12/05/2016 – Gifting

It’s closing in on the time of year when, as a sort of sad, twisted Christmas present to myself, I ask myself if it was worth being a bitch for twelve months to have what might appear as a tiny bit of money left in the bank with which to start 2017.

In 2015, after six months of complaining, name calling, financial infidelity, and undermining all efforts to stick to my “Draconian” budgeting plan, I gave up trying in June and we ended the year being overdrawn. Major meltdown happened and frankly, that scarred me for life. I vowed that would not happen again.

And so, yes, it was worth being a bitch and sticking to my draconian budget plan if it means I get the gift of not witnessing a meltdown that was of one’s own fault in the first place.

Do I know how to party, or what?

I’ve decided to start my 2017 reading list early, beginning with a rereading of Fight Club, because the end of the year is approaching and I like how it smacks around the stupidity of consumerism for the sake of consumerism. As someone who, out of necessity because of massive debt, hasn’t celebrated the holidays with gifts since 2001, and spent too much time being depressed about that, parts of Fight Club is a good headspace to be in. Parts of the book isn’t a good place, but this is a reread; I know where it’s going, I know how it ends. I don’t need to focus on the bad parts, just what works for me now. Now is all about making sure someone else doesn’t start believing spending money is the thing to do just because everyone else is spending money. Also, the holidays.

It snowed here today, ever so briefly. A neighbor’s ignored kitten is staying in a warmed feral cat shelter I have in my backyard. Today, she experienced snow and she didn’t like it. She’s a smart one and stuck to the narrow space next to the house where the cement was wet and not slushy to get to a food bowl left out daily for neighborhood strays. She’s eight months old and black with a touch of white on her chest and she’s a sweetheart who loves human interaction. I cannot and will not take it in, nor will I turn it in to our “humane” society – I know their true death rate numbers as a result of being a shelter volunteer. I feel good about providing food, warmth, and shelter within our budget to someone not of our family. That’s a gift to myself, too.

Last year, we had numerous trees cut down and removed from our tiny property and we lost some bushes here and there, mostly on the front east side. Some needed to come down, others were permanently damaged by years of the rental neighbors urinating on them. Up until our front birch trees died and needed removed, I had a good Christmas lighting plan going. Everything looked balanced, as if some professional lighting expert knew what they were doing. I stuck to that plan year in and year out. It worked.

Now, I just don’t have a good vision on how I can make our Christmas lights look any better than a bunch of mismatched sets of various colors thrown willy-nilly at this bush and that. There is no plan. Nothing looks balanced. It’s a blob of color with a few strings of white lights wrapped around a short tree trunk.

Part of this angst is due to not putting lights on the house. We never have, for the following reasons: 1) we refuse to staple gun anything to our house, remembering the damage done to the rental house we lived in for eight years prior, 2) light clips have never seemed to work for us, and 3) I’m the only one who puts up lights, meaning, I’d have to be the one to find a neighbor with a twenty-four foot ladder to borrow, I’d have to be the one to hold it while I climb it, and I’d have to be the one to watch that I don’t fall off our moss-covered roof while trying, somehow, to put up lights without the use of a staple gun, nails, or light clips.

And then, I’d have to go up and take them all down again in January.

Nope. Not happening.

But here’s the good part: This year, all our neighbors have decided, independently, to put up red and white lights. Only red and white lights. Most are steady burning. Some flash like a half-burnt out Eat At Joe’s diner sign. All look tacked up, sagging here and there, with mismatched bulb sizes and brightness, LEDs mixed with regular, old school C9 bulbs that are probably sucking half the power of east Clark County. There are sun-faded inflatable things lying in yards, things that I’m not sure have anything to do with Christmas – maybe I’m just out of the loop but what does an octopus have to do with the holidays? Most are waiting to be plugged in and blown up, for those that will blow up. The others lay across yards in vinyl fabric puddles, killing the grass, their owners having already given up trying to resuscitate the six-foot jolly man in red or revive the snowman from the movie Frozen.

No inflatables here. Nothing fancy. No garland swaying free in the east winds. No big plastic ornaments banging together from a porch roof. Our lights are simply strings of multi-colored LED lights woven through a row of one-foot tall boxwood, a single two-foot tall blue juniper, a six-foot stretch of three-foot high holly bushes (bushes that miraculously survived human urine), and a four-foot tall Japanese maple completely wrapped in cool blue-white LED brightness.

It’s not pretty, but it does stand out. Everyone else has lights tacked up on their houses and none on the bushes in their yards. We have nothing on our house and everything on the bushes in our yard. I guess that’s what the old lighting plan did, too. It was different and it stood out. So, maybe it isn’t so bad out there after all. I feel better about it already.

11/30/2016 – Please remain seated until ride comes to a complete halt.

I’ll admit to running around like my hair was on fire since February. So much I wanted to get done, so much that needed to be done, and I’m thrilled to say all the things are done! That is, everything I had on my 2016 to-do list(s), my yard work list*, my reading list, and my what-the-hell-why-not list I completed. In addition, and because I thrive on being extra annoying this way, I’ve already decorated our house inside and out for Christmas, sent out my Christmas cards and a secret gift to a pet-loving friend.

Since I’ve done everything that needed to be done this year, all day I felt as though I was flying at one hundred and eighty-miles an hour and someone suddenly mashed hard on the brakes. And I’m wondering, what do I do with myself for the next thirty days?

This is a very unusual state for me, the one who has to do so much now by myself, that I would have some days, not to mention thirty days, free to do what I might want to do, instead of what needs to be done. So odd this is, I’ve not been able to think of anything at all other than to dive right into my 2017 reading list, and I’m not sure I want to do that just yet.

I guess I’ll just teach myself to enjoy this down time, because who knows what other drama and/or catastrophe might be lurking in the shadows.

*Stated as if every last thing pertaining to yard work would ever be one hundred percent done. Yeah, right…

Under the odd news category, on and off over the past twenty-seven years, I’ve secretly kept up on the doings and police record of a heroin addict, also known by DNA as my sister and recently discovered she has a facebook page. She’s filled it with confederate flag images, which is odd because while she and I were born in Ohio, she was brought to Arizona when she was a baby (I was six) and she has never been to the south. Not that she would need to go there to become a fan of that culture, I realize.

Reason number two million three hundred and eight why I am estranged from my family.

11/22/2016 – Reading and Waiting

A local convention has come and gone and I hardly missed not going. Well, that’s maybe half true. The person who bullied me the year of the last convention I attended, tried their hardest to bully another, failed, and quit the whole she-bang. I haven’t heard the details, not really wanting to for fear it would stir up the ugliness again, but I feel for the victim and offer up a Hurrah for You! It was more than I was willing and able to do.

As of this posting in my year of Reading Everything, thirty-four and a half books will have been read, leaving somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred more to read. I have a library full of books, split down the middle of fiction and nonfiction. And until last December, I hadn’t read half of them. It’s high time that’s corrected.

I marvel at the ability some people have to read seventy, eighty, a hundred books in a year. Me, I savor each word and let them roll around on my tongue and in my head. I don’t skim or speed read. I don’t set down a book I don’t like for I believe even crappy books have some redeeming quality. Like, how not to write. There were a number of those in this year’s pile. No, I’m not going to share which ones.

I’m not writing, not really. Sure, I wrote and just crossed the fifty thousand word finish line for National Novel Writing Month. My novel subject was influenced by Raymond Carver and Richard Matheson with a little real life on living with someone with mental illness stirred in under the guise of complete and utter un-publishable fiction. Go me.

I learned I have a lot on my mind about certain things and I still struggle with listening too much to those around me who think writing is not my cup of tea. I just finished a writing class that, unfortunately, didn’t teach me what I had hoped to learn, but it was still worthwhile, much like those crappy books. There was some redeeming quality, one being, it had been the first time I had been away from my house since early summer, even longer since I’ve conversed with other people, in person.

Oh sure, I go grocery shopping every great once in a while and that’s about it now. He does most of that on his way home from work, he being the one with the broken spirit and who is discouraging in all things more than not. I keep telling myself I’m just in a holding pattern, waiting for my hair to grow in all gray and all the same length, waiting until I have these books read, waiting until I get over being publicly shamed, waiting until some writing inspiration hits me and waves away the one whose dark clouds fill these walls, waiting for him to snap out of it.

The holidays are coming, our anniversary is tomorrow, and once again, we’re doing… nothing. I’m still buckling us down to reduce his debt, our debt, and a huge looming bill due in 2019 that only squeezing pennies from now until then will save us from because someone has to. I keep counting down the days until I don’t have listen to any more Christmas ads on TV or the radio. After January 1st, I’ll feel much better about surviving this, my former most favorite time of the year, with all of those squeezed pennies still sitting in my change jar.

It’s not all misery and darkness here. I’m planning on putting up Christmas lights next weekend if the weather allows. I’m still walking on my treadmill four-five times a week. I still get nose kisses from my cats. My backyard is almost empty of yards and yards of extra dirt and tree stumps. And I just finished reading thirty-four, almost thirty-five books this year. Not really complaining at all. Just waiting for the year to close out and daring to hope next year will be better.

09/01/2016 – Hello September!

September comes with the promise of rain. Just promises, though. I’ve yet to see a drop. Tomorrow, I hope, otherwise, I have to water my small front yard by hand and since the house next door sold, I’m not terribly fond of going out front. It’s a long story involving many, many, many crappy next door neighbors.

I am one filled yard debris bin away from being done with all my outdoor summer yard projects. One more empty bin ought to do it. My yard work projects this summer included:

– Removing and disposing, by hand and shovel, five large tree stumps PLUS all the roots to reclaim a flowerbed. All stumps were smaller than a smart car, bigger than a cocktail table.

– Dug out and disposed of approximately eighty-two yards of dirt; some clay-like, some light and loamy, most composted, decayed, compacted bark mulch inhabited with entire colonies of ants.

– Fixed cut-thru sprinkler lines too many times (the perils of giving a husband free-rein with a Sawsall cutter).

– Laid eighty-six bricks and cobblestone blocks of differing colors, styles, and sizes to create a solid, stable surface under the bird feeder.

– Removed a sixteen-year old, poorly performing, overgrown Rhododendron… and remembering, too late, I had buried a dead opossum under it. (Look at the bones!)

– Painted over my Hot Patio cement poured just last November with solid blue-gray cement paint because the original tan brown cement stain faded to pink. To be honest, I don’t like the blue-gray color any better.

– Dug a foot-wide, half-foot deep trench along the front of the eastern flowerbed (forty feet) for fall/winter rain runoff. No more flooding the cement walkways.

My hope is to actually enjoy my backyard’s near complete transformation for a couple of weeks, without feeling the need to dig anymore, before cool, wet weather shuts everything down.

I have six more books to read by the end of the year. I finished my fourth book in August just before midnight last night. Anyone dreaming of running away to live on an island “paradise” first ought to read, “A Serpent in Paradise” by Dea Birkett. Eye opening. If you are a fan of or just curious about the descendants of the mutineers of the H.M.S Bounty still living on Pitcairn Island in the South Pacific, you’ll probably race right through the book like I did, and scratch off visiting that place from your bucket list.

And finally, in case you missed it, here’s a photo of the last 2016 August sunset.

The last August 2016 sunset - 2016 © Colehaus.com

The last August 2016 sunset – 2016 © Colehaus.com


I have about a month’s worth of dirt removal left to do and no one could possibly be happier about that than I. Well, maybe the yard debris pickup guys will be. Year Two of the three year dirt removal project is almost at a close.

We were very lightly rear-ended in his car yesterday, on the way to his birthday lunch. I was driving. Very, very minor damage. No injuries. Almost a non-event. I worry he will over-focus on this rather than the previous three days in which we spent money we don’t have so he might think his 50th was pleasant. And then, that happened.

I gave thought to getting back on the treadmill today, after nearly a year off it, then thought better of it. I’m happy to be thinking about it again, though. It means I’m tired of ill-fitting clothes even if I rarely think of that consciously. One more month of working outside, digging out clay dirt, and I’ll trade my shovel for the treadmill. And if I’m lucky, I’ll fit into jeans by late-October, in time for cooler, wet weather.

My streak of avoiding restaurants ended in late July with a truly crappy meal in Ridgefield. Last week, I had pizza out at a local place and was appalled at the lack of service I had once been accustomed to as normal. Yesterday, I realized I have lost my taste for restaurant food. Much of it seems to taste unnatural, chemical-laced almost, creamy to the point of bland and tasteless. And this makes me happy. My addiction to restaurant food is as good as broken.

I’m two-thirds the way through reading, Paradise by Toni Morrison and I still don’t understand what it’s about, but I’m determined to get through it and move on. I’m sticking to my reading list this year. That, and dirt digging. Nothing else is as important.