Texas Toast!

What a difference a day/good referral/real plumber makes! I assume you can tell by the title that we have just used our new oven for the first time. Because of course you've been following this, right?

We had been told we needed to get our gas company out here to verify the soundness of, or replace our gas line. First thing this morning - not in Heather terms but in business terms, I contacted our gas company. The 35 minute wait for my callback lasted 55. After explaining what the previous would-be installer had said, the gas company said they didn't do that. They'll still check everything after we return from vacation and get gas turned on again. They'll check a gas leak as indicated by the lovely smell of mercaptan wafting through the house. Anything else, contact a plumber. They could make a referral? I agreed to be transferred to another line for that, and promptly got disconnected.

After everything else, I wasn't the least surprised.

I knew our homeowners association offers referrals to various people in trades useful for maintaining/improving our properties, so I called them. I was given two. The first got voicemail, with a call returned nearly two hours later. The second was immediately answered, an appointment set up for next Monday. As soon as I hung up, she called back and asked if I would rather have somebody immediately? Someone had just become available. 

Well hell yes! (More politely of course.) Joe duly arrived, got shown/told the issues, and hooked us up, tested the oven, and completed the installation other than the part where screws go into the wall. There were two issues. Because of course there were. First, the second nipple was the wrong kind, despite what we had been told by the most previous guy. Joe had the right part in his truck, and installed it. 

The second issue requires carpentry, but not enough to keep us from using the oven. It seems that the old stove had an open space at the bottom of the back panel. The gas piping extends from the wall out into the space the oven sits in, but that opening allowed the old oven to slide around it fully to the back of the opening. The new oven doesn't have that cutout, and thus sits an inch further forward into the kitchen. We will need a framework about an inch deep built around the opening, plus longer screws, so that the oven is firmly fastened to - eventually - something connected to the wall. It's not going anywhere where it sits, and was pronounced fully usable before Joe left.

Rich says no problem making a framework to fit. He's got a friend with the wood whom he swaps favors with, and Rich also happens to have a supply of much longer screws than came with the oven.

Meanwhile Steve's ears perked up with the news that we have an oven, and as soon as the kitchen cleared, started it up.

The toast is delicious. Maybe he'll also bake that cake from the box which has been sitting on the counter since last spring, today for Rich's birthday?

And Joe, plus his company, got high marks from us, including to the homeowners association. Wayfair, on the other hand, got a voicemail letting them know we'd gotten the job done without the company they hired down here to do the work, even though they "guarantee installation" at the extra cost we'd already paid for. I suspect the three visits that company paid us more than cost Wayfair that installation charge to us.

No Texas Toast Yet ...And Other Issues Of Course

Oy! The oven saga continues. 

We got a competent professional out to work on the oven install today. Turns out, if we'd had somebody before who knew what he was doing, and knew what we lacked, it'd be working today. We could have fixed those issues.

First, we needed another nipple, this time double male 1/2 inch. Today's guy was kind enough to wait a few minutes while I called the closest hardware store (Ace - and why didn't we start there anyway?) to establish they had one, and then he waited another ten minutes while I drove over to pick it up. Ace was thoughtful enough to have it up at the front counter as I walked in! 

But there were still two more issues he found insurmountable. It's what you get when a professional worries about losing his license, because you finally got a professional who know what he's not got to work with/on. First, plugging the stove into a short extension cord just doesn't cut it. 

Note previous look-it-up-on-you-tube guy found that just fine, thank you. But we need a new circuit box behind the oven, standard up-to-code wiring going through the studs, etc., etc. Fortunately, we know a guy, one of Rich's many friends. He'll even provide parts and do the job for free, out of friendship. What's that, another couple hundred dollars saved?

Can't do that for the next bit, but it may not cost anyway. We need to get the gas people out to check the gas line as it comes across after leaving the stove top. They didn't check it because they'd already shut it off once they condemned the old oven due to internal heat damage. So we need them back out to see if the line leaks or not, before our professional (or any professional) will hook up our gas.

Steve said he couldn't decide whether to cuss or cry at this latest delay. He did make a choice, and I didn't see a single tear. I just started planning what needed to be done and when, whom to contact, how to get parts, etc. As for not getting Texas toast yet, well, I simply don't have an appetite at the moment. Stomach is kind of knotted. Small expenses I can handle at the moment, but any large purchase needs to wait for my replacement credit card to arrive.  I was assured via email this morning that it has been shipped (really? only just now?) and should arrive in October.

Of course, if I could order what I needed online, I'm good to go. Unlike Steve, whose card number got stolen and needed a new card, mine is just needing a new physical card, same number. I used it two days ago to order a replacement Kindle after Paul finally read my email messages and/or listened to my voice mails begging him to check a few places to see if it was still sitting in any of them. It wasn't. So now I have a new one, delivered today.

Of course I can't use it. 

First there was the issue of getting it connected to wi-fi. It stuck on the screen with the tab telling you to connect to wi-fi. I got the tab to go black, but it would pop right back to white, telling me I needed to connect with wi-fi. Half an hour later, once I finally figured out how to connect with an actual human through Amazon who could talk me through it. Turns out shutting it off and restarting got me to the next screen. Then I had problems entering the password correctly. Back when, we got really cutesy with what it is, and it took me umpteen tries to get through the changing screens of lower and uppercase letters, numbers and symbols. Once I finally thought I had it entered correctly, nope. Uh-uh. Rich stepped in, typed it in in about 5 seconds, perhaps 6, and I had a wi-fi connection. Now they needed my Amazon password to sync up to my old kindle. Again, I'd gotten a little too cutesy with how I listed my password on my list of different passwords for everybody in the universe who needs me to provide one. I kept coming up with no, not this either. Lucky they don't cut you off after 3 tries like my bank would. Amazon logs me in with my password displayed as a series of dots. I had to count them - try that sometime! - to figure out just what would fit that space so my confusing clue made sense. Then it tells me it's downloaded my 1587 or so books, and runs me through a set of screens to "show me" how to navigate the Kindle. Rather, how to buy more stuff and services from Amazon. Nope, not in this lifetime.

Still one problem, of course. Or at least one I know about at this point. My old kindle organized my books first by dividing into unread or read, the read ones having been sent to archives, saved as a link for minimized storage and easy retrieval, so long as there's a wi-fi one can connect to. Within each section they were filed alphabetically by author. All was text, no pictures. Just how I know to communicate. This new one shows me about 6 pictures per page of stuff they somehow think I want to read right now, might I choose one to start with? NO NO NO NO NEVER! I want to see lists of titles, not pictures. This isn't a comic book. Your dang pictures don't have any kind of readable text so I can have any hope of knowing what I might be choosing. I have no way of sorting out the twelve hundred something books I've already read and might want to go back to if I've gotten more in the same series by the same author and really enjoyed them. Or check in a minute whether I already bought a book now sold as a single when it was part of a 1-2-3 starter set. Or 4-5-6. Or however many. Or vice versa. To top it off, no matter how I tap or slide of whatever on what I'm calling the comic book screen, I can't get even a book I'm not interested in right how to open!

Steve has one of these newer Kindles. However, he's taken his frustration with no oven/Texas toast/whatever with him to bed, along with his Kindle, to read and calm down, to sleep, perchance to dream.... I have to wait to ask him how he navigates to where he can set up the device to bypass the comics page and get to a real table of contents. I can't even navigate away from that page no matter what I try to do. So I'm here, blowing off steam. The Kindle is turned off, getting itself a 100% charge. And for some stupid reason, even though I shut it off, it's doing the screen saver thing. So I guess I can't even do that!

Anybody wonder why I hate new technology?

No Brass Balls, But....

...I do have a brass nipple!

I was looking for a steel one, but nobody carries those anymore in stores, apparently. 

What? You're not a plumber? Then maybe I should explain. Remember that gas line connector I needed so we can finally get our new wall oven installed and usable? The exact thing needed, after the Wayfair rep called the manufacturer for the data not in the installation manual, is a double male 1/4 inch nipple. Steel is preferred, according to the internet. I suppose if I wanted to wait for a couple weeks and order one online for three to four times the cost, I could still find one. So-o-o-o not in the mood. So I have a brass nipple. 

It's a metal tube, about 2" long, threaded on both ends on its outside with a hex shape expansion in its center. If that's not clear, Google it. Don't forget the double male part. That means each end fists inside other threaded piping, in case you don't get the "male" part. The "helpful" sales person in the plumbing department at Home Depot either didn't get it or hasn't yet figured out how to hear a female when she requests a specific part that isn't like any other random part anywhere else in the store. He walked me over to a plastic hose, perhaps 7 or 8 foot long, with definite female couplings on each end. He also poo-poohed the quarter inch part, even tough the manufacturer specified that exact size. Good thing he doesn't work on commission.

After arriving home, I went online, located a nearby Lowes, and found an employee there who knew exactly what I was talking about, knew which two spots it might likely be in, and sorted through sizes and male-female and threaded versus other kind of connections, until he located the right brass nipple. The store does have a few steel nipples but in much larger sizes, so no go. I bought it.

I did run into another issue, however, one I've been running into more frequently these last few weeks. The card readers can't read my chip any more. And being chipped, they refused to read my card when I slide it. One "helpful" gal took the card and a piece of cloth and wiped off the chip part, thinking (really? thinking?) that some dust or grease might be the problem. Of course the coating over the chip is thinner now. I can see three shiny thin stripes across it, and if I look really closely in good light, there are teensy bumps under the gold. I've called to get the card replaced. At least I carry a different one, and can order online any time card free.

Those kind of calls are always fun. They always want to send me a text to confirm who I am before sending the new card out. That works about as well on my phone as it would on a landline. After collecting my info, the last 4 of my SS, my address and email number, I got passed upwards to the next one, and then the next one in the chain, who after everybody else's problems with me, simply made sure my mailing address matched my records. Everybody's happy to let me know my balance, my last payment, how much more I can charge. I already know that stuff. I keep track of it several times a week. But after 15 minutes on the phone, it will only take a week or so for the new card to arrive. 

Unless De Joy has screwed the mail system up even more in the meantime.

So now, tomorrow starts the process - 3rd time's a charm? - of having the shipper contact the local installer company while I wait to see if those guys can send out somebody actually competent in hooking up a gas oven properly. And connecting the electrical cord. And adding the trim strip to cover the hole above the oven. And screwing the sides to the cabinet it's sitting in. Oh hey, and maybe even making sure it works!

But now I at least have a brass nipple! Sigh.

I think I need some chocolate.

So... Adam's Back With More Mischief

In the - unfortunately - ongoing saga, it seems that being "green lit" isn't really a thing. Either that or nobody plans to follow through with it. It only took 5 days of lying low before Adam surfaced again, both boldly and sneakily.

Rich had to take a few things to Amanda, stuff he'd been working on for her replacement bike after Adam stole it and - it's believed - sold it for drugs. Possibly why he stole at least one of Rich's bikes too.  Rich and I had had the conversation where he agreed that maintaining that friendship was not the best of ideas, at least not now. He suspects she may be complicit in his craziness, even goading him on and covering up afterwards. Right or wrong, Adam is a danger. Anyway, when Rich arrived at her house, Adam was in her garage, using her welding equipment. He'd gotten there on a mini bike. His truck hasn't been seen since the hit and run, at least so far as we know. Rich dropped the items off by her front door, and by the time he passed the garage again, perhaps 30 seconds later, Adam was gone on his minibike. Rich recognizes the sound.

A few days ago, Adam started passing by our house out on the street on his bike. Sometimes he stops and stares at the house/Rich, whether just taunting or casing the situation, we don't know. Possibly both. But stuff coincidentally has been happening. Rich has a different bike than before the hit and run. (The damaged bike had been fixed to be rideable but - of course - got stolen.) The latest bike mysteriously has its bolts loosened while it sits in the back yard, something that doesn't "just happen". Small things disappear, even some which Rich knows he set down inside the lanai a bit before, and while we are actually in the house! 

Rich mentioned that the gas grill, which we've bought  hamburgers for, suddenly hisses gas when it's connected and ready for use.  While we can't say this is mischief rather than, say, summer sun damage or such, it's just another thing piling on. One with potentially drastic consequences if Rich had worse hearing or sense of smell.

We believe our electrical system has been tampered with at the breaker box, and this morning's project, with the help of one of Rich's friends, has been to trace every outlet in the house to its breaker, check amp load levels, do a better job of labeling each breaker switch, and make a separate chart I can put in the computer for future reference. Labels can get "lost."

This is part of the issue. We found out it may be more complicated - criminally - after we made another decision. Yesterday we decided we needed a security system. Just not one those really expensive ones. After a trip to Home Depot, we got motion sensor spotlights for both carport and patio, as well as a pair of motion sensor cameras that are hidden where it's difficult to know they exist but give good coverage of both patio and lanai. It's a decision not to scare him away but to get proof of his visits and damages. Plus a photo of his face if he's gotten cocky enough to forgo wearing his "mask" - which Rich describes as bondage gear. It was in the process of working on the carport light that Rich discovered a problem, wiring that can no longer be shut down by flipping the breaker and/or turning off the wall switch inside the house. We know it didn't used to be wired like that because we'd replaced that light fixture several years ago. And Rich knows that Adam has mad skills with fixing/tampering with all kinds of things.

This prompted the check of the electrical system, but only of the "new" breaker box. A few years ago our insurance company informed us we needed to upgrade our old breaker box, and send them photos to verify it had been done. $5 grand later (!) it was completed, leaving all the old breakers in place in their old box, then tunneling them through a pipe into the new one and giving each a new breaker switch, along with a whole new breaker for the solar installation which pipes directly into the new box. When Rich went to check both boxes, he discovered that the catch holding the lid on the old box has been tampered with.

Having the kind of ingenuity he does, he went and got an old toner cartridge and a makeup brush, and established that the surface of the box cover does indeed hold recent fingerprints very well. Mostly they will be his. He decided not to work on opening that box until after we notify the cops of the latest issues. That way, if we can persuade them to open the box and fingerprint the inside, any prints they find will both be recent and not belong to any of us. But right now it's more important to verify whether what is currently running current is not likely to be a fire hazard in the house. 

We also know which two houses along the street behind us Adam goes to visit when he's in the neighborhood. Rich can follow the sound of the minibike to where he stops. Starting at the house most directly behind ours ( since they are slightly offset) he can count two to the east and two to the west as places where he hangs out. It's enough to keep Rich paranoid about anything he might be doing out in the yard or even in the lanai being visible to both Adam and his friends. We're not sure whether they are also participating in any of the "mischief" or not, but the hidden cameras should record whatever happens. If we can catch anybody in the house when we are also, like happened yesterday, only now with cameras, somebody is going away for a long time. Here that's an aggravated felony.

Steve is not taking it all that well. It's too much stress with no seeming letup. I can't blame him, too many things to contend with since we returned, and even when they're not "mischief" they just pile on and pile on.  Somehow his credit card number got appropriated last week, and while the bogus charges got canceled or his "card" refused for a large purchase since they didn't have his pin number, he's waiting for his new one before he can spend any money. At least he'd just done a major grocery purchase before it happened. 

This afternoon we might get some hopeful news when I drive him to see the doc who is to do cataract surgery on one eye. It's not as bad as mine got, meaning he's not blind in that eye yet, but it's bad enough to be a handicap and an annoyance. I've reassured him that recovery from the surgery is nearly instantaneous these days, or at least was for me, as well as painless during the procedure. I've also assured him I can handle the copay if his new card isn't here by this afternoon. And we now know the piece we are missing for the gas oven to be connected, so I can swing by and pick one up. Apparently we are responsible for that. The installation company has been emailing back and forth with me and promises they will send out an actual competent person who can work with gas this time. (We'll see.) Some oven-baked Texas Toast will surely make Steve feel better. Me too.

The Latest Excuse

Ever heard of a gas supply hose connector? Neither did the guy who needed one to finish our oven installation. 

It hasn't been a propitious project. After getting the opening widened per the new oven's measurements, we were waiting for somebody - preferably the former guy but really, anybody - to come out and finish the installation. 

We were ready. All the box cardboard is broken down, de-stapled, de-taped, and waiting out in the carport for recycle day to go curbside. The old oven is gone, no charge, even after we contacted our garbage company to haul it away. We were even ready to pay their $40, that is until Steve informed me he'd seen two guys in a red pickup stop, look at the yellow tag, and haul the old oven away. I called the company to find out if by any chance that had been their people (I usually see big trucks), and if not, could I cancel the pick-up and the fee? We got both right answers.

I compiled all the remaining parts on top of the oven, at that point sitting back in front of the entryway closet door, which we still, thank goodness, don't need to get into. The loose veneer around the opening has been glued back in place before the oven partly covers it. That done, I called Wayfair to set up the (next attempt) installation. Everything was in place for Saturday morning, 8-10AM. I was disappointed to find out the previous guy was not the one who'd be coming out. The company which Wayfair contracts with in this area posts the jobs and whoever bids on it first gets it. I left a voicemail heads-up for our previous guy, but he wasn't first.

We were ready before 8. Masks were handy, breakfast eaten, dog fed, watered, and let out for a few, window blinds open to spot the installer coming. We waited, did our things, waited some more. Just before 10 the phone rang. Our installer was running late. When he showed, there were two people in the car, a man and a woman. Hmm? Car trouble, got a ride, enough explanation. Of course, this being Arizona and still very hot, she came in the house too, and once we explained where we were in the installation, she was helpful in picking up the other side of the oven to set it inside the hole. (I wasn't sure this skinny guy had enough muscles!)

It fit!

But...

First the electrical cord didn't reach the outlet. Apparently the old cord came out from the near side and the new one came out from the far side, related to where the outlet was. Luckily Rich was home, had a heavy duty cord 6 foot long, and the expertise and things needed to  convert it to the much shorter length needed. It was perfect. However....

The installer didn't think they'd sent me a gas oven. It must only need the electric connection just made, right? I informed him it was sold as a gas oven, and the previous guy said nothing about it being electric. More checking, and he found the connection in the back of the oven proving it used gas.

Now he needed to connect the gas. 5 minutes max, right? If you know what you're doing. 20 minutes later I asked how it was going. It wasn't. A part was missing. What was the part? He didn't know the name.

But he was on You Tube, researching gas connections. Oh goodie, a guy with experience! With gas! These things usually require a certified gas plumber. One was required when we got the new countertops because our gas stove top sat on it. He was required twice in fact, for the disconnect and the reconnect. And this guy is looking it up on You Tube?

EEP!

Still asking what we were missing, we got an imperfect description of what to look for, something like a metal tube threaded on both ends to fit between two different pieces of hardware (showed me one piece) to connected them together. Further research revealed an actual name: a gas supply hose connector.

A name isn't a help yet. After looking around the house, even through the recyclable box pieces, in all the possible places along with several improbable ones, we decided to quit for the day. We both made some calls. Mine were to Wayfair (out of the office till Monday) and one to the previous installer's voicemail asking if perhaps he had seen it but put it some place we didn't look, or even accidentally took it with him? Maybe he even knew it was missing but hadn't gotten around to saying anything because we'd already run into the won't-fit-the-hole problem?

I can't help but wonder if they are all standard. Could one be picked up at the store? Or is this another case where new technology meets old technology and things don't fit? You know, just like the earlier cord placement.

We won't have any answers for a few days, if then. On the plus side, the oven sits in the hole it will live in for the rest of its usable life. Once. We. Make. It. Usable. I made sure he didn't connect the electricity so nobody makes the mistake of trying to turn it on, even though he offered to. I guess he wanted to feel he'd accomplished something after two hours.  But we have our floor space back at least. If I ever think I need something from the front closet, like a jacket or an umbrella ... oh, nevermind. At least we don't have that particular bottleneck in our walking paths any more... for now. 

I'm getting pessimistic.

Being WireBender73

 They say "Never read the comments." I'm sure that's true  in a lot of places, and I know it's true even in places where I can learn a lot from some of the comments. I hate stupidity - including my own - hateful slams, and unrelenting arguing. Don't particularly care for comments where every third word starts with "f". It usually takes me two or three comments to find out what kind of a site I'm on.

I found one with rules. I've been reading it for over a year now. Articles are sent in by the community as well as regular staff. Much information is conveyed, fact based, often sourced if requested. It's also political. It's called Daily Kos. And I do read the comments, since they often give a much wider view of whatever the topic is.

I was reading another site, not as popular but worth the read, and wanted to make a comment myself once. It immediately rejected my comment, informing me that my email address was "bogus." Not their word, but their meaning. Yes, it's odd, but it's really mine. The rejection, both there and in a couple other places where I wished to send a message, say, to a TV news show, kept me from trying to send any comments in to Daily Kos. Until yesterday.

I used to comment on my daughter's blog, but I never liked the moniker that I came up with in a hurry for that one. I switched to the abbreviated version that another commenter made for me, still not liking it. Besides, she quit writing in it. A few days ago a moniker popped into my head, "WireBender". It fits me, describes a lot of what I do in my favorite hobby. Deciding somebody else might have used it, I threw on a number. Those who know me well enough will understand why I picked what I did.

Then I went over to Daily Kos, and joined the community. No rejection for my email address this time. Cool! Several articles later, I found one where I felt I had something to say. I'm still learning, like  trying to figure out how to get my comment to address a specific previous comment so it doesn't sound totally irrelevant. I can also recommend somebody else's comment I really like. It's been fun.

It's also nice that they reply to your first comment with a "welcome to the community" message, sending lots of info on rules and how-tos for the site. I also get notified when somebody responds to a comment of mine. It really can feel like a community. If I get really brave, I can even submit my own article... once I decide I have something worth saying. Then there's that thing about posting a picture with your title....

Oohhh, intimidating. Gotta figure that one out. What picture would fit? Do I go shoot something- as if something would fit? Or do they mean some kind of identity pic, like the sunflower that one person uses next to their moniker? Or some trove of stock photos? Or....

Maybe I'll just comment for a while.

So You Want To Be On A Ventilator?

If you're squeamish, pass this one by.

Seriously.

I recently read an article summarizing information from a funeral director on what corpses actually look like after long times spent on ventilators due to covid. Some of what they see during embalming or before cremation completely shocked me, not being something anybody had been talking about. If you're still reading this, you have been warned.

Covid wreaks lots of damage on the whole body. It's why it isn't "just the flu". You've heard about blood clots in major organs. I don't need to describe that here. But it renders lungs essentially non-functional, which is why ventilators are chosen as a treatment, in hopes that the patient can recover. Somehow. And some do. Covid is perhaps unique in that family members are not allowed to visit, and don't see the progressive damage being on a ventilator itself can cause.

Let's start with the fact that many people, like me, are allergic to medical adhesive. It takes tape to hold a ventilator in place. In my case, something other than brief contact with that adhesive raises skin blisters which peel away with the tape as it is removed and changed. (Yeah, been there.) This opens the skin up to pain, of course, and these openings give access to invading bacteria. This means infection, and more pain, particularly as alcohol is what is used to dissolve adhesive residue on the skin, as well as giving some level of defense against germs. But it's not a perfect solution.

Saliva is toxic. Never thought of that? It's the body's first level method of dissolving our food while your teeth grind it up before it heads for the stomach, being slightly acid. Our teeth need super protection to keep it from dissolving holes into them. (Ever had a cavity?) When you are unconscious your body gets turned to help avoid bedsores. Turning has also been shown to make breathing easier, a prime goal in covid patients on ventilators. Some of those positions result in saliva running down over your cheeks, further eating away at your skin. Gangrene can start, eating away at healthy flesh as deeply as to the bone.

If the patient recovers, survival itself is what counts. It far outweighs the damage occurring in long term ventilator use. But whatever else you are dealing with post-hospitalization, post ventilator, along with physical therapy for long unused muscles, and whatever else was the reason for the ventilator in the first place, you will also be dealing with whatever is necessary to correct the damage to your face. 

If it can be repaired.

If you can get healthy enough again to go through what is needed.

It's so much simpler to get vaccinated.

When An Adjuster... Adjusts

It wasn't even his issue, the reason why he was there. He was busy photographing the siding damage Adam left behind.  We got to talking during the form filling out bits and the measuring bits. The front door came up as a topic. Even after assuring him that this was nothing to do with my insurance company, a whole different issue and responsible party, he offered to look at it.

He pointed to one piece of wood in a corner. That indeed was where the door gapped the most. We discussed where a judicious whack or two from a hammer might fix the whole thing, and we'd have a usable front door again. Figuring it was worth the risk of making it worse, I located a hammer.

Whack! Whack! 

The door now closes beautifully, easily. 

As soon as we concluded his real business, I took a moment to contact the company whose stove delivery people put my door out of whack - so to speak - in the first place, cancelling any damage claim. Sure, there's a little hammer dent, but what door doesn't have one of those? 

Or do you perhaps live in another world than I do? Where hammers don't leave dents, and stoves fit properly, being the same size as the one with the same measurements that they replaced, and everybody's kind, and weather is predictable and comes in useful doses, and...

Steve Had Plans....

He was going to head up to the local grocery store in the early hours, before temperatures get beastly, to pick up one thing: Texas Toast. There is a brand of it that we were introduced to in Minnesota by his daughter when we visited her in her new apartment. It comes pre-sliced, heats in the oven for great crispness, and is more moist and garlicky than any current version of garlic bread in a sliced french loaf. Yummmm! While we were still up north he located it in the freezer section at a store we regularly use, and based on that believed we could locate some here. Only, he didn't get up and go.

He could have gone. He was awake early enough. I know because I woke up at 3 AM. After trying fruitlessly to get back to sleep, I decided the only real way to get past the list running through my head of things to be sure to do before the guy installing our oven got here which was keeping me awake was to actually get up and do some of them.

I started working on opening boxes. We had three, though only two were visible as I started, the one for the extra trim piece to match how tall the cabinet hole is, and the shipping box for the wall oven. I started by clearing off the kitchen counter, making room for working on the small trim piece box, leaving a dish towel covering the counter to avoid any possible scratching. The biggest part was the huge copper staples holding cardboard together. 

Rich had a tool for that. Yes, he was awake, making room for the installer to get past with his tools when coming in through the carport door, and later, hopefully, for the old oven to get outside since the front door hasn't been dealt with.

I brought the dog's blanket in the kitchen to spread out for the old dirty oven pieces to sit on and get slid across the floor on, a plan to avoid getting the laminate flooring scratched. It's not a sacrifice if the blanket gets damaged, since the dog won't mind more tears. Its earlier incarnation was a kid size quilt Mom made when Steph was a toddler, solid red on the back, cut up chunks of old men's suits on the other, sewn around the edges, and the insides all tied to each other with knots of yellow yarn. For almost 50 years it's been indestructible, kinda.

Then I tackled what turned out to be double boxes for the new stove. First came removing the plastic straps holding everything together, but that happened the day of delivery. Simple enough, already in a landfill. Now came wedging Rich's tool under the staples, working them up and loose and straightened enough to be pried out fairly easily. In the process I realized that this box could come straight up off the bottom base box, since straps had been the only thing besides a mild dose of gravity holding it around the inside box. By then the staples were removed, however, but no biggie. I just needed Rich's help on the opposite side of the box for a straight up lift so stuff wouldn't damage the wall or what was attached to it. After folding that up, Rich took it outside to wait for next recycle day. More chunks of cardboard in various sizes and shapes are still scattered around, awaiting the same treatment. 

When the time came to do the second box, I just wasn't into it any more. That was reinforced by the wording on opposite sides of that box stating it could just be cut across, down at the bottom, and lifted off the oven, similar to what had just been done with the outer shipping box. Had I been ambitious enough, I could have cut the bottom on one or two sides, but that would have been a lot of work for somebody whose knees still hate being on the floor. The other two sides were crammed against the sofa and wall, so no joy there. No, I can't slide that pallet over our floor, even if I wanted to risk scratches.

The installer could do it. After all, my instructions never included anything about opening the boxes for him ahead of time, just masks and distancing and stuff, plus where they thought the oven should be before he arrived. (No, even after reading that, I still can't  move the thing.) They haven't seen my tiny kitchen, have they? Not only would the oven have left no room in the kitchen for us to get in and prepare food, had it already been there the old one would have had no place to be set once removed. The new one remained boxed and right inside the front door, no further away from the hole it was going into than it might have been in any standard size kitchen. Our installer even agreed with leaving it there.

There were discoveries in the process. First, he located the electric plug in the back wall behind the oven, since even gas ovens need electricity. Lest you think that's only to be expected, may I remind you that the old dishwasher we replaced last spring had actually been hardwired into the house's wiring, no plug and outlet intervening. That installer created a new outlet and plugged the dishwasher in. This one didn't need to do that. So one good thing happened. 

The blanket worked so well for the old oven that he asked if we had one for the new one as it got slid around the floor, being also mindful of our desire to end the process with unmarked flooring. My other blankets are fit only for light bedding, being mostly thermal in nature, but I came back with a thick "bath sheet" towel. Perfect! And a nice dark blue in case of any dirt of whatever, something more likely from the floor than the oven. And yes, that area was washed after I returned home for fall. Still....

But the final discovery called a screeching halt to the process. The new oven was too wide for the hole! Yes, both are 24" across the front. Exactly. But that's on the front outside. The inner, hidden part wouldn't slide into the hole. Along both sides are what look like rubber bulges, maybe over screws or something, or maybe just something to help keep the oven stable in distance out all around from the cabinet it sits in. They don't give when pushed and bounce back. They make everything just a bit too wide for the hole. But hey, the vertical part, the measurement we were most concerned with, is just perfect with the trim panel we ordered!

Whoopee.

It's just a bit over an eighth of an inch total that we need to find room for. Ideas? No, rebuilding the cabinet is not an option. Our new countertop fits flush on one side, the wall on the other. But wait.... The wall side is lined with what looks to be, behind the front trim strips (aka veneer) a double thickness of particle board. If those bumps were lined up instead of randomly splotched all over the sides, we could cut out channels where they are and slide it in. Otherwise, maybe just gouge a wide section going back, large enough to encompass all the bumps within it. Or split out the particle board and replace with thinner without wrecking that wall or anything. No biggie, you know. 

Uh huh, yeah, sure.

Rich has a friend with maybe the right tool(s) for either option... if he'd just answer his phone, consult with Rich, and loan the tool(s) or come assist. We don't know yet. The installer left with apologies for being prevented from finishing, and gave us the info for being able to come back himself to finish when we had the kitchen ready, since we asked. He already knew the issues. He also had a few strongly felt comments for whoever gives only the outside measurements of their wall mount oven to a buyer without giving internal measurements needed for their particular  model, when it's made to replace an old one in an already built space.

Oh wait - it's there in tiny print on the very last page of the book of installation instructions and specifications in however many languages. So helpful. This must be comedy, since timing is everything.

So now: one old oven is in pieces on a blanket clogging the entryway between kitchen and dining space, the wheeled chair for Steve's use while puttering in the kitchen which usually sits there is now displaced into the remaining snug aisle between counters, the new oven sits on a towel blocking the front closet, fortunately hardly ever used, that space mostly allowing access to the front door (as if!!) or living room on the side now to any person who can squeeze through sideways. The recycle sorting boxes usually in a small part of that space have been moved down the hallway to line the wall to the den/library, and the remains of the new stove box, not to be confused with its shipping box, sitting where it was first placed, on a pallet, but bits now sticking out wildly in several directions, making passage between kitchen and living room on that side just a touch more problematic than before it was ripped apart by the installer - not as neat as I am - as well.

Confused? At least you don't have to live here right now! The old oven and empty boxes will go away first. I, at least, can handle the box part, though now I have to remove those copper staples so it's fit for recycling. Cardboard will haunt the carport for nearly two weeks till next pickup. The old oven will go away after getting it curbside and agreeing to pay our garbage company. Fingers crossed on getting that new oven fitted in properly, inexpensively, and without further damage. And let's not mention that front door.

We still have what we had before for cooking - microwave, stove top, outside gas grill, toaster. There might even be a magnifying glass some place for solar food destruction. But Steve didn't go out as planned this morning for his Texas toast. Could he be psychic?

Twenty Years Ago Today

There is a  plethora of TV shows and news commentary on the 20th anniversary of 9/11. People are telling their stories, either of personal experiences, remembrances of family lost, or even where-were-you-then? kinds of tales. I thought I'd add mine. It's not dramatic, heroic, tragic. It's just observations on the day, looking back through a cloudy glass of shriveled memory, by one who never felt personally threatened, since who would bother to attack Minnesota?, not involved except dimly, and unlike most of the world, only got occasional glimpses of TV screens and those gathered around them, so didn't have all those images drilled indelibly into their psyche. Just a few.

It was a typical September day, blue skies, few clouds, mild weather. I was starting my day with a pickup at a medical facility in Stillwater. I'd just parked my car in front of the building - we couriers have license to do that right in the driveway - and before I could turn the radio off the program was hesitantly interrupted with an announcement that it appeared that a plane had flown into one of the twin towers. It hadn't been too long before that where some small plane had hit a building, so I left my car with the impression that the same thing had happened again. Why don't they learn?

As I picked up my package, the woman behind the desk commented that it was really tragic, wasn't it? I agreed, not quite sure why she was reacting so strongly to a small plane/building crash. By the time I returned to my car, they were able to clarify that it looked like an attack, since another plane had crashed into the other tower. And these were commercial passenger jets, not little 4-seaters.

On the drive in, information began to build. Fires, people jumping to quick deaths rather than risk burning to death slowly since there was no way out other than down,  planes being grounded, another plane flying into the Pentagon. Even later, a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania, puzzling since it wasn't even near a strategic target.

Much of that information wasn't yet being broadcast when I made my first phone call, this one to Mom. It was around 8:30 CDT, and I knew she and Daddy always were up an hour earlier at least. I also knew they didn't watch morning TV. After the usual preliminaries, I told her to turn on the TV. She asked me why, but I didn't want to break the news myself, just told her there was important news. What channel was it on? I said, "It doesn't matter. It will be on all the channels. Pick one you like for your news. I gotta go." They, like everyone else, spent as much of the day as they could tolerate watching TV. I was different. I caught glimpses, but stayed tuned to MPR, public radio news, to hear bits and snatches of the events while I drove around working. (Later stories emerged of cases of PTSD from too much TV watching. I no longer felt like I'd missed out, simply grateful I'd caught just enough visually.)

I still had to work. By the time I got to my drop, everybody seemed to have the news. Throughout the day, every building I walked into, whether front desk or shipping, normally-business-only employees were glued around TV sets never before visible on the premises. They all spoke in hushed tones, wore serious faces, moved slowly when they had to go about some business.

By late morning I was about as far across the metro area east-to-west as I could get from where I started, making some forgettable delivery to a large church in Wayzata. Twenty years ago my knees could still tolerate all the stairs leading up to what was the main entrance for both the sanctuary and office. Straight ahead, in an otherwise empty open space, a small TV sat on a pedestal. Nobody there to sign for a delivery, but rather than search further I was riveted to the screen by the sight of one of the towers collapsing. The "experts" on the radio had just been pontificating about how the towers were constructed, and how they couldn't fall, just the upper stories would burn, still terrible, etc. etc., etc. Here in front of me was one standing tall emitting large plumes of smoke while the other one pancaked straight down, one floor at a time. Then it repeated. And repeated.

After I finally found somebody to receive my package, and left the same way I entered, that TV was still showing the tower dropping. Or maybe by then it was the second one. By that time, the rest of my day was a blur. Details were added, refuted,  corrected, building an increasingly clear picture of how we'd been attacked, and who'd been heroes by bringing their plane down before it could do the intended damage, how we knew because some had cell phones and reached out. Speculation was rife on whodunit and why,  body counts, bridges closed, what all might be drifting down from the fires, how cops and fire fighters had turned out, what it was like after climbing down one of the tower staircases before it collapsed, who didn't make it out, what bosses had done to keep people on site too long, who ran in and who ran away, and so forth.

A few people spoke of how awful it was to try to breathe the air, how long it took to walk across a bridge to get away from the site, how difficult it was to reach anybody due to cell towers being overwhelmed, how much dirt came in around their closed windows, how horrible it was to know somebody who'd been in the towers at the time, how "there but for the grace of God...." 

Some people were stranded for days when all the plans were immediately grounded, so the airwaves were filled with stories a little less horrific that what we'd just been through. A bonus of the groundings was not having any contrails in the sky, giving interested scientists a chance to study how much airplanes were affecting our weather. The rest of us just appreciated bluer skies. And more quiet. Any peace was welcomed.

It took way too long for the physical, health consequences of being on the scene registered. Nobody admitted it was  anything more than paper from burning business files, maybe ashes from wood furniture, a bit of jet fuel. Nothing like aerosolized concrete, chemicals from plastics and fluorescent bulbs, vaporized people. Nothing requiring lung protection. That lesson was learned long after, and somehow those casualties are still not counted in the death tolls from that day.

One story sticks with me in particular. A couple of women spent their vacation starting just before the attacks hiking the Appalachian trail, totally without modern conveniences like cell or satellite phones for communication, just the necessities for surviving and appreciating the glory around them. When challenged by friends and family before leaving, wouldn't they miss their phones?, they laughingly replied what would they possible be missing?  It wasn't like President Bush was going to declare war or something, right? Once they finally emerged, they entered a small country store, where the newspapers had huge banner headlines "Bush Declares War!"

Unfortunately much of America decided to declare war on Muslims. If 19 of them were involved, wasn't everybody? We shipped off all the Bin Ladin family safely to Saudi Arabia while closing borders to a religion. Many needed somebody to blame, somebody to wreak personal vengeance on, not somebody already dead from the attack, and struck blindly, senselessly. Our leaders declared war on an idea, terrorism, invaded two countries, and in doing so losing the support of most of the rest of the world, yet another casualty of the attack. Twenty years later we finally withdrew from Afghanistan, ending our longest  and unwinnable war, leaving us easily open to the charge that we were on the losing side of that attack three times.

So now we are left with the commemoration, the veneration of the victims, the education of those who are too young to have had the experience of it, and maybe just possibly, a broader perspective on the world and the consequences of our actions in it. 

One can always hope.

Ever Get That Feeling?

You know the one, when everything piles upon the next and the next and the next. It's the point when you just can't take on another thing no matter how simple or easy it might be at any other time. The things needing done that might actually involve what's going on are virtually impossible. You'd escape in sleep or reading or nonsense TV but even those things take monumental effort and you can't even get into them if you try because everything is whirling around demanding attention you don't think you have to give but which they manage to drag out of you anyway.

Naw, me neither.

Just kidding. That was my 2nd half of yesterday. Literally. It lasted past midnight.

I did manage to fight through to make a couple phone calls however. First was to the people at Wayfair to complain about the door, give all the details about what happened and finding out what would be done to correct it. Turns out the delivery company was responsible, I needed to get three quotes on fixing it, and they'd check back in with me in a week (!) to see how it was going because vacation, you know, started in less than two hours. During the conversation the front door popped open again, of course, showing that the heavy jug on the floor wasn't enough to keep it in place. It also yielded my personal directed inspection of door and frame to try to establish just what had gotten damaged, which yielded nothing more than laughter at my description of how the paint seal along the inside wall/frame joint was undisturbed. Sigh.

I did manage, during the conversation, to garner enough brute force to shove the door back into place enough that with more force I could turn the deadbolt and hold the door in place. It still wasn't good enough to let it simply latch, even after engaging the deadbolt. Much more effort allowed me to unbolt the door, so I quickly rebolted it and declared the front door off limits just in case repeated activity busted something in the frame further and we'd be stuck with a free exchange of outside air for days. Apparently any fix is going to take a while. Too many 109 degree days are expected. For the duration we get to go through the house and out the back door, over very uneven ground which is very hard on Steve. Rich is working on clearing a better path through his room to the carport door as I type this.

He got an ultimatum.

Next call was to Home Depot to try to get ahold of some mythical somebody who knew something about doors and installation or fixes, who might even have some idea about what it would take to fix a door refusing to close, and where I needed to start about getting an evaluation and quote. I was eventually reassured (?) that my issue was in a note that would personally be placed on the right person's desk and I'd get a call by the next day for sure. Uh-huh. Sigh.

Lastly was my call to my insurance company. My goal was to pick their brains about how to start getting  the right people for repair quotes. While I was on the line I decided it was also time to see about the lug nut damage to the front siding. (Perhaps Adam really has been somehow "persuaded" to stop his attacks.) Luckily I had handy the copy of the police report from May with the case number on it. This woman periodically let me know she was sending me another email doing this and such for each next stage in the process, finally assuring me an adjuster would contact me and while dealing with the siding I could also pick their brain on the door, already having assured them that the door was not going to be their claim. At this point I don't even know if there will be a claim acknowledged on the siding damage or whether it will be more than the deductible. Oh, and three quotes on the door shouldn't be needed. One was insurance industry standard. As if that matters.

I knew there was a generous supply of emails in my in box. I just couldn't bring myself to open my email. Not for the whole rest of the day. It's coming up on 10 AM and I've opened one so far. It's the insurance company's request to send documents to me via email, and I've managed to enlarge it past a #3 font to readable size and click a couple necessary buttons. As soon as I discovered the very next email was identical, down to the claim number and font size, I simple deleted it and closed email. I'll get to the rest. Honest. Soon. 

Sigh.

But since I'm not cooling greater Phoenix, I'm choosing to be busy today, since nobody could be bothered to be busy yesterday. Steve's taking me out to lunch. I'm running a couple loads of donations to a local thrift shop. I'm going to order up a dumpster for the driveway for throwing out a whole lot of stuff needing tossing, starting with the current wall oven as soon as it's removed for the installation of the new one, Sunday morning. Beats waiting for October 1st. I at least got that changed. Plus I finally pined down Wayfair to contact the installation folks and got the assurance that they would be taking the old one out too, since both gas and electric connections needed to be dealt with. They just take it out, not away. There's enough junk here to merit that dumpster and getting it all hauled out at once. I even have visions of trimming back some overgrown bushes that went overboard in their growth in response to the 4" plus of rain during the monsoon season. It hasn't rained since, with no sign of doing so, and they can't support the current growth. To survive at all, it's clip clip clip, haul away. I get up early enough to both just barely see the branches and tolerate the temperature. Besides, I had a little experience over the summer.

Well, at least I get up early enough when I can mentally settle down enough to get to sleep!

Sigh.

So We Traded An Oven For A Door?

Good news - bad news. 

Good news is the oven was delivered early. They guaranteed it by October 1st. It came this morning. No installation, just a pair of boxes in the way.

Bad news is there was a loud "crack" when it came through the front door, suspended on a pallet, tilted back on two wheels, up and over the threshold and twisted a bit too soon, before it was in all the way. Now the wooden front door, the only thing separating us from today's 109 degrees since our other front door is a hardware cloth kind of screen, great for security but no insulating value whatsoever, no longer closes enough to offer even that . Our wood door kinda goes into its slot, but the top leans toward the inside and the bottom - well, I first had to move its bottom trim strip over toward the hinge side so it would close at all, because it stuck way out past the frame, but only just barely closes. The combination, even after Rich worked on it for about 15 minutes before he ran out of ideas, leaves the front door unable to latch. The merest hint of a breeze, even the neighbor's sneeze from across the street, I'm sure, blows it back open. You can almost see the money pouring through the gap.

We can't locate exactly what cracked. Just the result. We thought one of the rubber wedges we own would keep it closed. Nope. I thought about duct tape, but am loath to leave behind all the adhesive marks either as an add-on or a paint remover. So right now there's a gallon plastic bottle of weed killer which sits behind it on the floor as a barrier to its opening more than a fraction. Still, our 81 degrees is flowing out and the 109 degrees is muscling its way in. When it's time to carry out the garbage or get in the car or whatever, it's now a hike out the back patio door, through the fence gate, and on into the front yard. Need I add, shoes definitely required?

THANKS WAYFAIR!

Not.

 

Things I'm Not Supposed To Know

Nobody is. But it's being whispered around, and Rich passed it on to us.

Adam, his assailant, has not been seen anywhere by anyone in the homeless community for 5 days now. One simple explanation is he got so scared at what he'd done that he skipped town. It's an easy explanation, though it doesn't give closure. An arrest and a long sentence would give closure. But we may never know.

Incidentally, Rich is recovering, moving a little more easily each day. His post - ER doctor's visit was this afternoon, and it went well enough. It will still be a while until he's back to himself, particularly since he's overworking himself. But no actual damage is being done, just a longer recovery.

The previous two paragraphs are not in the "not supposed to know" category. Just a bit of framework.

Rich has made a lot of friends in the local homeless community. He's been there (homeless) himself, and has used his skills to help them, finding things they needed and giving them away to those who could use them, always with respect. Sometimes there is a barter of sorts, as he will put word out about what he himself could use, and someone knows where it can be located. Sometimes there is a small fee when it can be afforded. Sometimes it's a gift of goodwill.  A single example is one man who has back problems who'd been sleeping on a thin blanket over rocks in a nearby river bottom - meaning a dry riverbed of course, high enough to remain so even in monsoon weather. Rich found several thrown away rugs, toted them over to this man to put under his bedding, layered  for a substitute mattress. Weeks later we got word his back felt better. There are many more instances.  Rich doesn't brag about his good deeds.  But he definitely has friends.

Adam hasn't made them. In fact, he's made so many enemies among so many people, and this latest attack was so egregious, that the word is out that he'd been "green lit." The homeless community, so often the brunt of uneven justice, has supposedly developed its own code. To be green lit isn't just evicted.  It means license among the community to make him permanently gone, in a way that he will never be found again. Nobody is saying that's what has happened to Adam, of course. But local lore holds that it has been known to happen, and that there are people out there who will undertake seeing that kind of justice imposed. And who will see that in is never known about, just part of local lore. The supposed fact that no bodies have been found under river bottoms is touted as a reason to believe that being "green lit" is a sentence carried out without consequences for those who partake.

Then again, if Adam heard the word, he'd be smarter than I suspect he may be to head out of town and never look back. Heck, fear of the local cops should do that right now.

As for us, we're not about to step down our vigilance. A long jail sentence would be closure. This keeps us looking over our shoulders, looking for that white chevy pickup, waiting for the next attack or piece of vandalism. If that is no longer necessary,  despite no arrest, I don't want to know. Everything I've just written about his possible fate is just rumors. 

Absolutely. Just rumors.

So We Ordered An Oven

If you've been keeping up, you know we have no usable oven. Gas guys condemned the old one. After way too much "fun" trying to locate something that fits in the cabinet the old wall oven still sits in, a spot with no room for any size adjustments without totally demolishing the kitchen, I finally located one which fits... pretty much. It's just a hair less tall, but they make a cover plate matching the oven finish. For an extra fee, of course.

After checking both locally and online, this was the only oven which fit our needs. It even came with a note in the description that it was meant to fit the niche left behind by older ovens needing to be replaced when nobody else makes something to fit anymore. 

We had a choice of three colors: black, stainless, and white-by-another-name. We chose stainless. Or at least I thought we did. After calling the company and talking with their sales rep, I was informed the price was a couple grand higher than what showed on my screen. Could we send him a screen shot to prove our price? Ten minutes later it was managed. (Geezer delay.) While he went away to confer with a higher-up, I reloaded the page I had just shot, having mistakenly not opened a new tab to send that email. Lo and behold, the same page I'd just looked at had miraculously gotten an instant price increase. 

The good news is our sales guy came back and assured us the company would honor the price in our screen shot. The better news is in getting back to that page, we'd gone past one for the same thing in black, for $300 cheaper. Having had a long enough wait to discuss it with Steve, we informed him we were changing our color choice to black, and thanks anyway for honoring your earlier price. We'd saved enough that our budget now included the warranty package, extending a few years past our intended use, and their guaranteed installation.

It is expected to be delivered and installed October 1. It turns out that this is plenty of time for the company to e-bomb us with all kinds of ads for other expensive products. Every day. Some days more than once. Craftily hidden in the barrage is the very occasional notice of importance, details on the delivery, for example. It's just often enough to make sure I can't erase their emails without a quick look. It stops there however, and as soon as we're done with them, it will all get marked as spam. We still haven't won the lottery, so our budget rules.

So I still read the e-bombs. The most recent one was all about reassuring us of the covid precautions their delivery people would be taking. They would be washing their hands at least twice a day (big whoop), hand sanitizing, leaving the machine outside the door for social distancing "as we requested" - though we're paying an extra small fee for them to put it inside the door - not in the kitchen, just inside the front door - since we've been having the vandalism issues. All kinds of reassurances on their part to make us happy we'd chosen their company. 

All except one. There is no mention of their delivery people masking for the delivery. All the other stuff they mentioned isn't what really counts. Masking is what protects us.

So I sent them a return email, "suggesting" that they inform our delivery crew that we would appreciate them masking up. After all, we would be doing the same thing inside our house during the delivery, extending the same courtesy to them.

Turns out their email system isn't set up to receive any replies. It bounced back, unread. 

Of course it did.

Sigh....

What's In A Dog's Name?

There are so many ways to name your pet dog. Some people love human names, others loathe them. Some go for cute, others for something sounding vicious. Some watch the dog for a bit and try to pick out a behavior or personality description, or describe their appearance. Others will say call it anything but a word pronounced with a long "o", because it sounds like "no" and confuses them.

(Koda, are you listening from dogie heaven?)

I'd suggest there are as many names for dogs as there are dog owners, but simple arithmetic doesn't back that up. First, those of us who love dogs usually have more than one, either together or in sequence, even both, which argues for more names than owners. But second, many names are chosen by whole bunches of different people, arguing that there are fewer dog names than owners. And if you really, really must keep naming all your dogs "Ralph" or something, it totally screws up any of the arguments. But come on, who cares?

I love picking names for my dogs, but sometimes they come to me with names already, since so many are adopted. I could choose to change the name, but it seems to be too much bother teaching the dog its new name, unless the old one is totally obnoxious. And cats are even worse! Don't get me started on how hard it is to even get a cat to acknowledge its first name, not to mention changing it on them. 

When the latest dog arrived with my name, everybody at the shelter laughed, assuming I'd immediately change it. Even I thought I would. But then....

She needed her free, post-adoption well visit at the vet before I'd come up with something new for her. Her vaccination record and new license were recorded under our name. So I just did the easy thing and let it go. Since covid mandated making appointments, sitting in the parking lot until your time rolled around, being asked upon opening the door if you had the appointment opening right then, and what your name was to prove you were allowed in the door, I simply told them I was Heather and she was Heather too. Of course they all laughed, but they also entered her into their records as "Heather Too."

It's stuck.

It's never been a problem, at least inside the household. The grandkids love her attention and a chorus of my/our name echoes across the yard incessantly when they visit. I often have to stop myself from answering, remembering they don't call me anything but ''Grandma." But at home it's "Mom," "Love," "Honey,", and such. Meanwhile Heather Too answers promptly to just "come," "out," "ready?" "in," "Sweetie," ''Girl," "Good Girl," "Good Dog," and most reliably, "Come Get A Treat!"

So why mess with her name?

Cruelly Insane! (A Rant)

No matter what your ideas on abortion are, the current Texas ban really has nothing to do with preserving life. It may walk like a duck, talk like a duck, but it's really a raspy voice in a suit of feathers over a waddling wolf. It's about POWER - nothing less. Not about life.

Even if we assume more children are born in the next 8 months than before as a percent of started pregnancies, or however long this law stands, the same people behind the ban are also making sure that those children are coming into a world where the adults around them will be doing their very worst to make sure that whichever variants of covid there are out there at the time will easily find them and have a chance to kill or at least damage them. They celebrate controlling other women's bodies while they whine about ruling their own bodies by being free to not vaccinate, not wear a piece of cloth on their face to prevent spreading a deadly disease to others including  those pregnant who might as a result miscarry, have a stillbirth, or a baby fighting for its life even before their first breath and requiring intensive healthcare support for who knows how long a term. Those same people are also doing their worst to destroy the livability of the planet these new babies will be trying to survive on. Not only that, but by increasing the overpopulation problem, those children will have to fight even harder for a sustainable share of limited resources. Every way, more will die once they get here. 

They will suffer in the process.

The "success" of the ban will be distributed unequally across the population. Rich women never have to be denied abortions, since money will find a way. It's going to be the poor who can't afford to travel, take the time off work, and find child care for existing children, who are the ones who will have to struggle with the extra mouth feed or find a back alley abortionist and risk their own life and health in the process. Rapists who impregnate their victims will have free rein to propagate wildly, then turn around and claim parental rights, an excuse to maintain contact ( aka terrorism) with their victims.

Women will die, whether from the complications of the pregnancy they want to abort for medical reasons, or from seeking out illegal methods. Because woman will still seek abortions. Children will suffer, whether from being unwanted and more vulnerable to abuse, or from impoverishment giving them and their siblings even smaller portions of limited resources. And the rabidly extreme Christian right will smugly ignore all that and pat themselves on the back for "saving" them. Don't call them the Texas Taliban. There is no Taliban in Texas. There are a lot of extremely religious folk who call themselves Christians. So little of what they do or believe is actually Christ-like, a better name for them might be "Christianists." While they "think" that they are being virtuous, doing what Jesus taught, they haven't bothered to read their Bibles. Jesus never taught against abortion. Never. And you can be sure we was well-read in the teachings of what we now call the Old Testament, where there are instructions on what women should take to induce an abortion.  If you want to counter that with the "be fruitful and multiply" text, well, mission accomplished, eh? It makes sense when there are only two. How many billions of us does it take to override that instruction?

Let's throw in a dose of heavy irony here. The same people making that anti-abortion law are the ones making the voting restrictions laws, not even bothering to hide these days that they believe only the white folk should be allowed a voice. Demographics show the increase in people with darker skin tones in this country. The right wing admits they can't win elections if they are held fairly, especially since they are so extreme right now that only a minority of the country are left who like their views. But the people most likely to be forced to grow their population faster by this abortion ban, the ones already on the bottom of the economic totem pole who can't afford the go-arounds, are the very ones those white supremacists most fear: those with darker skins.

And for those supremacists, the darker-skinned people are still only good enough for one thing: being their slaves. Maybe not legally, at least not yet, but as close as they can make them be, given non-living wages, shrinking safety nets, and by snatching away all their available power to give to the white folks. It's not hidden, not a secret. They're getting so bold now that they've even forgotten to quit saying the quiet parts of their scheming out loud. (Think of this as an indication of their stupidity.)

We can fight. We MUST fight. For those of you who wish to eliminate abortion, recall that President Clinton said that the best way to stop abortions is to eliminate the need for them. Promote good healthcare for women. This includes good education about and access to reproductive care and birth control. it's about proper nutrition for both mother and fetus, proper family support so the decision is not a forced economic one when children can't be fed and clothed. It's about fair wages for women so they don't have to try to raise children and work three jobs.  It's not about penalizing the women who get raped, carry a damaged fetus, are too young, or have health concerns, whether physical or mental, which mean carrying a fetus to term causes the woman harm. It doesn't mean adding all kinds of extra requirements which add unnecessary cost, embarrassment, intrusion on their privacy, treat them as stupid, or create fake reasons like claims of post abortion depression, or that a fetus can survive at 15 weeks or some other arbitrary age not founded in science or medical experience. It means keeping our own noses completely out of any medical decisions we are not a participant in, either by being the patient or the doctor.

Above all, it means getting out and voting!!!!!!!!!!  Choose less cruel and more sane decision makers!!!

Loop Mail: Oh, De Joy!

The USPS seems to have another change we didn't know about. We used to have to notify the home PO to forward mail, and the away PO when it was time to stop the forwarding. You did it early enough that it had time to get into the system (which we did do) and by the time you arrived home your mail either was being held or being delivered, depending on which box you checked.

We filled out the cards and gave them to the postal clerk in tiny Shafer. She never breathed a word about our need to also notify the home PO to stop forwarding our mail. There was no longer a box on the form to check for holding your mail for pick-up. The deliver-to-home date was a couple days before I even left Minnesota, figuring that Rich was checking in daily at the house, was still getting his own mail there, and it would be no biggie. Since Steve's flight was still a week after my departure, I figured any mail still heading north would be brought down with him.

A week after I returned, I was still getting no mail here. It was when I tried calling the home PO that I discovered 1) that they had changed their number, 2) that my phone had problems. By then, and after the hassle of trying to improve phone service, it was too late in the day to actually go to the PO.

There was stuff to deal with the next day, so it was late morning before I hit the PO. Their clerk, 1 of 4, was very helpful. She quickly filled our names on a new orange form, took it back, and came back with the news there was no mail for us waiting. (Interestingly, there was mail for me in the afternoon delivery.)

Then she told me about what had been happening in the more than 2 weeks since I filled out the original form. First, everything had been sent north. Second, anything reaching north had been sent back south. Then, everything arriving south had again been sent north, and around and around. It's called "loop mail." 

It's apparently fairly common. She's well practiced in explaining it. While I was at the counter waiting for her to come back front, the next person down was going through the same thing. Just another way of messing with speedy mail service, in the name of "saving money." Like traveling around the country in a repeating loop is saving anybody anywhere money.

Damn good thing there wasn't an election happening, eh?  Thanks, De Joy!

Recovering

If you didn't read the previous post, go get caught up.

Recovering  means all of us. Rich has no broken bones, so no worries about ribs puncturing anything. Pain is a different thing. And we know soft tissue damage can take longer to heal. In the daylight, I can now see the holes in the shirt he was wearing that are only a hint of how much damage his back took. It was his favorite tee shirt, and I've ordered its replacement for his  upcoming birthday.

I'm finally caught up on sleep, at least enough to think I can think straight. That might be another catch 22.

Steve is not doing well yet after his plane ride. Yes, 3 days in the car would have been worse, but immobilized in his airplane seat was, minute per minute, worse. He goes to his doctor in a few hours for other things, and sees the eye doc later in the month to start whatever the process for his cataract. He'll have to wait for an insurance approval to start dealing with the new back issues.

The dog is fine, now that all her people are home. She's missed Steve this last week-plus.

We all are still wary. Adam is still out and about, not in custody. Amanda finally let us know she was OK and home after helping clean up the scene, so we are relieved on her account - for now.