Sunday, September 30, 2007

Bless Me Father

Ooooops, just logged onto e-mail. I have a cut and paste error here. The whole thing is on my memory stick, which I forgot at a cafe last weekend, so I will repost the whole thing this weekend when I get it back.











For I Have Sinned.

God, as you know it has been nearly twenty four years since my last confession. You know this is because;

1) I am still performing the penance the priest gave me the last time I went.
2) You know I decided a long time ago that I do not need anybody to intercede with you when I want to reflect on my sins.
3) You know I am not sorry for most of the stuff the church thinks I should be.

So, at any rate these are my sins, they're worse than last time...

Last time, I told the priest, and he told you, that I hated someone. Now to your credit, you told Father Jerry to ask me why I hated this person. How is father Jerry by the way? He was very good with dealing with high school freshmen about to embark on the commitment of Confirmation to Catholocism. I have not seem or heard of him since he was shuffled off to whereever he got sent when he decided he wanted to be a husband more than he wanted to keep an arcane vow.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Resentment

At the end of July I was fired from my job. It was a welcome relief from a bad situation. I believed I had accepted a full time permanent position with medical benefits. The benefits never materialized. The hours were erratic, and often less than twenty per week. Further, I was treated to a constant barrage of abusive written and verbal reprimands regarding everything from my flagrant disregard for proper paper clip placement to my complete failure to properly complete sections of tax returns on which I had not worked. Yes, really. I had begun to try to find a part time job to supplement the income since I have the mortgage from hell. I felt I should stay as I thought I ought to shore up my resume with a little bit of longevity in a position. I know I am not a fuck up in any way shape or form, but life circumstances have made a mess of my work history. I feel like I have made a lot of professional missteps and I am just not really sure what I want to do with myself professionally anymore. The unemployment office here where I live is very supportive. They give all kinds of seminars, and advice, and there are all sorts of resources. I talked to them about my job history. They tell me not to worry about it at all, and by the way, no one in their right mind would have been comfortable with all the circumstances that have led to my freakish work related angst. I asked them if they have a seminar called "Weeding Out the Crazy" so that I can be sure not to get a job with a racist, or a misogynist, or a psycho overage skank bully, or a raving alcoholic, or a sleazoid pig, or a underhanded liar whose behavior is sanctioned by the work environment, or even worse the person who is in charge is guilty of one or all of these filthy sins. Truthfully, they did give me some good tips on questions to ask, and things to make note of during interviews. It has really given me a lot of confidence, but I still have not found anything that is a good fit for me.


Reluctantly, I signed up for unemployment, but I am worried about money, very worried. I do not have much cash anymore at all. I am angry because I spent a lot of money bailing my siblings and nieces and nephews out of various difficulties. Not a lot of money at one time, but it adds up. Also, I have very prudently made repairs to this house. But fixing a fixer upper is a cash-sucking endeavor. My sister has been out of work for almost two years. She did have a couple very brief stints in a couple positions. She really is gifted in her field, but she is not good at supervising. She cares too much about people liking her, and like a lot of people who are good at what they do, it is hard to shift to teaching and supervising others doing it from doing it yourself. So, she has faltered along, spending the money she got for her half of the house when I bought it, and collecting unemployment until it ran out. I feel angry with her for her failure to take care of herself. I feel angry with her for her clear expectation that I will swoop in and fix it, which I have been very good at avoiding for the most part. She has several health issues, many of which could be eliminated if she endeavored to do so, and others that can be well managed if she took medications as prescribed. But she is not responsible. I have tried very hard not to solve her problems, but to instead suggest what I might do in a similar situation. My friends advise me to stop worrying; they remind me I am not culpable for my sister’s circumstances, her choices, or the consequences of her choices. I know this, but it is not fun to watch her crash and burn. I gave her lots of advice such as contact your doctor to get free samples for the medications you need. Get a part time job. Clean out your couch cushions. Everything. Finally, she has gotten to the point where her health issues are so serious that she cannot work. So I told her to apply for help. I told her if she did not get some drugs soon, I would need some. She has applied for disability, disability insurance, food stamps, etc. etc. She has been approved for most of this stuff and will begin receiving benefits shortly. So she does not have to worry about health insurance, food, rent, or anything else. All she has to do is continue to not function and she has it made in the shade. This is not an option for me because in spite of the fact that my family has tried mightily, I am not mentally ill, though I am sure if I were I would take my fucking pills. I have no excuse for wanting or needing help except that I am a human being and I am scared.


I resent this, heartily. I have always worked very hard to take care of myself, and I am mystified by people who do not even consider the idea that they need to get their shit together and make their way through life. I am sick of it always being poor you; I am worried about you, etc. When our parents died several people told me they were worried about her, and wanted to know what I was going to do to take care of her, and so on. Why the fuck doesn’t anybody ever worry about me, and feel obligated to take care of me? Why doesn’t anybody pay my bills, and buy my food, and bail me out of my mistakes? Why doesn’t anybody ever just call me up, and ask me how I am, and how they can help me? Why do I give a fuck about any of this? Right now I am angry with myself. My funds are seriously depleted and I am terrified of how I will pay my mortgage, and feed my cats, and gas my car. Yet, my sister did not in any way try to plan, or manage her money, or do anything to get her own ass in gear, and she ended up with no food. So I took her grocery shopping. I would do the same for anyone, but I was aggravated with her. While I do not think people should eat things that make them ill, I do think you should be a little mindful of the fact that if you want all name brand stuff, you need to get your ass a fucking job and buy it yourself. I do not buy myself the label brand of butter, or cereal, or milk, or much of anything. Minnie just wandered up and down the aisles, throwing items in the cart with no regard to economy, practicality, or reasonableness. That annoyed the shit out of me. Finally, I told her; "you know, I don’t have a job either." I am terrified that she is going to ask me to come live here. I have no idea how I will survive telling her no. But I know I will definitely not survive telling her yes. I would never make such a nuisance of myself, or impose on people like she does. It is very painful and difficult to me to love and care about someone who does not seem to even consider how burdensome they are to me. I am trying to look out for number one without feeling like number two, but I really just wish I had somebody to look out for me.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Shameless Product Endorsement

Through the process of being a home owner of a fixer upper that also was my childhood home, where things were not so good for a lot of my childhood, I have learned a lot. I have always been a neat freak, but I have had to learn some heavy duty cleaning type stuff. I have become an expert at dumpster rental. I have learned about clearing brush. I own and know how to use probably as many tools as Norm Abram at this point. I hate painting trim. Contractors drive me nuts. I will probably drop dead from shock if I ever get a contractor who shows up on time, does what they are hired to do, in the time they said it would take, does not break any of my stuff, cleans up after themselves, and does not come up with any other stuff that "needs" to get done.


My roof looks great, it is working very well at protecting my house, but my roofer pissed me off. It was some of the longest three days of my life dealing with him and his crew. I should have fired him before he even started, but I was desperate to get the roof done immediately, and I just could not wait to hire someone else. I had seen his finished work, and it was good. He showed up, unannounced, half in the bag, a few days before he was supposed to start, dumped a bunch of equipment in my yard, on top of tarps and equipment I had in my yard, and put a generator in my rickety ass garage. I did not want anyone in my rickety ass garage or fucking up my ladder, tarps, and other tools. While they were here, I was unable to get in my house because they felt the need to simultaneously accumulate their debris on the front and back porches. They also decided to unplug the motor home, which needed to stay plugged in to keep the mechanicals in it from deteriorating and unplug a freezer full of food as well. My favorite part was that he and his crew kept parking on the grass, when I told them not to do so. The capper was when he told me I could not tell him he could not park on the grass because technically the first fifteen feet in can be annexed be the city through eminent domain so it is not mine anyway. This is wrong in that the land potentially subject to eminent domain for the purpose of widening in the road is not anywhere near fifteen feet in my town, and also, IT IS MY FUCKING YARD! The day I came home and found they had unplugged the motor home, which is quite a feat, instead of using the extension cord, and outlets I told them they could use, was the last straw. I was visibly livid. He asked me what he could do, I told him he could finish the roof and get the fuck out of my yard. I handled that well, huh?


My electricians were great, they did everything I asked, including some stuff they did not have to do, like pull all the old TV and CB antennas down for me while they were up the ladder hooking up the new service. They always showed up when they said the would, cleaned up after themselves, and even told the plumber to stop being a pain in my ass. So that worked out very well. Unfortunately, they are high end and very busy, so I had to find another electrician to come and do the little stuff I need help with as those things pop up. They are good too, but I keep finding little wire carcasses all over the place after they are here.


The plumber, what a freaking prima donna. After this experience I decided I am going to marry a plumber because mine was always on vacation in exotic locations, had all kinds of high tech equipment and trucks, a huge house, as did his ex-wife, and he worked about 72 minutes per day three days a week. Suhweet. Sounds like lotsa fun to be Mrs. Plumber. Being plumber’s customer not so fun. Plumber is a slob, plumber makes a fucking mess everywhere, and "will clean it all up when he is done." Yeah, fuck you, so I can either clean up after you or put up with piles of debris in my yard, my basement, my hallway, and my living room until you decide to get around to finishing. Also, so not cool that I caught him putting his tools on my couch. Dipshit!


The plumber is also the contractor thanks to whom I came up with the joke that when a contractor tells me a job will take two weeks, I need to be sure it is two weeks in a row. I hired him in early June, he started mid July, and when he had not yet shown up for the finish work he was scheduled to do the third week of August, I just had the electrician do it. He eventually called me to tell me he had been trying to get in touch with me. So not true, I have caller ID. I explained I figured he quit since he did not show up as scheduled, or call. So he told me ok, he will be right over to pick up his final payment. I printed out a spreadsheet of what I hired him to do, what I had paid him thus far, and docked him for all the shit the electrician did as well as all the shit he and his crew broke. I will be honest, the plumbing is great, the bathroom looks amazing, and it was the best money I ever spent.


When it came to the tile, they thought I was nuts, and gave me a lot of static. They finally shut up when I told them; "well, if it sucks, good for you, I write you another check to fix it, and you can say I told you so. Otherwise, all you have to do is tell me I am right." I think they were more enticed by the possibility of an "I told you so" than by the possibility of another check. They did what I said, and it came out amazing. It looks great, and they, as well as all the other contractors said "you were right." I did have them redo the grout because it was cracking and not filled well in some areas the first time. Rookie error, I did not know all the stuff to double check. Eventually, it seemed to me that the grout around the edge of the tub was crumbling. So, I made one of the grave tactical errors I have made since I became a homeowner. I half assedly caulked over it. So, of course, I ended up with caulk encased mold, which aggravated me no end, particularly since it was my own damn fault. I tried several things. Cleanser, liquid cleanser, bleach, shampoo, dish soap, laundry soap, old toothbrush, baking soda... At last, I found salvation. Tilex Mold and Mildew Remover. Buy It, Use It, Live It. It got rid of the mold. The edge of the tub is once again shiny and pristine. When the weather gets cold, I will pull out all the caulk and grout and regrout and reseal the edge of the tub, but until then, I am blasting the crud back to the Stone Age with the Tilex.

Shameless Product Endorsement

Through the process of being a home owner of a fixer upper that also was my childhood home, where things were not so good for a lot of my childhood, I have learned a lot. I have always been a neat freak, but I have had to learn some heavy duty cleaning type stuff. I have become an expert at dumpster rental. I have learned about clearing brush. I own and know how to use probably as many tools as Norm Abram at this point. I hate painting trim. Contractors drive me nuts. I will probably drop dead from shock if I ever get a contractor who shows up on time, does what they are hired to do, in the time they said it would take, does not break any of my stuff, cleans up after themselves, and does not come up with any other stuff that "needs" to get done.

My roof looks great, it is working very well at protecting my house, but my roofer pissed me off. It was some of the longest three days of my life dealing with him and his crew. I should have fired him before he even started, but I was desperate to get the roof done immediately, and I just could not wait to hire someone else. I had seen his finished work, and it was good. He showed up, unannounced, half in the bag, a few days before he was supposed to start, dumped a bunch of equipment in my yard, on top of tarps and equipment I had in my yard, and put a generator in my rickety ass garage. I did not want anyone in my rickety ass garage or fucking up my ladder, tarps, and other tools. While they were here, I was unable to get in my house because they felt the need to simultaneously accumulate their debris on the front and back porches. They also decided to unplug the motor home, which needed to stay plugged in to keep the mechanicals in it from deteriorating and unplug a freezer full of food as well. My favorite part was that he and his crew kept parking on the grass, when I told them not to do so. The capper was when he told me I could not tell him he could not park on the grass because technically the first fifteen feet in can be annexed be the city through eminent domain so it is not mine anyway. This is wrong in that the land potentially subject to eminent domain for the purpose of widening in the road is not anywhere near fifteen feet in my town, and also, IT IS MY FUCKING YARD! The day I came home and found they had unplugged the motor home, which is quite a feat, instead of using the extension cord, and outlets I told them they could use, was the last straw. I was visibly livid. He asked me what he could do, I told him he could finish the roof and get the fuck out of my yard. I handled that well, huh?

My electricians were great, they did everything I asked, including some stuff they did not have to do, like pull all the old TV and CB antennas down for me while they were up the ladder hooking up the new service. They always showed up when they said the would, cleaned up after themselves, and even told the plumber to stop being a pain in my ass. So that worked out very well. Unfortunately, they are high end and very busy, so I had to find another electrician to come and do the little stuff I need help with as those things pop up. They are good too, but I keep finding little wire carcasses all over the place after they are here.

The plumber, what a freaking prima donna. After this experience I decided I am going to marry a plumber because mine was always on vacation in exotic locations, had all kinds of high tech equipment and trucks, a huge house, as did his ex-wife, and he worked approximately 72 minutes per day three days a week. Suhweet. Sounds like lotsa fun to be Mrs. Plumber. Being plumber’s customer not so fun. Plumber is a slob, plumber makes a fucking mess everywhere, and "will clean it all up when he is done." Yeah, fuck you, so I can either clean up after you or put up with piles of debris in my yard, my basement, my hallway, and my living room until you decide to get around to finishing. Also, so not cool that I caught him putting his tools on my couch. Dipshit!

The plumber is also the contractor thanks to whom I came up with the joke that when a contractor tells me a job will take two weeks, I need to be sure it is two weeks in a row. I hired him in early June, he started mid July, and when he had not yet shown up for the finish work he was scheduled to do the third week of August, I just had the electrician do it. He eventually called me to tell me he had been trying to get in touch with me. So not true, I have caller ID. I explained I figured he quit since he did not show up as scheduled, or call. So he told me ok, he will be right over to pick up his final payment. I printed out a spreadsheet of what I hired him to do, what I had paid him thus far, and docked him for all the shit the electrician did as well as all the shit he and his crew broke. I will be honest, the plumbing is great, the bathroom looks amazing, and it was the best money I ever spent.

When it came to the tile, they thought I was nuts, and gave me a lot of static. They finally shut up when I told them; "well, if it sucks, good for you, I write you another check to fix it, and you can say I told you so. Otherwise, all you have to do is tell me I am right." I think they were more enticed by the possibility of an "I told you so" than by the possibility of another check. They did what I said, and it came out amazing. It looks great, and they, as well as all the other contractors said "Lana, you were right." I did have them redo the grout because it was cracking and not filled well in some areas the first time. Eventually, it seemed to me that the grout around the edge of the tub was crumbling. Rookie error, I did not know all the stuff to double check. So, I made one of the grave tactical errors I have made since I became a homeowner. I half assedly caulked over it. So, of course, I ended up with caulk encased mold, which aggravated me no end, particularly since it was my own damn fault. I tried several things. Cleanser, liquid cleanser, bleach, shampoo, dish soap, laundry soap, old toothbrush, baking soda... At last, I found salvation. Tilex Mold and Mildew Remover. Buy It, Use It, Live It. It got rid of the mold. The edge of the tub is once again shiny and pristine. When the weather gets cold, I will pull out all the caulk and grout and regrout and reseal the edge of the tub, but until then, I am blasting the crud back to the Stone Age with the Tilex.

Saturday, September 8, 2007

Santa Claus

I’ve been trying to figure out ways to help me cope in the clusterfuck that is life at work in America these days. There is all kinds of advice out there. All kind of information about how to breathe and how to stretch, and how to take "me" time at work. There is also the advice to bring small personal items to work to soothe yourself during the course of a workday. So I decided that some day when I actually get unpacked I am going to bring some pictures to work.

I have lots of photos, spanning generations of my family. I decided I want to bring one of my Mom and Dad, in it they are both actually younger than I am now. They are staring adoringly at each other, and have that little gleam in their eye that surely would have led to more siblings had my Mom not been spaded as I so eloquently put it. I also want to bring one of my cats, because I am sure it will be much easier for me to acquire 96 more and become the weird old lady with 98 cats if everyone knows I am a cat person. Finally, I decided I will bring a picture I have of me and Minnie on Santa’s lap.

I remember the day the picture was taken, but not precisely what year. Looking at the picture I am pretty sure it was the year that I was 6 and Minnie was two. I am thinking this was when it was because this was the summer that Minnie was sporting a partially self-inflicted mullet, and it is quite evident in the photo. It was in November, really on the heals of Halloween, and well before Thanksgiving, not to mention Christmas. I was sitting in our downstairs hallway petting our dog, whom my Mom referred to as the best babysitter we ever had. When I looked up and there was Santa! coming out of the dining room. Now, I will be honest with you, I was more nosy than amazed at the sight of him. The prior year nosiness had caused me to go on a covert search for my Mom’s perfume which I was not allowed to touch and had resulted in my being fully divested me of the notion of Santa, AND the Easter Bunny, AND the Tooth Fairy. So, basically, what I said was; "hey Daddy, how come you’re dressed up like Santa?"

Right then both my Mom and Dad and My Brother and Holly Hobby shushed me so that Minnie did not know it was Daddy. Then my Daddy took me in the dining room and told me why he was dressed up like Santa. See, my Dad was the stereotypical fat dude, often pressed into Santa duty. All happy and friendly, and profoundly gifted in dealing with children, particularly in the guise of Santa. Right up until the Christmas before he died, my Dad made many calls on every Christmas Eves to the children and grandchildren of friends and family, encouraging kids to go to bed early so he can keep his schedule and visit all the kids that night. Assuring them he and the reindeer adore the snacks the children had planned. So this year, some parents of a little boy who went to the same grammar school as me and Holly and My Brother, had asked my Dad to play Santa for their son.

He was in fourth grade, and he was very, very sick. He had cancer, and was going to die, and there was nothing to be done to help him get better. He was going to die soon, probably before Christmas. So, his Mommy and Daddy wanted to make a surprise for him. So my Dad agreed to do whatever he could to help them. That is why my Dad was dressed up like Santa in early November. My Dad actually owned a Santa suit, and a Santa sack. The boy’s Mommy and Daddy gave him presents to put in the sack. Before my Dad left, Minnie discovered him. She was so excited. She did not care if Santa had stuff for her. She did not know if was Daddy. She was just so excited. So my Dad told her he was visiting our town to double-check his list. He pulled me and Minnie onto his lap, and my Mom took our picture.

It is a really good picture, a Polaroid, that I had made into prints for me and Minnie the second Christmas after our parents died. My Dad is holding us both tightly, Minnie is in absolute hog heaven oblivious to the fact it is our Dad, and I am smirking smugly because I know it is him. My Dad is smiling, but his eyes are haunted and grateful. So, I figured this is a really good picture to bring to work with me. It always makes me smile. It reminds how absolutely beloved and wanted and cherished all of my parents children were to them, and it most importantly reminds me that work is inconsequential.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Bizarre

A day in my life...

My dermatologist has me use some stuff on my face at night to help deal with allergies. Somehow, as I slept I managed to get some in my right eye, I think. When I woke up, miraculously NOT at 4:20, my eye was stingy and I had the skin gunk all caked sexily in the corner of my eye. That’s how I get all my men, by the way. So I got up and took a shower, and put on my hypoallergenic moisturizer, and instilled my allergy eye drops. Realizing it was going to be a "bad allergy day" this was followed by mass consumption of both prescription and over the counter allergy remedies. Clarinex, is a gift from heaven, the pharmacist is your friend, and dosage guidelines are for wussies.

So all is well, I manage to bathe and dress myself, including contact lenses, without doing myself or anyone else any dire harm. The evil furries I live with apparently had a shedding ritual while I slept, as I got a face full of cat fur as I snuggled up to them on the couch to say goodbye for the day. I did this by kneeling down in front of the couch, of course, because those two ungrateful wretches were hogging the entire couch. I see other people with cats who curl up in cute little tiny balls. Not my kitties. Girly Kitty is fifteen months old now, and she and Mon Petit Amour are both bigger than the White Witch. Perhaps their personal trainers have advised them that they must completely stretch out in order to maintain the maximum ability to wreck my stuff when I am not home. Even though I am a cat Mommy, I am technically allergic to cats, and the nose full of fur was not a good addition to my already allergy critical day.

Benadryl, you can mix that with Sudafed and Clarinex, right?

Off I go to the Public Library to get my money’s worth on my taxes by using the free UNFILTERED wifi. I do not want the children and various and sundry other nosey people there to read my writing, or see how much time I waste on D-Listed. I always like to find a private table against the wall, not a carrel, or a shared area in the middle. All my regular spots were taken. So, I am wandering about, looking for a good place to compute with a reasonable expectation of privacy and access to an electrical outlet. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the coupon exchange area. Ah, the only thing I love more than coupons are coupons I don’t have to cut out. Score! So I am mindlessly looking for shampoo and cat litter coupons when a little old man wanders up to the table. He proceeds to chat my ear off as we shuffle through the coupons. Normally I do not mind little old men, or ladies, or anybody else, chatting with me when I am obviously out in public and available to be spoken with. However, this was a freak show.

During the course of shuffling through the coupons, he informed me how he used to be crippled by arthritis when he was younger. Then he began taking 30 vitamins a day, and now he is fine, and he is in better health now that he is 80, then when he was 30. I am a nerd, so I told him I was there to use my computer, and was looking for a plug, and happened upon the coupon joy. He told me I am very pretty, and if I don’t have a husband, I can come over his house and use my computer there. He then told me he is a widower. His wife died five years ago, and he was lonely, and nobody will come home with him. I expressed the requisite non-committal condolences to strangers who have just divulged that someone presumably precious to them has passed away. He then went on to tell me that it was awful because one of the neighbor ladies lured her away and beat her death. The neighbors think he did it, and he told the cops about the neighbor lady, but nobody believes him. Right about now I am wondering what else he is on besides vitamins. Seriously, if this guy were not an 80-year-old dude I could easily have kicked the shit out of, I would have run. Why do these people always find me? I need to learn to be more aloof, or at least look like I carry a gun or something.

So then I give up on the coupon situation, no cat litter relief to be found. I wander around again looking for outlets to plug in my laptop. I finally found an unused one in a little furniture grouping. There is already a guy there sitting on one of the couches. No biggie, this is a public place after all. So, I start to take my stuff out of my laptop case, and get plugged in to the outlet, and pull out my headphones. The guy who was already there invites me to sit next to him to share the table. I say; "no, I’ll just curl up here on the couch, just like at home." He tells me there are some open desks on the center of the library. I tell him I do not like to sit there in the middle. I like to sit against the wall so nobody can read what I am writing, or doing on my computer. He says; "ooh, are you looking at porn?" I tell him; "no, I just hate nosey people." So, eventually he goes away, or so I think. He comes back after I have moved my stuff on to the table, and then proceeds to keep trying to look at my laptop screen. He would have been sorely disappointed to see I was merely working on my resume and job hunting if he had been able to get a good peek. I just have no idea why weird people attach themselves to me. Maybe there just are no normal people, and I am not able to come to grips with that reality yet. Perhaps, I am flypaper for freaks, as I have long suspected. Perhaps, I am their queen, and have not yet come to grips with my own glaringly obvious eccentricities.

At the end of this surreal day I have bunkered down at home to reconcile my checkbook in my office. I am sitting there watching trashy TV. Where do they find these people? Who dresses these dorks? The lingo used to describe "seduction routines" sounds like a cross between a Star Trek convention and a Dungeons and Dragons symposium. So I am sitting there minding my own business, entering my receipts to Money, wondering how Mystery ever gets laid, when, all of a sudden, the ceiling fan makes a horrible racket, drops a couple feet, and spins around like a ball on a tether. Luckily, whatever caused this also broke the fan, and it goes off. After I assure myself I have neither pissed nor shit myself, other surefire ways by which I get my men by the way, I slither along the wall to turn off the switch for the fan.

Once I hit the wall switch for the fan, I happily ventured to the basement to shut off the breaker in my brand new breaker box. I try the switch labeled office, to no avail. After some experimentation, I manage to get the TV in the office to go silent. I had left it on very loudly so I could be sure when I had shut off the electricity to the office without running up and down the basement stairs every time I flicked a switch. Then I go upstairs and grab a pair of scissors to cut the only remaining wire that is holding the ceiling fan to the ceiling. I decide it may be best to leave the breaker for the office off. However, I discover some problems in the rest of the house. At first, I think there may be a breaker thrown that I did not notice, or perhaps when the ceiling fan careened about it caused other electrical items to short out.

After significant experimentation, much changing of unbroken bulbs, and intense swearing regarding the cost of replacement of apparently non-functioning air conditioners, televisions, and a computer, I discovered another quirk of my old house. When I had the electrical service updated, I had told the electricians my Dad had always told us the house had lot of strange configurations of the mechanicals, but was well constructed. All the contractors agreed, and when the new service went in, we transferred the labeling from the fuses to the breakers, knowing we had no freaking idea all each circuit entailed. Thanks to the ceiling fan calamity, I found out that all the outlets in one half of my living room, and all the outlets in three of the bedrooms on the main floor of my house are on the same circuit. I also found out all the ceiling lighting in these same rooms are not on the that same circuit but are on the same circuit together. What that means is not only do I not have to replace most of my small and mid size appliances, but also that I am one lucky ducky. I started to cry when I realized I had stood on a metal chair in my bare feet and cut a live wire with a pair of sewing scissors. Never a dull moment at the Money Pit I call home.