Humor

Words I like to say

/ Sheila / 6 Comments

Haboob. Tittabawassee. Titicaca. Plethora. Williwaw. Superfluity.

Go ahead. Look ’em up. They’re all legitimate words or place names.

Try saying these words yourself. They roll off your tongue, and you may find yourself repeating them for the sheer fun of it.

Even better than just saying them to yourself, try working them into casual conversation. Try working all of them into a conversation with the same person. I’m starting to giggle thinking about that one.

Can you tell it was a long cool summer here?

My own little lake

/ Sheila / 2 Comments

Rain again this past weekend. When I say it rained, I don’t mean we had a shower. No, we had a deluge. AGAIN. For all those people in Texas who need rain…believe me, I would send you days of the stuff if I could.
 
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have a small lake in my basement. This isn’t a new thing. The house was built in 1920 and has been remodeled over the years, so this problem has been addressed before, by others. But never fixed, apparently. When we have heavy rain, we get seeping ground water that comes up through fine cracks in the concrete floor. Not really a problem, doesn’t seem to do any harm. But I’m tired of sweeping out the lake on a regular basis, and I keep wondering what would happen if we had a potential buyer checking us out on a day that the basement floor is liquid. Not an easy thing, I’m thinking, to reassure someone that the water only rises to a certain point and then recedes.
 
Saturday we had a contractor come over to give us ideas about effective treatment. Install a sump pump, redirect one of the downspouts behind the house, put a drain in the basement floor with a collection box…oh, all can be done for the small sum of about $2,000. And it is a small sum, as these types of repairs go. But you never know WHAT you may run into when you begin these things, so we are to understand that $2,000 is the least we’re looking at. Could be higher. Much higher.
 
I’m thinking these days of how I can turn anything and everything to income. Maybe I can write about the perils of owning a house that’s almost 100 years old. Maybe I can give advice to other basement/lake owners. Maybe I can become an expert on sump pumps. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m coming to a cliff in a few months, one that I’m willingly walking toward, and I’m jumping off without reliable income. AND I have this little basement issue. What to do, what to do!
 
Fortunately Rob will pay for the basement. In our universe, he usually covers these types of things. The bigger bills don’t typically come my way. But it does make me think a bit.
 
Really, I expect to be ok. I’m having fun learning about portable and alternative income sources. I’ve already committed to relief work at the hospital, and I’m thinking about entrepreneurial options, everything from baking to editing to whatever else I stumble on. I’m excited to try my wings, and if I grow them on the way down, as the saying goes, that just makes it all the more fun.
 
So this week, I’m going to become an expert on basement drainage. I think the contractor’s coming over tomorrow to get started, and if you see a post or two about the intricacies of pipes, collection boxes and drains, you’ll know why. At least my lake should soon be gone.
 
 

Goodbye white shoes, I hardly wore you

/ Sheila / 5 Comments

September, Labor Day weekend, and my Southern upbringing has kicked in. I wouldn’t be caught dead from now until next Memorial Day in white shoes. Just.not.done. At least for my generation. (Maybe this is more about my age than where I was raised…or both? I’ll have to get back to you on that.)

Mind you, I have no idea where this fashion dictum came from, or how it became so firmly impressed on my young self. All I know is that to violate this rule was taboo in my youth, and whether or not it matters to the fashion police now (if it ever did), I’m obligated to live with this for the rest of my life. You’d think it was important or something. But if it is, I don’t know why.

But not knowing didn’t stop me from passing the white shoes rule on to my daughter. Really I expand this to summer clothes in general…the only possible exception being a tropical location where it’s always acceptable to wear white, whatever the season. (And who decided that? Another fashion mystery!)

Perhaps it’s fortunate for me that I live in a climate that actually encourages me to return to my September-to-May uniform of turtlenecks and heeled pumps. The summer slides are put away. They didn’t get too much wear-time this year anyway. Miserable summer season here. But the weather, at this point, is not the point: I couldn’t violate the calendar. Just can’t do it. My roots are showing!

There are things you leave behind when you move from one side of the country to another: regional produce, local customs, favorite eateries. Without any effort on my part, my Southern accent has mostly faded away from long years of disuse (although it revives a bit when I go back for a visit). But some things…the white shoes rule, for instance…follow me about from place to place, a passenger in my head, mostly forgotten, but somehow silently monitoring the calendar, and then, ca-ching, like my oven timer, a bell goes off internally to remind me of The Rule. The same thing will happen Memorial Day…my Southern self will wake up, reminding me, nudging me. Change of seasons, change of shoes.