Brain Like a Flea on a Griddle

I can't assign it a light and airy allegorical name like dragonfly or damselfly any longer. To put it plainly, I can't land on a thought and stick to it. This has gone on for a few days and is most unlike me. My head jumps around from thought to thought, lingering on those that really don't matter and darting away from the ones that do matter. Uh-oh. Avoidance. Perhaps I'm lucky, actually. Because I know what has unsettled me. I even know the steps I will have to take to restore order to myself. But I'm not there yet. It will require work of the human being sort with another human being, and I'm not quite ready. So, as unattractive and uninspiring as it is, for today I'm just a toad. Slow moving, unthinking and decidedly not out to change the world. At least not today. It may be fair to call me lazy. Or perhaps, just for the one day, I'm simply not up to participating in the wrestling match required when one carries on a relationship with any other human being. I shall simply plop from one lily pad in the pond to another.

Notwithstanding my recent Sam Cooke addiction, it's now Otis Redding. If one Wikis Otis, one will find a statement saying he had a great ability to emote strongly in his singing. Very true. Wiki says he is the epitome of soul, that American amalgamation of gospel, rhythm and blues and more. I agree. I've written before to say that my 15th year was one that contained both joyous and torturous events. It is one of the years of life about which I have the most vivid memories. Few periods of that time from August 24th, 1967 through August 23rd, 1968 are blank. That part of my canvas is pretty fully painted. One of the headlines in that year was about Otis' plane crash and death. A month later his biggest hit, (Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay, was released. I'm always startled when someone can point only to The Dock of the Bay when Otis Redding's name is spoken. After all, that grand song was the end. There was an entire body of work that went before. And while some may call me an old fussy hen and others simply think I pay close attention to the details, I know this: had I put this tune up on YouTube, I'd sure-as-shootin' have typed his name "Otis" and not "Ortis".

On one wall of my office resides a utilitarian monthly calendar that is used to show when anyone wants a day off. In our world, days off are granted on a first come, first served basis, so this seemingly inconsequential item actually has great importance. At the beginning of each month, we renumber the blocks, change the name of the month, and we're good to go. For no particular reason, Troy re-did the calendar in January, February and March. The calendar was useful, not beautiful, during the first quarter. He never mismarked the date squares and his printing was legible. Last week when everyone was busy on the huge job at the church, I readied the calendar for April. In the header, I wrote "April, 2010" and I drew some simple vines with leaves. Then I was inspired to type, print and put up the best April quote of all, "April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain." The calendar began to be used as soon as April opened. I watched homes put their names up, notice the quote, read it, recoil as if snakebit and elbow other homes in the ribs. Not so this morning! Matt stepped closer to the calendar in order to read the quote. Then he turned to me and said, "Tell me about T. S. Eliot, please, Leslie."

Anyone care to join me for a little more Otis? Yesterday I had to pull the gray pea coat out of the closet. The wind has screamed for days, temperatures below normal, and it even rained. As I pulled the coat on, I reflected that I am damned sick and tired of the wind. It is affecting me negatively. Oh, I'd suffer being so full of antihistamines my lips and tongue stick to my teeth while my nose still runs nonstop. I'd learn to live with making Virginia Woolf a little bed tucked away in the closed bathroom so she doesn't tremble in fear. I'd shoulder the indignity of my hair looking wild for just about half of life. But it's about the miles and miles walking every day in it. Nose running, eyes streaming, chugging up to the end of Desert Inn Road into it, abs contracting with the effort, turning the corners facing into the mighty blast. I have crumpled tissues stuffed into every pocket of every jacket and pair of walking pants, making laundry day a merry hell because no one could possibly remove them all before tossing the clothing into the machine . . . Reader, I have to confess it, when the days go 115-degrees, I'll moan about that, too. But it won't grip me the way the unceasing, freakish wind has. Just one more moan and I'll stop. When the gale shrieks through the streets as it has recently, there is something that freaks me out. When stopped at a red light, one can observe the huge standards that house the traffic lights . . . bouncing in the wind. It scared me in 1976. It scares me now. The newscasters warn us to keep both hands on the steering wheel as the crosswinds can give a car a mighty jolt . . . and I am nearly maddened by it.

Monday, I carried my bags of the week's groceries to the office. I trudged up the stairs like a clumsy, overloaded pack horse, turned into the breezeway and was struck by the irony of the word "breezeway" as I was nearly sent airborne from the second floor deck. I struggled for keys from the purse, my BlackBerry already chirping as homes checked in with me to start their workday. Fumbling at the door, I spotted someone sitting at the patio table. Which one of them was sitting outside in the wind and the cold? Justin? What the hell? For Justin was put on shore leave in December and has been very quiet since. We knew he wasn't having any luck finding work, because some of the others keep in touch with him. Last week in staff meeting we talked about how we still needed more technicians, even after having hired Matt back. There is that much work. David is considering adding to the fleet of mighty war wagons. We are going into conservative growth mode. When Cesar spoke up for Justin, David asked me what I thought. Easy answer. He's experienced. He's experienced in our ways. He's not afraid to ask for the money. He doesn't get called for go-backs. He is something of a leprechaun who charms almost everyone who meets him. So the word spread in the way it spreads in our world, and now, on Monday, Justin was on my deck. He followed in Matt's footsteps, manned up, and asked David to hire him back. Done! Our little group is rejoined, with a few new personalities added. It feels good. Everyone we'd ever consider bringing back is back. Let's go make some money!

I had a wonderful weekend. I do not celebrate Passover or Easter, but I celebrate life and I celebrate Sundays and I celebrate regular old everyday days that have some warmth and friendship and love and shared laughs. I celebrate April. I like to cook a meal to be shared and I like lively conversation peppered with laughs. I like to sit and make plans for future good times. I like to revisit the past good times. I like to share dreams and my opinions and my advice and my support. I like to lull my guests into a relaxed state of bonhomie with food and liquor and then tear them up at cards. I did every bit of that, and more!

In my ears right now: There's no film footage. It's a recording of Otis live in concert in London. Try a Little Tenderness is some kind of song under any circumstances, but oh! This! He makes Three Dog Night sound like three whimpering puppies.

Something that charmed me: I plot a lot of routes throughout our valley. I see a lot of street names. Some of them are simply odd. Others are whimsical or hilarious. GPS told me that #4 was going to turn right at the intersection of Trotting Trigger and Sashaying Spirit . . . . I thought that if my spirit was out in the mean streets, I hoped she would do a little sashay so folks would remember she'd been through these parts.

Flickering Thoughts Like the Damselfly

I've been Sam Cooke-ing for a few days and I'm not sure why. Oh, yes, I've always liked his music. It's clean. Pure. Nostalgic. But I have been on a heavy diet of it for days, apropos of nothing, and I've re-read the circumstances of his shooting death. The courts ruled that he had been drunk and distressed and that the shooting was justifiable. I have troubled meshing the beautiful sound of his voice with the image of him lying dead on the floor at the Hacienda Motel wearing a sport jacket, shoes and nothing else. The area was bad, even in 1964. It was very near the part of Los Angeles that was to be the hotbed of the Watts riots soon to happen. The reader is forewarned that all the film footage is bad. It is all pre-December, 1964.

Friend Kirk Jusko is brilliant about things historical and political. Often, he posts about current political events and I've told him from time to time that his sharp grasp of these things intimidates me just a little. Oh, I'm bright enough. When I represented unionized public employees, I trained and led large groups of members to Sacramento to lobby the lawmakers. So I'm certainly capable of understanding these things. The trouble is, I developed an easily triggered gag reflex. I sicken early and often. And when the choke begins, I find my attention wandering. I'd rather close my eyes and think of England. However, this morning my mind is on politics. It's because of those damned Tea Partiers and a spot I saw on the local news this morning.

Las Vegas (and the state of Nevada, to an extent) is different from any other place in many ways. We elect political officials who are rogues, scalawags, rapscallions, reprehensibles and worse. Although I vote in every election, I never have voted for the candidate who wins office. I guess I'm out of step with the other citizens. Consider our mayor. Oscar Goodman's claim to fame was that he was the lawyer to the mob. I remember hearing the stories of his legerdemain when I lived here in the 1970s and 1980s. His clients included defendants accused of being major figures of organized crime in Las Vegas. He did it well. He'd once been voted one of the top 15 trial lawyers in the U.S. The mob could afford good counsel. He was elected mayor in June, 1999 and remains mayor today. So much for term limits. Our Oscar is a man with some wild ideas, the grit to say outrageous things, and some really poor judgement, publicly exhibited. He's the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office.



Our recently completed freeway and highway projects include some beautiful wall murals featuring native plant and animal species in colorful bas relief. These are truly lovely enhancements to otherwise unrelieved city and desert driving, and - yes - the grafitti vandals were immediately attracted to them. Mayor Goodman came up with a grand form of punishment for the felons and called a press conference to announce it! Televised thumb amputation. That would certainly be a deterrent to others with cans of spray paint. I wonder which station on cable TV would get the rights to televise that.

Oscar's love of gin is legend. He tells this himself to any interested party. Visitng a classroom of fourth grade students, he was asked what he would want to have with him if he found himself on a deserted island. To the displeasure of some of the parents who heard the story that evening, Goodman's reply was "a showgirl and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin". He certainly is a permanent fixture at any local event presented by the good folks of Lee's Discount Liquor, being featured prominently on posters and flyers, arm around Mr. Lee's shoulders.

We were out for a Sunday afternoon walk in pleasant conditions. We chewed unhappily on the uncertainty of the school district budget cuts and what it might mean personally, rather than generally. I questioned my companion closely, coming from the union rep's point of view. "What is your union doing about these things? Do you think the district really will take unilateral action and break the contract? They can't win at that!"

This led to my sharing a story I'd seen on the news. Mayor Goodman had a proposal for reducing city expenses in our economical crisis. This was not some tongue-in-cheek local joke. This was the man's, the attorney's, actual proposal. "Let's fire all the unionized city workers and then immediately hire them back at reduced hours and reduced wages. No one loses a job and the city saves all the money it needs to save." His actual proposal. The union rep in me screamed! "They can't do that. They have a contract with these workers and they're required to negotiate any change in working conditions. It's unlawful!" It took the City Attorney two days to notify the mayor his proposal was unlawful. Our mayor is the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office. And that's enough about him. He's not even the politico I meant to write about.

So last week, over at Tag's fine blog, the commenters were being goofy and I volunteered to go chuck rotten produce at Sarah Palin's tea party in Harry Reid's tiny home town and at Ann Coulter who was speaking in Henderson. I even went so far as to say I might get into a physical dust-up with the women, and Tag gallantly said his money was on me. I was just funning about going there. I already had plans for the weekend. But now I wish maybe I'd changed my plans and gone out to get a feel for the idiots.

Currently there are 22 candidates seeking to unseat Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid in the midterm elections. On the news this morning, I heard about one who reminds me of the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office. Scott Ashjian is a Tea Party candidate. He is an asphalt contractor who has been a lightning rod for negative press since announcing his candidacy. The news spot this morning was presented to say Ashjian narrowly missed being jailed for felony theft. Wednesday he made restitution for a bad check and court fees totaling $5,575, thereby paving the way for the judge to dismiss the felony charges in court today. There is another $5,000 bad check written to a businessman in December that still has not been resolved.








Last week, Ashjian's contractor license was revoked when he failed to appear at a hearing. He has been directed to pay $2,600 in fees and $37,000 to complainants, which includes another bad check for $981.82. Ashjian owes the IRS $200,000 and is facing more than $1 million in home foreclosures. His contractor business has had a number of liens filed and he has been served with a number of city nuisance actions. That's not all! The Independent American Party and the group Anger is Brewing, an affiliate of the national tea party movement, say they will file a lawsuit claiming that Ashjian filed as a candidate before registering to vote as a Nevada Tea Party member. As his own pack turns on him, one can hope that this Tea Partier will have been hoisted by his own petard. Neither Nevada nor the United States Senate needs this. And one is reminded of the kind of man Las Vegans (and other Nevadans) elect to high office. Have I mentioned I have an easily triggered gag reflex?

I wore one of my pairs of Rocket Dogs today. It seemed a Rocket Dog kind of day. On the rare days I wear my Rocket Dogs, homes get very quiet as I arrive at work and put my first foot outside the car and onto the asphalt. When I wore this very pair to our company holiday party at a well-known sports bar, the room turned dead silent as I walked in grinning. For Rocket Dogs are kicks with a little attitude. When a woman wears her Rocket Dogs, she grins a lot. From ear to ear. At everyone. One needs to possess a sense of humor to sport Rocket Dogs. I have one. And the day must seem just right. It is! Yes, they're at least two inches longer than my actual foot. Yes, they're extremely comfortable. I don't wear shoes that are uncomfortable. Yes, the tights are argyle. Yes, that is my best pair of well-worn, much-loved raggedy ass jeans.






In my ears right now: It's Sam Cooke, and the best of his tunes, dammit. But after a day of merry hell with Blogger, now it's YouTube messing with me. If I have to put up the post and add the song later, I will. I'm sick of monkeying around with it. Yep. I had to try it one more time. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. If that song never appears in this post, I'll put it up on a different one.

Ha! There's more than one way to skin a cat, and I know most of them. Here's my favorite from Sam:


Something that charmed me: I bought some potted hyacinth with florets cinched so tightly, I literally could not tell what color my flowers would be. I put it on top of the birds' home in the sunny window, way up high, so I could watch all the action. I know what color the flowers are, and now - so does the reader. The fragrance is overwhelming! Like the busy season down at the funeral home.

The Thoughts Wafting Through My Head, Like Dragonflies at the Swamp

OK, I've done the thoughts ~ dragonflies ~ swamp thing before, but I will shoulder the embarrassment of repeating the theme. For it is true that today I am full of random, misaligned trains of thought vying to be examined first and best. Also, this post was written across Friday and Saturday, so my "today" and "yesterday" references may be scrambled, but I think that's not crucial.

How did they know? And yes, this charms me. Last night a little repeating drama was played out. I dozed under the dryer at the Hair Attic, overtired. The hot air baked the customized blond tones into my follicles as I (probably) snored and drooled down the front of the robe that I detest, but Christine insists I wear. I'll be straight: I don't really want to undress and wear someone else's robe to get my hair cut and colored. I also don't want Christine to pick up my legs and feet to place them on an ottoman. But that is part of the treatment, and Christine insists. This seems to be of overarching importance to her. It's what she does. So, we take the bad with the good. My session was nearly over and it was time for the fun. Product! For Christine trots out some new potion, glop or goo every time and tantalizes me with its properties and fragrance. This time, I was struck by the coconutty fragrance. I gave it 5 stars. As long as the product did for the hair what I wanted it to do, I intended to own some of this. She'd completed the look (too bad I was just going to go home to bed), handed me my glasses to check it out, and I was sold. I wanted some of the new stuff. "What is it, Christine? Who makes it?" She told me it was a BedHead product and I wasn't surprised it drew me so strongly, because I like their hair care line. The Badger chortles when I speak of the shampoo called Self-Absorbed. How did they know? For about 3 years, I used their definition product called Wax Stick for Cool People. How did they know? And, now, the new, blue, kind of gooey, coconutty smelling putty . . . Manipulator. How did they know?

A thank you, in awe: This week I began to write about childhood, family of origin, memories and life events. It will take a long, long time to write it all out. It has been pent up for so long and it is huge. Almost as if the feelings are bigger than me in my entirety, and where do the feelings stop and I begin? This is painful writing, hard to organize and putting it out there makes me feel a little vulnerable, a little susceptible to harsh criticism. When I wrote the first installment, I drew a comment that contained two words that so deflated one of the biggest chaos balloons, I am still rocked backward. You see, when I think of my mother, when I purposely allow her into my immediate consciousness, I hear whirring and I smell vinegar and I taste tea tree oil. This tiny woman, old now, takes on Paul Bunyan-esque dimensions, and I cannot organize my thoughts or feelings. Writing and thinking about her early motherhood during my infancy and childhood occupied a football field full of questions, feelings, sorrow, confusion, resentment . . . but Kass said "anxious mother". Oh. Two words. Two words that helped me see with crystal clarity that I could put some of that stuff in a trash compactor, label the bag "anxious mother" and not churn any longer on what it was. It was an anxious mother. No more. No less. I wonder why none of the therapists, none of the professionals ever thought to take out the sharp hat pin of two words, "anxious mother", and hand it to me. Or is this the first time I am able to accept the condensed version, "anxious mother", as the answer to so much? I bubbled on that throughout my walk this morning. For I surely am feeling peaceful. I allowed her onto the battlefield of my psyche. I held the shiny shield "anxious mother". And I didn't smell or hear or taste anything. Just quietude.

New business venture - who wants in on the ground floor? I'm surprised I only just mentioned my love of Mary Engelbreit art on the blog yesterday, for the images play a large part in my daily fun and humor. I wrote that my alter ego for decades has been The Queen of Everything. Blogger Kass commented this morning: "The Queen of Everything Emblem should be on the hood of your car. I wonder if someone has thought of that yet. Coats of armor for cars? Let's get on that." Folks, I am for that! I'm a bit of an entrepreneur and I surely know how to sell. Auto coats of armor and related mottoes appeal to me. I like a little irony. My car is a nondescript, decent enough thing. People who glance at it quickly and then turn away will say "Nissan, no - Honda, no - Toyota. . . " and "Silver, no - gold, no - gray, no-champagne". This car is unremarkable in any way. So I kind of like the tongue-in-cheek pronouncement that the woman who owns this little bit of nothing is The Queen of Everything. My daughter drives an adorable Mini-Cooper that I covet. She needs this on the doors and her license plate frame should read "A Trust Fund Beneath Every Velvet Pillow" :


My coat of arms would be The Queen of Everything. My license plate frame would say: I want the good goods ~ I refuse to pay full retail for anything.

By the way, favored readers, during all the years Amber and I were Queen and Princess, Ex was the Prince of Whatever's Left, which I always thought was appropri ~ ~ ~ oh, come on! Mary Engelbreit didn't have all that many male characters at the time. It's not like I made that one up. I have no influence over Mary Engelbreit. And Ex actually thought that was pretty funny. I heard him repeat it many times with a laugh, the hierarchical order of Queen, Princess and Prince. But there's another irony in this. It was Ex who drove the Cadillacs, the shiny, flashy big beasties of the automobile world. It was Ex who had all the road flash and splash. So the Queen has the economy car and the Prince of Whatever's Left has one fine automobile.

Commenters, ring in! What would be your coat of arms and what would be your motto? Let's get this thing going! [No, it doesn't need to be Mary Engelbreit. Just tell us what your form of self-expression would be.]

I don't know where I'm going. I wonder if I'll know when I get there. My blogger friend commented: "What's to become of all this crazy/wonderful writing? Are you going to put it in book form? I understand there's a way to do that through blogger." There is no question that the writing is pouring out of me. And I am personally and emotionally emerging from some dark, musty, frightening place. By the way, I occupied that nasty cellar for decades. I am finding my voice after a lifetime of silence. I can say the words without running from them. I can accept the replies without dying on the spot. I am able to look at things that previously burned my retinas. And it is damned heady stuff. Sometimes I feel a little drunk with emotion. Sometimes I feel a little hungover from the weight of so much unsettled debris.

So, I'm not looking for a book deal. I couldn't yet write a book. I am disorganized, with thoughts firing off in every direction, and quickly - like an automatic. I am more interested in continuing to examine and then write about the things that have slowed me or stopped me because I didn't have the coping skills to deal with them. I am interested in telling my stories, simply because I need to.

I was asked how I crawled out of the gray, miserable rut. My first answer is "I'm not out. I'm still crawling." My next answer isn't well formulated yet, but I'll try. I stopped living. And I went downhill from there, depressed, unhappy, aching. I nearly destroyed myself in a variety of ways. I know a person named Westerman. Who or what Westerman is to me doesn't matter to the reader. But it should be known that I trust Westerman and listen to the advice dispensed. It is Westerman who told me over and over again, across years, that if I started to deal with just one issue that ailed me, I'd gain some of my confidence back. Westerman reminded me that I succeed at most things I take on and that dealing with life issues isn't much different from dealing with nasty customers or anything else that comes our way. I finally believed Westerman, but had so many abortive attempts to deal with things, I created a new reason to dislike myself. However, finally, under the stars in the desert, I squeaked out my first and biggest set of troubles and found peace. And I haven't looked back. What's happening in my life since that night is profound and fast-moving. And I'm liking it.

So, Kass, I will get to Sugarhouse, by slow boat. And, Badge, I'll get those purchases made, but probably a few days after I said I would. Tree, I'll pop up on your blog maybe less frequently, but just because I'm writing for mine. Tag, please keep providing the music, because it gets me across some rough spots. Kirk, please keep making me laugh because I need that, too. GJ, if you pop in and stroke my ego, I'll keep writing. Doozyanner, you always cheer for me and it's appreciated. Everyone who pops on to say "Yay!" or "Funny, Limes!" gives me a boost and I appreciate it as I zoom through busy days trying to right a life. It's mine. I need to take care of it.

In my ears right now: It's still REM. Losing My Religion. It resonates so strongly, I wear some of the words as body art.

Something that charmed me: The car coat of arms idea ~ creative and funny.

Dragonflies Flitting Around the Swamp that is my Mind

If the driver of my bus could peer into my muddled head today, he'd make me take a seat on the roof or the bike rack to blow said head out. I'm not particularly down, I'm just not particularly focused. In the 5-mile commute to work I was everywhere my head goes, and floating a little above the ground. I laughed, I cried, I ran the gamut of emotions. Then I tried, yet again, to run the 22 stairs to my office door. I'll keep trying until I've really run all 22. I have a way to go.

I was sad to see that Gidget died, and I'm not being wise. When that Taco Bell campaign was roaring, Amber was about 7. We collected all the stuffed toys, all the T-shirts and perfected our inflection of "Yo quiero." We "Yo quiero"ed everything from "Pepsi" to "a kiss" to "my allowance". I don't particularly care for dogs, and especially not for chihuahuas, but Gidget made me snicker and her dying made me a little nostalgic, for Amber isn't 7 any more and we don't snicker about such things.

Last night Stephanie pummeled me on the masssage table until I spoke uncommon words. "Back off a little, Stephanie." At that moment, she was pulling my leg backward over my shoulder to stretch me. I was using Lamaze breathing and focusing on my own personal beautiful imagined place. She had torn hell out of the neck from hell and never landed on relief. I was a little fretful. She finally asked me if I could possibly be overtraining. Hmmmmm. I wondered. When I got home, I referred to the marathoners bible I refer to. Maybe. Yes. Way too much, way too soon. Common eager rookie mistake. This needs to be paced.

I cackled a little bit about this anecdote in my theme of "I don't get men." I bought a top, cheap at Ross on Geezer Day. The label said its color is "grape". I wore it the next day. When David crossed the threshold, his eyes widened and he blurted spontaneously, "You look lovely today." There was absolutely no hubba hubba in this, folks. He simply walked in, saw something fresh and new, and gave his version of "Oh, how nice." The instant he said it, the home dudes - to a man - dropped their gaze to the floor and began to shuffle their feet. The place was dead silent as I said, "Well, thank you, that's a nice way to start my day." What the heezy? What struck them all identically and froze them in their tracks? It's been suggested that they frequently forget I'm a girl and that may have reminded them. I just don't know.

I sent Justin out to give an estimate yesterday. A commercial account - a well known country club clubhouse. Justin's just getting the hang of commercial quotations. He radioed me: "Limes, I'm going to be at least 2 hours measuring this." What? "Justin, what are you measuring? Are you using a ruler?" "Limes, if we get this, it will be the biggest job we've ever done. And they want it next week." Well, I'm a pretty quick study, people. Next week is still July. We're on pace for only a break-even month. I know the amount of the largest job we've ever done. I focused on my writing skills. For in giving estimates, home dudes inspect and measure. Limes is the wordsmith. I want that income for July.

And now, over the last cup of coffee for this day, an "I wonder". I wonder why, when I'm witnessing sunrise each day there is slight cloudiness. I wonder why, when I'm driving to work there is sunshine and few clouds. I wonder why the monsoon slides in as soon as our phone traffic should be starting for the day. It's only predicted for another week or so. Sigh . . .

In my ears right now: It's REM every time I get this way. Right now, it's Everybody Hurts, but I'll need to change it soon or I'll bleed to death.

Something that charmed me: I sat with Justin to "interview" him about his inspection of the country club. I do that so I can write my quote with more punch than if I simply looked at numbers written on a work order. He kept choking on his replies to me. "Justin, what's up? Aren't you comfortable with what you saw or what you're telling me?" He replied: "No, Limes, I don't know fancy words." Said I: "Just tell me what you saw in home dude terms. The words are my job." He just beamed and gave me a beautifully descriptive verbal tour of that vast carpeted area.