That (Figurative) Pocket In My Brain

That's how I think of it when I have occasion to think about it, a little tiny pocket somewhere among all the folds and neurons and blood vessels. One solitary piece of data fits in there. It's a very old piece, and very out of date, having been replaced numerous times by now in my life. But the data can't be kicked out of that spot however many times new data has been offered up, tagged with a huge "SHOULD REPLACE" sign attached. It's wedged in there, zippered shut, and not about to budge however important more recent data is.

The data is one  letter followed by 12 numbers in four groups of three. You'd think that would be easy to forget, replace with something perhaps shorter, maybe more letters and fewer numbers. It doesn't matter. It's been there for over 50 years. It's stuck, entrenched, stubborn, indelible. It's my very first driver's license number. I can still recite it at the drop of a hat: R200 302 and on to the end. You don't need all of it, and I won't give all of it. 

The R200 is apparently because of my last name when it was issued. I got my license at the tender age of 22. I'd had Drivers Ed of course in high school, but afterwards not many chances to drive. Eventually I had access to a stick shift car, making learning to drive smoothly delayed even longer. But I did get it, the second time. (Nevermind how I flunked the first behind-the-wheel driving test.) When the family moved to Georgia for a few years, the license was my social security number (I do presume they changed that policy long ago) but upon returning to Minnesota after the divorce, the original number reclaimed me. 

Once I started driving for a living, there were times I had to check into a government facility and produce my license... just in case. In case of what? I stole something? Got backed over by one of their semis? Had an accident on their property? Criticized the latest war? Nobody ever explained, it was just done. For decades I was R200 302 and so on.

Then Minnesota changed their numbering system. Don't ask me what that was, though something at the end of the alphabet started my new number. Then I moved, got a license in Arizona, and by now knew enough to not even bother to try to memorize that number. I could look it up since that is still in my possession, but why bother? I'll have a new number on a new piece of plastic coming in the mail shortly anyway. With luck it will be the last license number I'll ever have to be unable to learn.

While I was in getting things switched over, the gal on the other side of the counter asked me if I'd ever had a  license in Minnesota. I told her yes, but it was over 12 years ago, and the one number I remembered was even older than that, then proceeded to rattle the old number off like it was my middle name. As I did she actually found that original number in the system. I, in turn, explained to her about the "pocket" in my brain that is the only place allowing a license number to be stored, but it's been full for ages.

She at least was polite enough not to act as if I were crazy. 

Maybe she's got her own pockets like those.

Observations From A Visit To The Social Security Office

Of course my Social Security card was left in the PODS in Arizona with all those other important papers I need to  officially relocate. Once I'd gotten the birth certificate, the (first) marriage license for the name change since birth, the application for the new MN driver's license (with a much better photo, thank you), I still needed two more things. One I haven't bothered with yet. I'll have time to wait for my car's title if it's just to change my car license plate. But in order to apply to live in the (not-so-) mobile home park which the double-wide we want has our deposit on, I need to prove income, and part of that is proving not only am I me, but I have Social Security.

Note that they also need to see a bank statement to show we can afford the bills, and that would show the SS deposits. But now, I have to have the SS card. I used to carry it in my purse many years ago. Now everybody worries about the number getting out to the general public, enabling fraud of multiple kinds, so I took and put it in the home "safe place", which in turn got packed in the POds because that was a "safe place"while we were in the extended process of relocation. Of course, it's way too safe there. Not only is it over 1800 miles away, but I'd have to totally empty it out and open one of half a dozen boxes to locate it. Of course that's if I accurately labeled all the boxes where it could possibly be. There was some chaos going on at the time after all. If you've been following, you already know this. If not, this is context.

Having been through the process of securing one document to get the next document to get the next document, I brought a fat envelope of all that stuff along, in addition to the old driver's license which I still need to drive, and my only photo ID.

Showing up in person is one option. The other is trying to do it either online or over the phone. I opted for in person, at 1811 Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis. Steve chose to stay home and not get his back bounced by every pothole in kingdon come. (Wise choice. Living in Arizona for a dozen years one tends to forget how full of potholes Minnesota is. Arizona isn't. While roads are still bumpy, they're mostly the cutout grooves for water drainage after the very rare rain, in lieu of actual storm drains.)

My many years as a courier means I know where Chicago Avenue is without needing a map, and which several possible freeway exits can bring me to that address from different directions. Still, it has been a long time, and some memories were a bit hazy until I was actually on the streets again, like which pair of one-way streets, like Park and Portland, went which direction for example. Seeing them as I drove refreshed my mental map. All was not lost in my aging brain. Yet, anyway.

I had worried a bit abut parking, being short of change for a meter at the moment, but the building has a large free parking lot and I found a space quickly. Walking in puts you immediately in a security line, filtering people slowly through. Like an airport, there are guards, a place to empty all your pocket contents for hands-on inspection, and a walk-through metal detector for anything you missed. The guards are polite to those who are polite with them, so I asked one if the detector was magnetic, explained my pacemaker cannot do magnets, and was given a workaround path to be wanded. He even had me cover my pacemaker with one hand during that process just to be safe. The wand beeped in all the right places, and I collected my things after their inspection.

Next is a pair of machine where one checks in, answers a few questions the machine has, so you can be sorted by time of arrival and specific needs. Do you need a replacement card? Reason? Type in the number. Do you need your first card? Since I didn't, I have no idea what the other questions were beyond how many people in your group (they need enough chairs at the window you get called to). In starting the process you were given a bunch of choices of language so the machine already knew to assign you to a window where somebody spoke your language.

Once dispensed a ticket with your number/letter combination on it, there were lots of benches to go sit on while you waited. And waited. Once seated you could see the doors to the bathrooms, and then it was a choice between holding it for however long, or going right away and possibly loose your spot. They were very busy, and at any given time there might be five open spaces, mostly scattered in ones or twos, which could be a challenge for larger groups of, say, 4, of which several came through while I was there.

I opted for two things: people watching, and calling my daughter who happens to live 5 blocs away. Lately she mostly is working on her masters from home, so it's not a ridiculous question to find out was she there and had she some time to get together, say for lunch in an hour or more, looking at the lines. She had a couple things to finish at home, then would be walking over. I'd picked a seat facing the door so I could flag her down if she showed up before my number was called.

The people going through the office for their cards were as eclectic a group as I'd ever seen in such a (relatively) small space. There were many I identified as Somali, having worked with many of them back when they were fairly recent immigrants and working for our courier company. There was a pair who could have been Chinese or, upon reflection, more likely Hmong even though that immigration wave peaked in the early 80s if I recall correctly. I pegged the great majority of them as immigrants, new to this country and needing their first Social Security card. Most were dressed as I was, or "to blend". However some looked in African ethnic dress. Several hijabs were worn, although since the Muslim community in Minneapolis is very openly so in their dress, men and women, they could have been like me, needing a duplicate card.  Skin tones varied from my pasty white to very dark brown, and everything in between. Ages ranged from under one to perhaps 90, and languages, while mostly English, were occasionally unidentifiable. Some came with interpreters,  including the 90-year-old, and a group of Russian speakers. One person had to go to the desk where the guards were and somehow communicate she couldn't use the ticket machine because she didn't find her language written there. She got help, though I'm not sure how well she fared if her language wasn't represented. Perhaps it was a reading issue.

I was impressed by how well all the small children behaved, whether with a single parent or two, or even half a community of adult family. Even though it was nearing lunch time, not a one was crabby. One pair of parents had a daughter who wished to explore and they made of game of catching her before she got more than a couple feet away, lifting her up high with laughter and a hug, and setting her down again. Needless to say, that game lasted a while, but nobody was disturbed.

The line went much faster than I expected, so I was out before my daughter showed up. I called her when done, and it turned out she was in the other entrance. Oops! My bad. I forgot to tell her the proper door was on the Elliot side of the building. We met in the parking lot, had a good long hug, and went off to lunch, leaving three cars to jockey for my parking spot. 

One of them finally figured out  they needed to move away so I could get out, traffic could move, and at least one more parking spot opened up for somebody.

Could I Be A Trump Juror?

It may be obvious to all who have followed me that I'd be rejected. However, I'm of two minds on the subject. 

Why? First, I've been at various times a Republican, a Democrat, and an Independent. All those varying choices have been based on a core value system, where I'm still me but the parties have realigned about certain values which came to the fore at various times. My values are not based, therefore, on party lines but on the values - or most of them - that I was raised on by my parents and the humanistic - not theological - ones of the church I was raised in. Feel free to think of that as picking and choosing among the Ten Commandments.

When I say most of my values, I'll give you examples of the exceptions. Mom raised me to be obedient, period. Granted, I was a very independent child, a handful for someone coming out of the recession and with other issues. Today, I follow the laws, with the occasional slipping of vehicular speed into something over the speed limit, a reason I have come to depend on cruise control. If a person says I should/must act in a certain way, I'll personally evaluate the what and why and make my own decision. In terms of religion, my values stem from the humanistic ones universal in most religions, involving honesty, fairness, kindness, integrity, and love. (Yes, it's a process.)  I don't take a Sabbath day. I'm agnostic, so I not only don't worship one god, I don't worship any, including graven images. (Give me a golden calf and I'll promptly sell it for the monetary value, and thank you.) If you insist on any particular theology being the only one in the whole world, the requirement for a certain narrow belief required to enter a heaven which has arisen from the fantasies of living people who've never been there, with or without 76 virgins being part of the package (BORING!),or a limit of 140 people being "raptured", something nowhere written in approved religious scripture, pardon me while I struggle to be polite and not ridicule you. I may well fail to be polite. As far as "end times" is concerned, yes, I believe we're fast approaching those, not for theological reasons but because we have so seriously overpopulated and polluted this planet that too many tipping points have already been passed. We as humans, along with many other life forms, are approaching extinction. In many millions of years, the planet will recover to the point that new life forms will arise. They will mostly be different than this planet holds now, i.e., they won't be us. 

Cockroaches, maybe. I hear they are pretty tough.

But in general, in judging any person or action, I would do my best to be fair and hear all the evidence presented before making a decision. I pride myself on that. No person is a single thing, all good or all bad. Onlookers often judge an action from their own experiences. Is stealing food still worthy of prison when one's children can't eat? Is it different when done as a game or challenge, proof of one's skills at theft, or as a way towards personal enrichment? Can I believe what person A says? Or should I believe person B who claims the opposite? Can this particular evidence be manipulated, or misinterpreted? Are prejudices like race a factor or a coincidence... this time? These questions are why we need juries. With that mindset going in, I believe I could be a fair juror in general.

Donald Trump is a different case. First, there is hardly a person in this country who has no opinion of him. I'm not sure we could even find a jury based only on that. So can we find a jury of people who can set aside their existing opinions and examine the evidence, treat him as Mr. Anybody, and judge the evidence? Can we find jurors who don't fear the lunacy of some of his followers who take his denigration of somebody as an excuse to intimidate them or cause harm to them? He continually defies gag orders meant to protect people who oppose him in any way, so one must know that going in, accept it, look past it to the evidence being presented, and judge his actions fairly and courageously, even knowing his followers threaten harm to your loved ones as well. Could you try to be completely fair if finally chosen, or would you be weighing the possible harm to, say, your child, your mother, your spouse?

Yesterday 96 Americans were grilled as potential jurors and not one was seated. Imagine that in any other trial. Remember, you can self-select as being unfair, and simply walk  out. How many days will it take to select a jury?

Would you, like me, hope to never be put in that position, fascinating as such a case might be to hear all the way through without the editing of the press? 

Would you serve anyway if chosen?

Cryosurgery

It's a big name for a tiny procedure. Today was my visit to a new dermatologist, one of those full body skin exams. It's that time in my life where it gets to be done yearly, or should anyway. My last visit was ten years ago. 

Skin cancer runs in the family. Both my parents had it, tiny splotches on their skin which needed to be removed. I don't know whether back then they had them frozen or cut out, but something must have been removed for a pathologist to examine because they had a name for which of the three kinds they had. I believe they said squamous cell, but for sure neither had melanoma. It kind of surprised me because neither went out sunbathing, the way kids tended to do in my generation to get that desirable tan. They were blaming skin cancers on sun exposure, not something we'd heard about until then. It also wasn't something Mom warned us kids about till then. After that, she never let up with the warnings.

I hated sunbathing. Deliberate exposure to the sun always made me feel slightly ill. That doesn't mean I never did it, because every once in a while I forgot how it made me feel and laid out for a bit again. It was a good reminder for another year or so. I'm "blessed" with fair skin which never really tans, just one more way I never fit in with whatever was popular, like having unrelentingly curly hair when straight was popular.

That doesn't mean I avoided sun exposure. But mostly it happened on my left side, when the sun came in the car windows for the 29 years I was a courier, racking up over 2 million miles behind the wheel. If it's going to happen anywhere, I'll likely get skin cancer on my face. I thought I had some ten years back. There was a small bump on the tip of my nose, the left side of course. It was colorless, but it would grow, get picked off, regrow, and keep recurring. My then-doc sent me to the dermatologist's office down the hall. They looked at it, pronounced it benign, but cryosprayed it anyway. It hurt. The spray made no difference, the cycle continuing for another couple years but now with bumpy scabs that never quite healed, but came off with a washcloth. Then suddenly there was just a little white divot.

I never bothered going back. I was not impressed by them.

I noted a pigment change on the side of my jaw - left, of course. It was/is a light tan. It would easily be covered by makeup, but I don't use that. Several months ago a spot in the middle of that started to rise, and the texture of the skin felt different, rougher, something not quite a scab, but not going away. While I couldn't see it, my finger could always find it. I mentioned it to my new northern doc last week, and she recommended the dermatologist check it out. In fact, I should get the whole body check, given my parent's history and my work history. So I made the appointment, surprisingly quickly after she recommended it. Perhaps it had something to do with her description of it as "highly vascularized".

About the same time I read about a study where they appeared to be finding more fast growth in existing cancers after patients had covid, particular when it became long covid. More study is needed of course, but getting covid twice despite vaccinations got me moving to make the appointment. Today was the day.

Their office is in a wing adjacent to the hospital about 17 miles away, one very familiar from  early cardiology and allergy visits before I retired and moved south. I used to park in handicap parking back then, before knee replacements. Now it's a hike from a far corner of the parking lot. It's not all that's changed. They used to have a concierge desk where some actual human could direct you to which floor and how far your appointment was. Now they have signs, most in fairly small letters at each department, so you have to walk around to find your department the first time. (I was informed later that there is a small TV screen you can fight with to locate a map of the area. Of course you have to find the TV and know why it's there first....)

I'd also been informed that it would be a 90 minute appointment. OK, bring a book then. Check. I was the only patient in the waiting room when I arrived, no paperwork to fill out because it's all in their computerized system which had just been brought up to date the week before, no changes. I made it through two pages of the book before being called in, and once undressed and gowned as directed, had no more time for reading. They were very prompt, very thorough, and explained as they went why this kind of spot was harmless (a result of aging, get used to it) and why this other thing should get the cryospray on it.

If I was willing, of course. 

Of course I was. It was why I went in the first place. Why make another appointment when this one would just take three minutes longer? And it was, literally, three minutes longer. There were three spots treated for being suspicious, one particularly so but not the one I'd gone in for. The first spot was the one I pointed out to them. Zap zap zap from a little aerosol can. She called what it would feel like as a "cold burn." OK, not so bad, not like I remember from my first spray ten years earlier. Maybe the nose is just more sensitive. A second spot  was a couple inches away on the same jaw, one that was labeled with a "pre..." as she checked it, and was quickly treated. That hurt a bit more, zap zap zap, but was quickly over. A third one was located, hiding up in my left eyebrow. Again zap zap zap. I was given a sheet on wound care (like I never had to do that before!) but this time it was mostly using vaseline to keep stuff off the healing skin to prevent infection. I have some of that. A lot of my places benefit from that kind of moisturizing these days. I'd packed it where it was reachable.

It was over and done in 15 minutes. So of course I mentioned I'd been told to plan on 90 minutes.  They have no idea why the schedulers in their central office keep telling patients that. Their own schedule has them with a new patient every 15 minutes. Before they left me to get dressed, I was told to make a new appointment on my way out for a year from now. I didn't have to make it today, but be sure to make it at least 6 months ahead. 

Hmmm, and I got in for this one in just over a week? My doc must have been more concerned than she let on.  It sure beats the nearly year long wait just for an appointment after a positive Cologard test requiring a cclonoscopy, and the 8 months wait for a reschedule after it had to be repeated to get a complete result. I think I like when my possible problems get taken seriously, especially when one possible concern is cancer.

On my way out I hit the restroom out along the hall. When washing my hands I checked the mirror and found the new red spots from the treatment. I also noted that the water from the tap emerged yellow. SAY WHAT? Did somebody connect the pipes the wrong way? Didn't I just flushed that? So I popped into the pharmacy where there was an actual human to talk to and mentioned that they might have a problem, and where. They knew all about it. Yesterday they'd flushed out the entire plumbing system, as has to be done in all plumbing systems on a regular basis. Spring is a good time for it, once there is no threat of getting ice of the roads. When you see water spraying out from a hydrant when there are no fire fighters around, and no vandalism, it likely will be city maintenance crews flushing the system. Of course it knocks a lot of minerals off the inside of the clean water pipes, and it can take a day or so for it to run clear again. If not flushed out through the hydrants it can eventually block the pipes. This particular sink must not get a lot of use.

As soon as I heard the explanation I knew exactly what they were talking about. When I was on the city council we had to deal with that each year. As I drove through town while leaving there were two hydrants getting flushed out along the main drag, and cars driving through getting a free undercarriage flush while also splashing everything within 10 feet. Almost too bad the kids were in school, but it's still too cool for them to get soaked. It's barely spring here, with the snow finally melted. The earliest flowers are celebrating:

But Oh, The Paperwork!

 I've  moved between AZ and MN for 12 years now, as a "snowbird". Only one of those times involved a whole stack of paperwork, the time we established our change of state of residency. We knew Arizona would be tough, with all their issues with their border, and even more so with my last name sounding Hispanic. (By the way, it's an anglicization of the French name Rouseau, and according to "legend" in the family I first married into, done because people couldn't spell all those vowels correctly. That means the Canadian officials way back when, not the original immigrant. Or who knows, maybe the immigrant as well.)

Knowing the potential hassles, we arrived at the AZ license bureau with half a ton of paperwork, or so it seemed. We sailed right through unquestioned: new drivers licenses, car license plate (rear only), voter registration. AZ was even among the first states to adopt the "real ID".

It's a bit more complicated returning to MN. But even worse for Steve. This is my home state: born here, changed my last name here, learned to drive here, bought my last car here, though that last doesn't help much, yet. Steve was born in Colorado. At least he didn't have a name change to complicate things.

Let's insert a definition here: "safe place". You put something in a "safe place" in order to be able to find it again when it's needed or wanted. Said "safe place" turns out to be somewhere you yourself invariably can never find it when you need/want it again. So you are successful in creating a place that is safe from you. Congratulations!

I have created several such places over the years. Not all have stayed safe, including from the hands of others. I do know where the safe place for all my paperwork is, and for now it is truly safe from everybody, or so the PODS people assure us. Steve and I have the only two special keys for the unique lock on the unit our stuff is sitting in back in Arizona. The papers I need, like birth certificate, marriage licenses, car title, all are in a smaller container inside a packing box labeled "Heather's closet" or something like that, one of several identically labeled, buried somewhere in the 8' x 8' x 16 ' Pods that won't be here until a few days after we call for it to be hauled up here. Meanwhile it's collecting storage fees in Arizona.

I wouldn't worry much about exactly when we switch our paperwork over from Arizona to Minnesota, except for one thing. After all, we've been up here for months each summer with an AZ license on the car, and an AZ handicap hanger for parking when Steve is in the car. We both have AZ driving licenses and it doesn't matter when we're driving around up here until we head back down. But this year is different. It's an election year, and we both want our votes to be counted. That means in Minnesota. Which means new driver's licenses, which leads to new car licenses, and new voter registrations. All of it means lots of paperwork.

Take a drivers license. We've been out of state for long enough that we have to start over from scratch. We have to prove all over again who we are. They can't just take our AZ license, copy everything but with a new address and number, updated vision checks and photos, and so forth. Start with a birth certificate. Now, I have the original one, fairly small, with all kinds of info on it that they don't collect any more, like my birth weight (who cares any more?), the time of day, and even whether or not I was "legitimate". If you're so young you don't understand how a person can be legitimate, it means your parents were married at the time of your birth. It used to be important for social standing, inheriting, and the church's concept of sin, all falling on the new babe's shoulders and determining its life course.

For replacing that, any records office will do, in any county, as long as you picked the right state, know the date, and can spell your parents' names correctly. I had a question there. My dad hated his middle name and used his initial only. He even swore to the military that his middle name as "initial only". So did I put down his full name  or just the initial? It's not like I can go dig either of my parents up, literally, and ask. So I chose his full name. Then there was Mom's middle name. Muriel or Murial? I can pronounce it but not spell it, so I guessed. Apparently it was close enough since I got the new large blue bordered form of my birth certificate, just another $28 out of my finances, thank you.

But wait! My name now is not my name then. I have to locate documents proving we are the same person. In my case, it's a marriage license. Now I'm restricted to the county we were married in. That meant a drive to St. Paul, a wait in line, and another 20 minute wait at the desk while that clerk disappeared into a back room, found the record, and printed off a certified copy of that too, just like that birth certificate had to be certified, only this time it was only a $9 fee.

But wait! The names don't quite match. It's the middle name thing again. I always hated my middle name too. Must be a family thing because nobody seems to like theirs. Anyway, after marriage I now had 4 names and only needed 3, so I picked my maiden name as my middle name and have used it ever since. I just never went through an official name change to do so. My names, my choice, no intent to defraud, so no problem, right? Except now, apparently.

My documentation allows me to drive with a regular MN license, fork over another $47.15 please. I just can't get a "real ID" license. A flight to anywhere might be a problem. I am not planning one, but you never know.  So now what? It doesn't matter that Arizona gave me a "Real ID" star on my drivers license. No document of the name change from 55 years back, no real ID.  No time machine for fixing things, no real ID. The woman at this counter - my 4th so far - asked why Social Security didn't raise a fuss? I don't know. I just worked under that combination of 3 names, and they took my money and are now paying it back, no arguments. But....  When I asked how I can fix the problem, she suggested I apply for a passport. I've never had one, never wanted one, never needed one back when I was crossing into Canada or Mexico. So... now what kinds of paperwork did I need? Everything I already had, plus proof of whatever address I had at the time I applied (so wait till after the permanent move), and dig out that Social Security card once the PODS lands because I'll need that too.

Uffda!

You want to know what I'm going to need for the car license? There's the car registration, which I keep in the car by law, next to insurance proof in the form of a cab card, and a few other gems for "just because", like records of repairs or oil changes. It seems that those are not enough, because I need the title. Guess which box in the PODs that is in? It will be a bonanza when that comes up for air. If I find a need to get the title before then, I'll have to try to figure out which state issued that. Did I pay the car off while we were in MN? Or AZ? I was assured that it would be from AZ because I should have needed it to get my AZ license plates (1 commercial, one regular, sequentially). Really? I have no memory of needing it down there. So I get to wait or start calling around.  It was paid off so long ago I have no memory of even who financed the car in the first place, but one or the other state must have information. I really only need it if I sell the car (heaven forbid!) or decide to get a state parks sticker for the year. Being a resident is a huge savings. There has to be some savings somewhere, right?

All this documentation and need for some benefit from it holds for Steve as well. He thought all his vital papers were in one of his two briefcases, where they always are. It seems only one of them got in the car. The other - we most sincerely hope - must be in the PODS. He needs his Colorado birth certificate, and he informs me that the running around I've been doing is nothing compared to what he'll have to do. It's not as simple as going to his county recorder. Apparently it's a huge problem from out-of-state, with terrible online software to fight through. (Or  maybe he's just like me, hating all the various forms with different procedures and requirements and ways to get from A to B to....Z.) I didn't have the heart to ask him what his cost was going to be. He was hoping to have his new drivers license and his new handicap parking hanger as soon as possible after moving back up here. In his case it's for a special reason: free fishing! Years ago he already qualified for handicap status. One of the perks at the time in MN was a free fishing license - a permanent one! When we left the state but returned for summers he couldn't use it, but had to pay over $50 per season to fish here as a non-resident. He still kept the free license, and as soon as he reestablishes state residence he can legally fish free again. But that  doggone birth certificate.......

You Don't Have A Due Date Yet

 Years ago that only meant one thing. Either I wasn't pregnant or it was too soon in the pregnancy to establish when the baby was due. 

Well, first, I'm 75. Need I go on? Seriously? OK then: I had my tubes successfully tied around age 40. There was a long period of time afterwards while I was taking care of my own head and healing from my own history that there was absolutely no cause to be suspicious of a pregnancy even without a tubal. When I finally "got back in the game" it was after having all the rest of my baby-making parts removed for medical reasons. I still joke with my doctors that if I'm pregnant you'll have to change my name to Mary.

I'm confident I'm sticking with Heather.

So no, I'll never have that kind of a due date again. Even were it physically possible, those due dates were all off by a month. My kids were all 10 month babies. No, not counting errors, long gestations. Still, when I see that phrase, my mind inevitably pops over into that meaning of it.

This time it's about my electric bill. In Arizona of course. I'm legally required to keep all the utilities on and paid for while the house is empty and on the market. Potential customers need to know that the water runs clear, the lights and climate control work, the stove cooks, etc. There's just one little problem: the house isn't empty. Therefore it hasn't been put on the market yet. And yes, Steve and I are both pissed off about it. And yes, we're in the process of a legal eviction, at the recommendation and with the assistance of our realtor. She's been a real source of information, assistance,  and strength during this time. She's the one who served the initial papers. She'll be talking to the judge this week. She keeps us informed, sends photos of "progress" on a regular basis. She also provides transportation of boxes of - let's face it: junk - to a storage unit, which she's also paid for, even though I'd already shelled out the money to do so. It just never made it to its destination. Yep, something else we're pissed off about.

She insists that her extra costs will be getting paid in the realtor pay split upon sale of the house. She will, because of her extra expenses, change the 50-50 split to something closer to 60-40, keeping track of all her extra expenses to justify that of course. I have assured her that any larger expenses will get covered upon the sale should something be needed, say, to cover damage. In such a case, of course, our "pissed off" meter will climb accordingly. I already shelled out over 12 grand for a bathroom repair/remodel, long overdue and reducing us before the repair to a single usable bathroom. Can't sell a house when the plumbing doesn't work, or at least not without a severe financial penalty, and since color choice was the same price regardless of what was chosen, I made it beautiful! Not plain white, but white/grey/turquoise! Very Arizona! And hopefully a major selling point.

            Shower floor piece leaning against wall.                                 
 

 So where does that influence the electric bill? With solar on the roof, I should be getting money back for all the time we're not in the house. With our unwelcome tenant in the house, I have a bill due each month instead. I presume he's using lights, the refrigerator/freezer, and the AC, which means, since we turned off the thermostat and the fridge when we left, and left the lights off, he's turned them back on. I can go to my account page online and follow the daily changes in the electric bill. They're all increases, of course. As somebody who likes to be sure what the budget has extra room for after the bills are paid, especially on a fixed income, it's good to know what's going on.

The bill for last month will be final in a couple more days. Meanwhile, each time I check its "progress", when I log in the first words to catch my eye are: "You don't have a due date yet" ...in any sense.

A Clump Of Hair Looking For A Dog

The contest:

I was cleaning up before company was due to arrive. While there hasn't been a dog in this place since last October, there were still clumps of black dog hair all over the floors. I could sweep the hall, for example, a long narrow place with no furniture to hide under, and ten minutes later, if it even took that long, there would be clumps of hair back where I'd just been. I don't bother a whole lot of air when I sweep, unlike my sons for example, so there should be very few little eddies along the way as I go by to drag out more hair from nonexistent hiding places to line the hall again. 

I could understand it happening in the living room, with lots of furniture legs, and cords scattered around at floor level to hide dog hair from my broom or create swirls of air to tease more air currents to carry new clumps out from hiding spots to suddenly appear where I'd just cleaned. But this was just a bare hall. Doors line it but they'd either had the spaces on their other sides swept out as I passed moments earlier, or had stayed undisturbed with higher carpeting on the other side blocking anything from reentering the space just swept.

It was a puzzle, where the clumps had all come from, some endless supply depot touching this space from a hidden dimension, bringing dog hair with it. It's predictable, happening regularly in this house when brooms were utilized, no quarter given for the length of time since the last dog inhabited the spaces. I expect it will continue happening here. For that matter, I expect it will happen in the new house, despite no dog or other furry creature having lived in it during its history, or at least not one visible to normal human eyes. I didn't see any during our two trips to go through the place. But then I hardly ever witness them moving into place behind me, since, contrary to what parents tell their mischievous children, there truly are no eyes in the backs of our heads.

But still they appear, popping from some nowhere out into our somewhere, once again some new clump of hair out looking for a dog.

I made that comment to Steve as I swept. It must have sunk in because five minutes later he said it back to me, talking about a clump of hair out looking for a dog. Perhaps he found a hidden truth in it, though I don't credit him with sweeping floors enough to have made the observation himself, in just that way. I observed it might be worth a title for a blog post. He agreed. So now we're both to come up with our own fill in piece for our own blogs, and see who can do it the best.

I'll let you know.

Meanwhile, he's gone down a different hall for a nap, and I'm heading back down that swept hall because I've been sitting too long after finishing a beverage and wish to avoid the worst consequences of that bad habit. On my way I'll scout for more clumps. If nobody hears from me....

Come armed with a broom.