Last year we ripped out the carpet in the small spare room, and kept talking about putting in hardwood. But the truck needed an expensive tune up and tires. We had to buy a new car for Harp which needed new tires. I bought a new car. We know the truck is probably going to die soon and Jim will need a car. We hope the FJ will last G at least through December. Medical bills are stacking up. Student loans will be coming due soon. But notwithstanding, we have two kids with post secondary degrees and we made a plan to take out some equity and finish the house in September. While we're at it, maybe take a chunk out of the medical bills and help with student loans. Not rich, not buying a boat, just maybe finish the house. After two years of  applying and sounding off, it is heart breakingly clear that I cannot change buildings and Jim likes his job, so we aren't going to take off to Creede just yet. We're here at least ten more years, whaddya say we finish the damned house?
   We chat about these things at the bar with my dad. He volunteers to buy the materials for the floor and tells us "he knows a guy"* who can do it cheaply. I know it won't happen, so I keep drinking and Jim and my dad have conversations about wood floors. I know it'll never happen, but I don't want to upset anyone, so I just smile and nod when the subject comes up. Then one day the wood arrives in my garage, and of course---as predicted---dad's "guy" can't do it. I never said I would. But there is wood in my garage and Jim has said he'd like to try and get the floors done. He looked up How To Videos. And So we begin...


  Now that it's real, I want it done. I have no patience for living in construction, at all, and dammit something in my life needs to be completed. I decide I can probably do this, the video is detailed and I'm a functioning human. Here is a lovely bullet point to guide you:

•   Jim says he'll take off Friday and we'll rent the air compressor, nail gun and staple gun on Thursday night. On Weds when I ask about it, he says he doesn't think we're ready to start so he didn't take Friday off. Neigh Neigh I say, we're doing this, I gotta have control over something,and somebody needs to follow through on what they said or Immma take a hostage.
• We rent the air compressor, given no instruction by the Home Depot employee as to how to use it, because they don't know either. Jim's never used one. I've never used one. Already this is looking great.
• We lug the 400 pound thing up the stairs and turn it on, place three boards and nail them in. That was so easy, we got this!
• The compressor stops.
• We flip the switch, unplug it. It does not come back to life.
• I decide I'll return it tomorrow and text my sister in law, who put in her wood floors recently. 
• Her text back makes no sense to me "They turn off when they're full of air." 

Friday

•  I get up at 8 am to return the air compressor. G is returning to Durango today, and I don't want to miss her when she comes home to pack, so I wait until 9 to go to Home Depot.
• I lug the 500 pound thing into Home Depot and wait 15 minutes because nobody works at Home Depot.
• Someone emerges. I say "It's broken". They do not ask how I know this, or why I think it's broken, or bother to try it out. They just lug another air compressor at me and send me out the door.
• I lug the 600 pound air compressor up the stairs, hook it up, and turn it on. It runs for a minute, then shuts itself off. I re read my sister in law's text and use the nail gun with the compressor off. It works. AH! I see now, it's not on constantly,it fills with air and then shuts off. This would have been fabulous information to have before I lugged this 700 pound thing up and down my stairs and into my car and out of my car to Home Depot. wasting an hour and a half of my time.
• If you do not hit it directly on the button with the mallot, the nail will not fully submerge into the wood and you have to wrench the exposed nail completely out or the next plank won't line up.
• My walls aren't straight, so lining a 3/4  inch seam along the wall to allow for the floorboards as the video demonstrated, can't happen without causing the entire floor to have a crack running through it. I figured that out 6 rows in, and had to pull out 3 rows to fix it.
• Jim said the leftover wood from the other room would fit with the new wood. The guy at Lowes held up both sample pieces and demonstrated that they would fit together. They do not fit together once on a flat surface, however,  the grooves do not match up. No matter how much you pound.
• I texted my sister in law:"This doesn't match", "The Staple gun jammed" and "This is my Vietnam."  She called her boyfriend, who happened to be in my neighborhood, who came over and unjammed the staple gun (which I couldn't get to work), and explained the air compressor and checked it. All with a patient, kind demeanor of a real handy man who understands "teach a man to fish." I was grateful to him, and I know he and my sister in law both laugh about me. My sister in law texts " You're a mess" with a laughing/crying face. I build sets! I ran a theatre! I am not a mess! What time is it, is the pub open yet?
• I texted Jim photos of the uneven and unmatched wood, telling him no matter what, there is no way the old wood matches the new. We have gaps. It's now noon, I have eight rows done and I hate everything. I also point out that the wood planks will not make it from one end of the room to the other, leaving a nice 3/4 inch gap at the edge. None of the pieces line up that way, no matter how much math or Tetris you try to use. He says he knows, we'll have to cut the pieces to fit in there. Well OK then. Information I could have used.
• Schlepping the planks up the stairs from the garage causes enough nicks and scrapes in both the upstairs and and downstairs hallways to warrant needing paint jobs. I acknowledge this fact in my head as I throw the recent load on the floor and say out loud, to nobody "I'm not doing it."
• Harper is in the living room this entire time, did I mention that? At 1 pm we go to Starbucks, because the pub isn't open yet.
• I discover the longer planks are warped about 90% of the time. Depending on the warp, you may be able to pound the shit out of them to get them in. Some just won't go. They won't. I promise.
• Jim texts to tell me my dad is coming over. I ask why? He said "He's put in wood floors before, he can help" ** 
• My father arrives. He stands at the door to the room, whilst I am standing in said room and machine guns the following phrases at me: "This looks awful, look at those gaps, if this was my house I'd rip it up and start over, wouldn't you, this is a floating floor, what's that tool? Sigh, Sigh. What are you doing tomorrow? I'll come back and do this, this is a floating floor, I'm not yelling at you (he was totally yelling at me) but this is a floating floor it just snaps together and you don't need a nail gun, did you try to match the old wood with the new wood that's not going to work they don't match, why would you do that, it's a floating floor, when I did it with Marty we just snapped them in..." hit that on repeat for ten minutes, you get me.
• While my father is ripping apart my day with his criticism, Harper, from the living room, texts me the  google definition of a "floating floor" and the words "You're doing great, mom." 
• I know that this is not a "floating floor". This is wood, and it requires nails to install. I reply to the rat a tat of my father as best as I can, but I can only repeat the phrases "''cause the guy in the video said to do it this way" and "The guy at Lowes said they'd match", and "Dad, the longer planks are warped, it doesn't matter how much you pound they won't match up."
• Genoa enters the house, head full of steam over the previous night's family issue, adding to the black cloud threatening to engulf me. It's 3.30, the pub is open. I want to go to there.
• I walk away from my dad and sit in the living room chair across from Harp, contemplating just leaving everyone and going to the pub. Or maybe Creede. How much gas do I have?
• I say to Harper "that is not a floating floor." She smiles at me and nods agreement. "You're doing great, mom."
• Dad sits outside the bedroom on a chair, Genoa spins and whirls and leaves in a "Genoa"--very much like when the Tasmanian enters or exits---and I realize I'm going to cry. 
• Harp and I leave to run and errand, leaving dad behind and the garage doors open, so dad has to stay. I don't care. He can have the house. Jim can live with him.
• Jim gets home and tells dad that the Lowes guy said the wood would fit, the video said to use a nail gun and it's not a floating floor. Dad says "Oh, OK."  Just like that. No arguing, no disagreeing. Why? Well, Jim's a guy and my dad's sexist. Next.
• We all go to the pub.
• After the pub, Jim and I rip up the 8 rows I've done and Jim sets the first row against the wall---which he notes is not straight--and keeps saying things like "I see what you were saying" and "You figured out all the kinks for us." I just stare at him "You're welcome" and go to bed.
• On Saturday, Jim does most of the work and we get about 1/3 of the room done before we have to return the rental equipment.
• TWO WEEKS LATER, we rent another air compressor, intending to finish the floor. But Jim notes enough of the longer planks are warped and unusable that we may run out of wood.
• We run out of wood with 7 rows to go.
• Lowes does not have the wood in stock ,it has to be ordered.
• Home Depot does not have the wood in stock, it has to be ordered.
• We go to the pub.

        In conclusion, all in all, to sum up

• I have no control over anything in my life.
• I can add "install wood floors" to the list of things I cannot do.                    

*My dad always knows a guy, and in this case I saw the endgame clearly, as this "guy" is a divorcee from Peru living with my dad because he's broke and has legal issues. He is not going to do our wood floors, and I know that. I don't say as much, but I also don't really contribute to the conversation because when it comes to my dad I get very passive aggressive.
**My father has never installed wood floors before, and never, in our lives, has he been helpful to me. I love him and all, but he just gets mad when things don't go well, like bowling or the Broncos or home repairs.

Your Parents Are Boring

  There's a meme that travels the interwebs, it is generally attributed to a different person every time it comes around. This time is was Bill Gates. The gist, frankly, is "Get Off My Lawn Millennials." Whilst I agree with the theme, as it is one I also support, I do not appreciate the tone. It sounds angry. And yelling at millennials has not proved effective for thirty years, why would it start working now?

  The meme makes statements: "Your parents didn't used to be boring, they got that way paying your bills," and "Nobody owes you anything, get a job." I just tried to unearth the thing and I cannot locate it, as Facebook moves more quickly than I do. However, I can say with certainty that Bill Gates did not say the 11 things listed. Why? First, he's not mad at anyone, and whoever wrote this list is pissed. And second, when you look up "Bill Gates Quotes" they are largely supportive with vague warnings:
"Success is a lousy teacher. It seduces smart people into thinking they can’t lose". He does not seem to be a man that needs to publish a list of 11 Things That Suck About Millennials. As a high school teacher and a parent of millenniels, I think I am qualified to judge or scold or post 11 statements about them. I do not because lists like that sound angry, and as a teacher and parent I have said everything I need to to anyone who might possibly listen. I don't believe a list is going to catch the attention of any 20 year old I know.

  That said, that does not mean I do not agree with some of the sentiments, mainly "Nobody owes you anything." I see too much entitlement at the high school, and too much enabling by helicopter parents. When appropriate, or when asked, I will venture my advice. But I don't believe making a speech at graduation berating anyone, or posting a list like the Town Crier is going to change anything. I do struggle frequently with being nice to some of these people. I have perfected my stoic poker face when I need it, and I need it a lot. There are times when I just cannot believe what I am witnessing, and then am dumbfounded when a parent--or worse, an administrator--brushes it off as "Not a big deal." My number one issue is those who don't think they need to follow the rules in my classroom. It's worse when they're smart, and the only way the grade is impacted is when I include a behavior element. I had a parent ask me about that, as he felt his daughter should be an "A" student. I said "Well, she won't stop talking and she keeps bringing food. No food is allowed." I showed him the post on my website and on the syllabus stating this fact. He shrugged at me and said "So? She's smart, she's not bothering anyone else." I repeated that she was, in fact, by the sheer act of defiance "bothering" the class. And also did you note I said she won't stop talking, which also "bothers" the class. Sigh. Ten more years to retirement. It's fine, I'm fine, stop looking at me...

  This list...which I cannot now find...could have been made by any parent dating back to the 1950's. Frankly, every generation has kinda sucked since the WWII Bad Asses, and all parents and grandparents bemoan the laziness and entitlement of the generation that follows. I'm technically "Gen X", which as a teenager I called "The ME" generation, as we were part of the Wall Street/Club Drug rise. At the time my mohawk and combat boots frustrated many women who preceded me who felt it unladylike. OK. You make that list "11 Reasons Kryssi Sucks" and staple it to the telephone pole, I'll be over here slam dancing and ignoring you. I love old 50's  movies where the older women are incensed that the young ladies wear slacks. That is not ladylike. I remember hearing the phrase "Hysterectomy Pants" somewhere, which easily could be from the movie HAIRSPRAY now that I think of it.

  The thing is, really, the WWII Bad Asses had something real that changed their lives, and they just kept their heads down and lived life. My grandparents lived in a hole in the ground---I promise this is not hyperbole--with a piece of asphalt cover until they could farm the land and make enough to buy a house, which they then had trucked over the hole. I would question this, except that I was in that house a lot as a kid, and I remember their "cellar", which was solid and insulated and weirdly not like any basement I had experienced in the suburbs. They lived there with their first born whilst grandpa farmed. I'm sitting here on my deck lamenting that I have to pick up dog poo and it's going to be hot today and I'm not a famous author and I have to cut back sugar and use Steva. My grandparents did not have to write me a list of reasons I sucked. They just lived their lives and when I was an adult, after their deaths, my dad told me of the cellar home and I came to the "I suck" conclusion on my own. But I knew they had worked hard all their lives, and they never talked about it. And they never whined about what they did not have. And that was it, and I loved them and there were no hard feelings.

   There are already so many hard feelings out there, everywhere, about everything. People really need to enumerate why the parents  who were able to provide for their kids screwed them up? We need more hard feelings, do we? I don't think so. I believe in Karma, and these people are going to get what they deserve, positive or negative, regardless of a reposted, rebooted, reassigned list of 11 Reasons Everyone Sucks But Me.

  As Dennis Miller said, "But that's just my opinion, I could be wrong."

This Is Why I'm Like This: "Living Your Best Life"

1 July 2018

 As I sit out here on the deck, watching the Dog That Is Actually A Bear lope around the yard--run like the wind, Bullseye! I say that every time he does laps, he's the size of a small horse--my allergies are on full attack, my joints killing me, my career over, blah blah blah, I ponder the current trendy phrase "live your best life."

  I have no idea what that means.

  I suspect it has to do with the glass being half full, looking on the bright side, the sun'll come out tomorrow---ugh. My coffee mug is currently half empty, with a fishy circle floating at the top. Because I need to take fish oil for my stupid joints, but I can't swallow the massive pills because I am 80. So I cut them open and pour the fish oil into my coffee, making it taste just a little "off,"but it's fine, I'm fine, stop looking at me.

  I'm out here with three dogs, none of which are mine. There is the weird, compact "Bat Dog" who is a Pug Mix with something long legged and unidentifiable by either the shelter or the vet,named Marty Feldman because when we adopted him, he had just been released from the clinic. Where he had been to have his eye placed back into its socket. Because he popped his eye out, somehow. He was Harper's 18th birthday present. She loves Pugs but they are expensive, and he looks pretty Pugg-y, so she scooped him up and that was that. He may or may not be blind in that eye, but I vote "Yes, he is" because he cannot walk in a straight line, he "serpentines," and I think it's because he can only see on one side. We know nothing of his history, only that he was transported from Kansas (apparently a lot of strays are moved to Colorado from other states). But his eating habit of taking a small bite and then running a few feet away to eat it, suggests he was on the street for a while.

  The midsized edition is an Australian shepherd mix, that we suspect is also part Corgi due to his hilariously short legs. They are short but so cute, they are brown with white splotches like a cow, but the fur is long like a Muppet. Cutest Paws Ever. He is named "Indie." Harper says his full name is "Indigo," but I say it's "We named the dog Indiana." We acquired him from  a young lady who stayed with us for a bit, as she was "homeless." (There's more to that story.) So she adopted a dog, as one does when one is homeless. She kept him in her room, did not feed him or brush him, and we just decided he was ours and she moved out. He is a long haired boy who looks decidedly like a girl, but his eyes are oddly human. He spent the first two months watching us closely, you could see the intelligence and wariness. His long fur and floppy ears make him look like he's wearing a fedora -hence "We named the dog Indiana." Zippy likes to chew on his ears, we're not sure if he's grooming him or if he thinks Indie is a chew toy. We dug a bit and found out he had been adopted twice before and returned--which is largely why we chose to keep him, no matter his behavior issues. Which amounted to peeing all over the house whenever he wanted. He seems to have gotten over that, for the most part. But what's impressive is his eyes have changed. He no longer watches and waits, he is present and relaxed and the only remnant of his past is that he will lay down next to his food bowl and scarf it all at once, growling at the other two dogs if they dare approach. He does have allergies, and needs brushing and half a Benadryl daily, making him the highest maintenance canine of the household.

  Our mini van contribution is Zeppelin, whom we call "Zippy." He is technically Genoa's dog, adopted in Durango, but she could not keep him in her dorm so...ta da. The best vet guesses have been  a mix of Tosu Inu, a type of Mastiff (size, white blaze on his chest, jowls), Lab (ears, tail, body and demeanor), Chow (black splotched tongue) and Pit Bull (head shape, eyes). He is devoted to Genoa. At a year and a half he weighs 100 pounds and thinks he's a lap dog. He was born on the same date that Sundown died, a year later. He has many Sundown characteristics, which are also lab characteristics. He's  social, loyal, stubborn and had a fifth claw, a "duclaw" that had to be surgically removed, in the same place that Sundown did. He also chews on his left leg even though there is no reason for it, as Sundown chewed on his wrecked leg. He knows the FJ, when it pulls up he is beside himself with glee, waiting for Genoa to enter the house. We can't let him out front if she's going to the store, because he will climb into the FJ and refuse to get out. We did take him to basic doggie training, and he learned enough to earn his diploma, sit, and behave reasonably on a walk. At first nobody could walk him, he'd just pull in every direction all the time. And he's so big, people are wary-as they should be, because he will jump on you and knock you right over. We've only taken him to the dog park a handful of times, and he has to stay on "the bad dog side" so he doesn't jump on good dog owners.

At the moment, Marty is dozing  in the sun looking regal, Indie is in the tall grass, in his favorite spot under the tree, where he can hide and watch. Zippy is next to me on the deck, contemplating the buzzing bees and---wait, there's a blue jay, he needs to go see if he can jump high enough to get the blue jay. Nope. Okay, back to his spot on the deck.

  The Gatos Diablos, all of them also rescues, are split inside/outside. It's nice and cool today, nobody is dying from the heat, huddled downstairs, where they've been most of the week. The birds are singing, the butterflies are playing, Marty's tags are jingling as he moves to a sunny spot on the deck. Zippy sees a squirrel now and is whining a bit....

   I think I can now define "living your best life." It's happening on my deck.