Change of Address and More

The lovely black cat, Virginia Woolf, and I do not live in the same place where we resided when I started the blog. We do, however, live in an area of the city with which we are both familiar. VW may like this community. I haven't asked her specifically. She does like to pussyfoot around outside my French doors along the tiled areas of the pool and hot tub. The wall surrounding the yard is so high that even a jungle cat could not escape, and VW now enjoys her first-ever forays into the outdoors. She likes the sun shining on her black fur. She does not like the little spray of water that disturbs her sense of all that's right as my head emerges from the water.

To my last post, esteemed blogger Erin O'Brien encouraged me to "do the 4-miler", meaning a fairly long walk, to snap a photo op. I'd spent years clocking miles and miles of walking each day of life. But I'd fallen away from it and felt very sad about that. I'm walking again. Not 10 miles, yet, on any given day, but I'm moving myself a little. There's a woman I see frequently who seems generally my age and about the same degree of fitness. I've toyed with the idea of asking her to meet up for a walk, but I haven't done so yet. I have befriended the man who passes my home every morning with two white dogs the size of lions. He is very pleasant. The dogs still make me retreat, pressing my backside into the nearest chainlink fence, which I could scale better than a block wall, should they decide to eat me. I passed a remotely familiar community one morning, its posted name ringing a bell from 33 years ago. Yes, it was the one and only section Stepfather built on the eastside all those years ago - homes a little larger and grander that ours in the far west of the city. I strode on streets named for Mom and myself, intersected with that Terrace named for Ex. A contractor could do that in those days. No streets had existed there before. It was just open desert.

I am surprised, intrigued and a little anxious about regaining my fitness. I'd been ill awhile. I'd stopped all fitness routines and my previously inspiring muscles left me so quickly and completely. I wear 2007 (smallest ever) clothes now, or - rather - they wear me, waistbands cinched up like the top of the paper bag around the neck of a wino's bottle. Last week, I went to a medical appointment where I had to be weighed and have my waist measured. I take a medication that can cause unwanted, very quick weight-gain. "Hmmm," said the nurse. "You've lost X pounds." I allowed as how that wasn't such a lot of weight, but he said, "It's about 10% of your body weight in 90 days."Oh.OK, I know what to do. I know to set a timer to remind me to eat, and I know what to eat. I am a fairly decent problem solver.

I mentioned in the last post that I might need a step ladder to do justice to any pictures I might take to show something I found remarkable and funny in my travels. On my first on-foot outing, I determined I was going to need a really big ladder. On my second visit, I realized I was going to need a cherry-picker and far more refined camera equipment than any I can access. But I am resourceful. Circling this curiosity, I spotted some words and thought maybe I could Google something. I also developed a prickly feeling that maybe some copyrights and trademarks might be at work. There were posted some signs and notices relating anger and dissent. At home, in front of the computer, I learned that this jaw-dropper place has already attracted much attention, many photographs, was once an attraction to which one paid admission, and now was the subject of numerous lawsuits and protests. What in the world made me think I was going to be the first to photograph and point to an unusual item? This is Las Vegas, for crying out loud! I'd asked a couple of photographers to make the 7-mile journey with me for years. All I wanted was a snap of the perfectly normal house on a perfectly normal street that had a full-scale roller coaster (with cars) protruding from an upstairs wall, presumably someone's bedroom. There were a few other interesting items, but the owner had not yet gone full amusement park. Should I have been more persuasive, or should the photographers have been more attentive to what I wanted to do those days when I asked for a little field trip? Not sure about that.

I have a decades-long routine for visiting the book store, carefully choreographed by me and explained to with whomever I am going into the store. This dance has been performed with Ex and Amber as my companions, girlfriends, colleagues with whom I am doing research for some presentation. We spill into the entrance of the store, scrambling like roaches spilled out of a jar. I furtively make my way to the section where are sold those kind of unsavory, unseemly, rather lowbrow books I love (I watch the same genre on TV) and fill my arms with as many as I can carry without attracting too much attention. After an agreed-upon amount of time, we meet at some common area of the store and proceed with our day. I'd just loaded up, finding a fresh pile of new offerings by two of my favorite authors. I backed up a little to make a final scan of the shelves and found I'd reversed a step too far - my rear end had pressed onto the shelves of poetry. Ha! Poetry placed cheek-by-jowl with my sneaky pleasure. I had some time before meeting up with my companion. I set down my books and my Starbucks and began to flip through some volumes. Yeah. Just as I thought: I don't care for poetry. Now, the reader should know I've suffered a little due to my lack of poetry prowess and appreciation. A woman friend asked me to tell her about my best loved poetry. Many, many favored bloggers both read and write poetry. And I'm a dud. It was not forced upon me at school and I never sought it out. This does not make me soulless or stupid, unromantic or unimaginative. Poetry is simply not what I do. So I told the girlfriend I have no best loved poems, as I also have no big cleavage or gray hairs. And I've sneaked around peeking at poetry ever since.

Who knows why the title nabbed me? It just did, and I took the volume from the shelf, flipping through the pages. Oooh. No Emily Dickinson here (although I can tolerate Emily). No. Grit here, sometimes, and deep emotion, and hard truths, accepted by the poet. This is not like me - I paid full retail for the slim volume. I have read from it and spilled coffee on it daily for awhile now. While it has not led me yet to other poets and their works, it has led me to another plane of my inner self. It reminded me, after many days, of a poem that did erupt from me once - oh, it's been a few years - that was actually good. I knew it was good. It was painful and bloody, wounded, nearly dying. But it was good and it perfectly reflected the way I felt about things at a place in time. I have begun a new poem of my own writing. It is not ready for presentation yet. I think it may be good. It may be sprung upon unsuspecting readers as it shakes out. We shall see. I'll need more muscles. I'll need more nutrition. I highly recommend "The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje, probably best known as the author of "The English Patient". There, old girlfriend. I have some best-loved poems.

This afternoon, I am moderating a discussion group during some good talk to take place while the Super Bowl drones in other places. If you think me unAmerican because I detest everything about football, OK. I'll bear the shame. If you choose to participate in my tar-and-feathering, OK, but the line is long and they're getting unruly in the back there. The point is, I'm moderating this discussion and I'm a little dicey about it. For you see, I am new to the group and I don't really know all that much about the topic of discussion. I haven't made my bones there. I was selected to moderate because I speak well and I manage groups of people well. That's all. Things that both come naturally to me and which I was trained to do - kind of a no-brainer. I feel a bit fraudulent. Talking the talk before I've walked the walk. I don't want to be "Still Skating After All These Years". And I intend to say as much once I've completed my assignment.

In my ears right now: Well, not my ears, but my head, I guess. Michael Ondaatje ~

Having to put forward candidates for God,
I nominate Henri Rousseau and . . . . .

Maybe I Should Just Stuff it in the Mattress

I did not find the merry month of May so very. Although our business soared in March and April, May was tepid. Lukewarm. I needed a few more 11,000 square foot church jobs to drop into my lap unbidden. The wind screamed on maddeningly, making me feel low much of the time. My blog birthday would come up at the end of the month and I thought that would set me writing at a quick pace, but May was my least prolific month since I started the blog. I wasn't reading other blogs with the same degree of frequency, nor commenting as much. I dealt with two major stressors during the month, car fears and money fears. I spent a long time trying to land on why I blog, what I expect to get from it, what I do get from it, and whether I want to continue with it. I'd endured a little angst, a little disillusionment, and I needed to rethink exactly what it was about for me. I found my answers.

My understanding of the intricacies of money management has been, mostly, elementary. I learned young that one wanted to earn a lot of it, save a lot of it, spend a lot of it. But I never learned a "plan". Money just "was". One didn't guide money. Until one became divorced and on her own at age 50. Then one learned to build the budget and handle the spreadsheets and of whom to ask the hard questions and which publications to study. Mother Badger has taught me much about money, as has David and I've gained a wealth (great word!) of knowledge from building and sticking to the budget for our company. I'm pretty savvy in my old age!

On the first Sunday of 2009, I drove through Wells Fargo Bank's stand of ATMs and juggled all my cards, seeking to handle my finances the way that I do. My pension is directly deposited to my Sun West Bank account. I do quite a bit of transferring between the two banks and I juggle several different accounts for my personal use and that of my tiny consulting business. Once a month, I go online to make certain the pension was properly deposited at Sun West. No, I don't have to look 16 times. I look once. The reader may believe, I know where my money is parked and I know just exactly how much of it there is.

I was on my way to see Christine for my haircut and color. She prefers cash payment, so I attempted to withdraw $140 from the Sun West account. "Insufficient funds". What? I knew how much money was in that account and it far exceeded $140. I did a balance inquiry that revealed I had the princely sum of $4.20 available. I didn't like it at all. None of my bank accounts ever sinks into single digits. I knew what should have been in the account and I was a bit concerned, but I knew that sometimes information doesn't translate well between banks and I needed to keep my appointment with Christine. I pulled the $140 from my Wells Fargo account and continued with my day.

Arriving at work the next morning, the first Monday in January, 2009, I sent the technicians out on their routes, but was very eager to go online to see what was happening with my account at Sun West. To my shock, there had been a series of large cash withdrawals from my account between Friday night and Sunday morning! I'd been cleaned out. Yes, it was close in proximity to New Year's, but I'd done no partying, and I felt certain no videotape of me with a lampshade on my head at the ATM could be produced. When startled/shocked, I tend to look over my shoulder to see if any Candid Camera camcorders are aimed at me. Is this a joke? It wasn't. I printed the list of transactions and ran into David's office. "Get your coat and purse! Be at the bank's door at 9:00 when they open.", he advised. I did that. I was the first customer through the door that day. I signed affadavits and sworn statements, and they reassured me I'd suffer no loss until the investigation was completed. It took very little time ~ maybe 15 days. I'd been defrauded in some way that was never explained to me. I never lost a penny. That bank took care of me and my dollars.

On Saturday, May 29th, I went online to verify my pension had been deposited to Sun West. I've banked there for 6 years, so their splash page is very familiar to me. Hey! What the heezy? "Where are the pictures of so many of the actual employees I recognize? Where is the picture of my branch in the building that has been there since the 1970s?", thought I. For here is what I saw on the screen:

On Friday, May 28, 2010, Sun West Bank, Las Vegas, NV was closed by the Nevada Department of Business and Industry, Financial Institutions Division. Subsequently, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC) was named Receiver. No advance notice is given to the public when a financial institution is closed.

All deposit accounts, excluding certain brokered deposits, have been transferred to City National Bank, Los Angeles, CA. For more information on City National Bank, visit us at www.cnb.com.

The FDIC has assembled useful information regarding your relationship with Sun West Bank. Besides a checking account, you may have Certificates of Deposit, a business checking account, a Social Security direct deposit, and other relationships with the institution.

Please select the link below to read more about this event:

FDIC Bank Closing Information for Sun West Bank

Online service will remain available.

Continue to Sun West Bank's Online Banking Login:
• Personal
• Business

??!!**## ??!!**## What the ??? I reared back in my chair and looked over my shoulder for the Candid Camera that was not there. Yes, I did see the acronym FDIC on the first reading, so I felt somewhat certain the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation was involved, but one wants to feel damned secure in these situations. With my heart in my mouth, I attempted to gain access to my accounts, using my login and password information. I was successful, and everything seemed as it should be in each account. But that was not good enough. I was alone in the office, so I radioed David who was in another county at a race. "Sir, are you actively racing right this moment?" "No, just setting up. What's up?" I read it to him without ever letting up on the talk button. He heard all of it before he could get one word in edgewise. One can't chirp while being chirped. "What do you think, David?" He said his temperature had begun to rise when I began to read, but he also took some solace in the fact that the passwords worked and the FDIC was involved. "But find out for sure on Monday!" No kidding!

I sent e-mails to my personal financial advisor, Mother Badger, and to the Badger himself. "Um, how badly would this disturb you on a Saturday afternoon of a 3-day weekend?" The e-mails fairly flew for awhile, and the consensus opinion was that I was probably OK. I am. David saw it on the news on Sunday night. By Monday morning, City National Bank had a welcome page on the website to reassure Sun West customers and those of other failed banks they've recently taken on. Yow. We're advised to continue using the checks and bank cards from Sun West until further notice, and the existing employees have been retained. The only visible difference to the customers will be the new sign on the building. Relief? No. I'm transferring everything to Wells Fargo. I believe I mentioned in my last post that if a car fails me, I want nothing to do with that car again. It pales in comparison with what happens to me internally when my bank fails.

At work, we slithered out of May on our bellies like a snake, but - to my surprise - when I crunched the numbers, I learned we actually turned a small profit. For reasons I should no longer try to divine, for it will surely make me ill someday, the phones began to scream on June 1. Why that specific day? What were the conditions? Was Jupiter aligned with Mars? Stop it, Leslie! I've booked more jobs in three days than I booked in some weeks in the heart of darkness after the economy slid. We fired a technician we love who had returned on a 90-day trial basis after we fired him at the holidays. He won't get a third chance with us. David started his two high schoolers at work today - their first jobs, with the world in front of them to be enjoyed. Today I ran more vans than I have on one day in months. Some men were running solo, which means they were earning at their highest level of income. We like that.

Matt radioed in after his first job, just like he is supposed to do. "I've experienced a first, Leslie." I asked what had happened and he told me he killed a customer's pet. ??!!**##??!!**## What could have happened? Did he run over a dog or squash a cat in the driveway? Suck a bird up the wand while he was dry-stroking? "Matt, what??" He arrived at the customer's home to find mother and child crying hysterically. In the house was a large adhesive rodent trap and the child's hamster had become stuck in it. The customer had tried to remove the hamster, but he was good and truly stuck and was clearly in distress. The woman asked Matt to kill the suffering animal - to put it out of its very apparent misery. Matt is a big, gruff, tough very emotional and sensitive human being. "Oh, lady, no. Oh, no, no. I can't do that. I love animals. No, no m'am." She begged him, explaining that her husband could not come home for hours and she had no one else to ask. Her small son was becoming more distressed by the minute. Matt took the animal out to the van and attempted to dislodge the hamster using various tools and even some safe cleaning solutions to try to break the adhesive bond. He attempted to loosen the animal by cutting its fur without causing further harm. Nothing worked, and the animal was now in trauma. Matt killed it, out of sight of the mother and the boy. I have seen Matt in deep distress. His ears would have been bright red and his eyes full of tears. No, not crying like a little girl. Just showing obvious signs of pain while he did the right thing. He performed a sterling carpet repair and told the little boy his pet was in a better place now. Then this 23-year-old got in his mighty war wagon and continued to his next job where he was treated badly and thrown out on his ear. So go our days.

In my ears right now: My favorite of Gillian Welch's work, April the 14th (Part I).



Something that charmed me: In huddle, we talked about what Matt encountered, how humane he had been to the animal and how he overcame his own misgivings to assist a mother and child. It took only seconds for him to be dubbed the Hamster Hit Man, but that was done in a pat-on-the-back manner rather than hilarity about a pet that died. The assembled homes began to talk about the various ways each of them would have euthanized the hamster once he made the assessment it could not be released from the trap. I scanned their faces, looking for any traces of inappropriate amusement. There was none. They were serious about thinking how they'd handle a distasteful situation with the least distress to anyone involved. I'd be pleased to have any one of them on my tea, if I were in bad circumstances.

Recipe for a Really Loud Day at the Office

Begin with a little of this, situated near a sunny window:


The recipe will turn out better if they have been warmed up by some loud, intimate conversation with the birds outside for awhile.

Add this at a volume to suit your taste, but be forewarned: it's going to get louder than you expect -

Grab onto the edge of a sturdy desk or something similar for support. You're going to need it.

In my ears right now: You already know what it is, but you can't imagine the volume. When Freddie Mercury emotes, so do the birds.

Something that charmed me: In 2008, I brought Bloomsbury Bird to live at the office. Although one of my co-workers had rigged me a wonderful pulley system and Bloomsbury lived at the ceiling in my home, I came home often to find Dylan or Virginia Woolf swinging in the air, clinging to the bottom of the birdcage. David wasn't opposed to having the bird in the office, and so I lived in very close quarters with him for about a year. First I learned how entertaining a bird can be at close range (about 18 inches from my keyboard), and I learned they are happy 100% of the time. Making a trip to PetSmart, I learned that most of us toss the little things into the most pedestrian wire cages when some really remarkable bird homes exist that make their life (and their owner's) a little better.

Soon I owned a small version of the wonderful Hagen bird home that has guards to deflect their poop from the food and water cups. It has plastic guards extending pretty far up the sides of the cage to keep the typical bird mess (seed hulls, feathers, projectile poop) contained inside, rather than floating out into the room. I liked that. Next came the wonderful natural wood perches and a 12 foot soft, flexible rope perch I formed into several loop-de-loops for their jumping pleasure. They do jump, too, landing with a thud on the neighboring loop! When Benson Bird joined us, it was soon apparent we needed larger digs, so the large Hagen cage was ordered. The day it arrived, I got an e-mail asking how large it was. I replied with literal truth, "If we could fold my limbs up against my body, it would be a nice fit for me." I set about fixing the parakeet palace up with perfect feng shui.

I've already confessed on this blog to being pretty tightly wound, and having completed my own birdly rite of passage, I wasn't finished. I repeated it as a gift for a friend in virtually the identical steps: one bird, small Hagen cage, second bird, large Hagen cage, fine natural wood and loop-de-loop perches. Yes, it was my birdbrain year! And finally it was over. I have no other friends who would appreciate such a gift and my obsessive attention to it.

I handled the birds a lot during all that relocating. I don't like to handle them much. They are tiny and my looming hands must be terrifying. They're delicate things and there is always a fine line between holding them too tight or holding them too loose so they can fly off. Since my pair moved into their palace, I have not touched their bodies once, nor have they left the comfort of their home. It pleases me to say we only had one mishap amongst all four birds and their four homes.

It was the final moving day from small Hagen to large for my two feathered friends. I transported Bloomsbury without any difficulty. He didn't even peck me. I took a breather in between, so I wouldn't feel anxious. Benson's journey was not as idyllic. I made the serious mistake of holding him too loosely and he wasted no time in attempting to escape my grip. As he lunged forward, I grabbed for him, grasping the very last part of his escaping body. Yes, the tail. Every feather in that tail, save one tiny specimen (I swear this is literally true) was held tightly between my thumb and forefinger and the little blue bird had propelled himself right into the new cage where I wanted him to be.

Shocked and upset, I stared at Benson's backside with my nose pressed up against the cage. I can attest that a bird's tail is made from a lot of feathers, and he had a noticeable void in his caboose. The one tiny remaining tailfeather fluttered as I exhaled, so I knew it would soon be gone, too. It was! I observed that without the long tail, his body shape was rather like a fat, thick S. He was roly-poly, and one needn't be an ornithologist to understand that the tail is required for balance. He has no arms to use for balance, and he can't spend 100% of his time with his wings extended for that purpose. We spent some time in distress, did Benson and I. I sent him all the cosmic, karmic bonhomie I had. The rest had to be performed by his own little body.

A cage of happy birds attracts a lot of attention in an office setting where one might not expect to encounter such a thing. It is a rare visitor to our business who does not step over to the cage and speak softly to them. Mailman Steve flirts with them daily, making little kissing noises. For a few weeks, birdie observers stepped up to the cage and then stepped back, looking startled. I could tell they had observed Benson's deformity. I would hold up the little bouquet of tailfeathers I kept at my fingertips and most people looked even more startled. One morning, upon inspection, I saw the tiniest tip of a feather reaching out of the void. The next day there was another. The third day, each was a bit longer. Today Benson is fully restored to his original beauty and I have a very special attachment to the little blue jelly bean bird.

So, does the reader know what charmed me? It's the lesson I took from Benson and his tail. We all suffer losses, both large and small. After the loss, there is the period when the fallout settles. Internally and externally, lightning bolts of positive and negative energy shoot through our universe. And then we emerge into life after the loss. Can we be completely restored? Maybe. Can we be restored to a condition that is at least acceptable, even if different? Hopefully. Is it likely the loss will completely break us? Note to self: get the tattoo. It is not.

Something Else That Charmed Me

At a particularly difficult time in my life, I decided I needed a dog friend. This was unusual for me because I am a cat person. I would not offer to kick anyone's dog, but they aren't my favorites and I'd only ever loved 3 or 4 of them. But I needed some(thing)(one). My marriage was in its last desperate gasp. I was staggering from the blow of my daughter becoming an adolescent and not needing me in the same ways she had as a small child.

So Cousin and I set out on the search. I picked up Pomeranians and scoped out Scotties. I researched breeds, studying their suitability to me and my lifestyle. Jack Russells were struck from the list of possibilities with regret, and rescued greyhounds likely needed more than I had to give. Ultimately, I knew it would have to be one of the terrier breeds for me. We looked high and low, becoming regulars at some of the pooch emporia. One evening after Starbucks, we walked into a place where everybody really did know my name, and there - before my eyes - was a new arrival. My head spun toward Cousin. "Wire haired fox terrier on the left, Cuz!" That good woman had seen the price sticker, however, and said, "It's not a very nice one, Limes." She was wrong.

I visited that puppy four days in a row, for hours at a time. I placed a deposit so she would be held for me to make a decision in case someone else walked in and fell in love with her. She liked me and I liked her. On the fifth day, she came home with me. I extracted a promise from Ex that he would not feed her or flirt with her - dogs and children liked him more than they liked me. Amber was allowed access to the puppy I named JB (Jelly Belly - yes, like the candies). I felt the little dog was a good mom-daughter project.

This was about the time when I began to be a very serious walker, and that little curly/wiry-haired dog was my companion as I hoofed around Lake Murray every day of life. Afterward, we'd go to Barnes & Noble where she'd scoot under my chair and snooze while I read and had coffee. Some of the patrons looked oddly at me and my dog, but there was not a notice posted to prohibit her presence and she did not behave objectionably.


You see the lovely JB above in her Halloween costume that autumn that was so difficult for me. Yes, I was a pretty indulgent dog owner. I was about 2 stoplights from crazy, and those weren't the only clothes she owned. She was as good a friend as I could have hoped for. When I left the marriage, the little dog stayed back in the family home, of necessity. I couldn't take her with me. Sometimes Ex tried to rattle my cage by saying, "If you don't come and get this dog, I'll [multiple choice] 1) sell her; 2) give her away; 3) put her out at the curb on recycling day. . . . " But I never got too shaken. You see, there's a reason dogs and children liked Ex more than they liked me.

In my ears right now: Music I do not understand. Matt writes songs and is a pretty remarkable angry poet. He has put together some studio mixes that he clearly worked very hard to produce. He's very proud of them. Now I can do Pachelbel and Mozart, Hank Williams and I don't mean Jr., the British invasion, 80s stuff, REM, and even some musician's musicians. But, for the first time in my life, I'm struggling to find meaning and beauty in "young folks' music". I'm not delicate. I like the poetry of Charles Bukowski in its brutality. But I struggle trying to enjoy this.

Something that charmed me yet again: I moved to Las Vegas and began to walk in the park where I've walked almost daily for nearly 7 years. It is a lovely area, a circular park almost precisely 1 mile in diameter - it makes for easy counting. It is populated by families, older adults, teens, and pets. There is an older man who walks a wire haired fox terrier several times every day. I don't see them on the days that I walk in the pre-dawn, but most weekends . . . . his little dog likes me, too!