A Place for Everything

My kitchen in Texas wasn't as big as the one I have now, but the cabinets were designed to maximize the space. Every corner cabinet had a lazy susan. All of the lower cabinets had pull out drawers on the top and bottom. We'd installed racks for the pots and pans and dividers so cutting boards and cookie sheets could stand on end. In this house, all the lower pull out drawers are on the top shelf. Seems to me that it's more practical to have the pull outs on the lower shelf - that's the one that's harder to reach. Instead of a nice, neat and organized drawer, those lower shelves consisted of what one friend described as 'search and rescue' storage. When we first moved in we put things away just to get them out of the way. It was just inefficient. I had glasses in several different places. Same with coffee mugs. We have since reorganized to make it more efficient and I actually think that we'll be able to skip adding the pull out drawers to the lower shelves. The cabinets in our new space aren't as deep as they were in the old space, but there are more of them. Plus there is a separate pantry - something I didn't have at the house in Texas. I thought it would be fabulous because it had so many shelves. But I need a ladder to get to the stuff on the tip top. I'd hoped to store seldom used appliances up there, but turns out it is actually stuffed with food from the bottom to the top.

Back in Texas I had a diva closet. It was the size of a small room and everything was in easy reach. The ceiling was only 7' high so there was only one shelf on top of each clothes rack and I didn't need a ladder to get anything off the shelves. I had two cube units to store handbags - no crowding and easy to see and reach. Now I have a closet that I guesstimate to be about 7' x 7' but it has 12 foot ceilings. The wire racks and shelves go up three tiers. I have it stuffed but I can't actually reach any of it. Because the movers forgot to bring my shoe rack, all my shoes are on the floor of the closet. I can barely open the door. I keep thinking I'll have to get California Closets to come in and sort it out. It may be beyond my capabilities. I'm also thinking that it's possible I don't need six pairs of black pants. Mark's closet is much the same, but to a somewhat lesser degree. (He doesn't have as many shoes as I do.)

Downstairs in Texas I had two guest rooms. One with a closet 4' deep and 14' long. The other with a built in wardrobe about two feet deep and six feet long plus another closet that was about two feet deep and six feet wide. Now I only have one guest room and the closet is approximately two feet deep and six feet long. Even with the extra four feet of ceiling height it's just not as much space.

Even if I assume that the storage space in the utility room and linen closets is equivalent, I've still got to find a place for all that displaced stuff from the guest room closets. Plus the Texas house had three built-in display/book shelves. All of that stuff is currently crammed into a curio cabinet and a bookcase that is too small for the space it's in.

It appears that we traded closet and storage space for extra living space. It's okay. I really like this house, but I am challenged trying to find a place for everything. I still have 23 boxes to unpack. Six of them are labeled books. I might as well wait until I find a suitably large bookcase.

I just read this to Mark and he is laughing. I don't know why...

We Are Doomed

Millenials. I don't know where to begin. Let's start with the young lady who put her cell phone number on her business card but didn't bother to set up her voicemail box. When you call her, you get a recording that lets you know the voicemail box isn't set up and goodbye. Perhaps she thought people would only text her when they wanted to place an order. We are doomed.

Or how about the young man who took nearly 15 minutes to enter an order and print it off for me. He stuffed my receipt in a little folder along with my credit card receipt. Everything he told me about the delivery process is proving to be wrong. And I've discovered that I have a receipt for a fireplace insert, not a casual dining set and it will be delivered to someone named Maria at a completely different address. I wonder if Maria has the copy of my invoice. We are doomed.

Here's my favorite - I was overcharged at Walgreen's. I bought two items, both under ten dollars and my total came out to $25. How could that be? I didn't leave the register, I just stepped to the side to review my receipt and told the cashier that one of the items rang up as $13.99 but it was actually $8.99. She called for someone to go check it and it was confirmed that it should have been $8.99. My goodness, they were going to have to process a refund! The technology of the cash register wasn't helping them. Both the original cashier and the price check guy were working on it. It was trying to tell them that the items were purchased in a different store. He asked me when I purchased it. "A few minutes ago." The female cashier confirmed that. They both kept asking me if I just wanted to return the stuff. "No. I bought it. I want it. I just want $5 back.

Keep in mind that Mark was waiting in the car. He finally came in to see if I was being held hostage and how much it would take to release me. At that, the young man decided the easiest thing would be to give me the difference in cash and call it done. I agreed. But he said "I think it's four dollars instead of five." And I said, "No, 13 minus 8 is 5." And he said, "Okay, I'll take your word for it." We are sooo doomed.

What Was That?

We went to Kissimmee to pick up our mail and run some errands. I'm still confused about where we are most of the time, but we were sitting at a light when the F250 lurched forward a bit. My immediate response was "what was that?" Mark's initial thought was that something had gone wrong with the truck's gears. The truck seemed to be fine. My next thought was "Did someone rear end us?" Yes, I think they did.

Someone rear-ending an F250 enough to move it a few feet probably hit it pretty hard. But because it's a bit like riding in a tank, the  "what was that?" had no exclamation points or anything like that. It was the same tone of voice you'd use if you were trying to figure out if you were being annoyed by a gnat or a mosquito. We looked behind us and it did appear that there was a white Toyota that most likely hit us. I was going to jump out and investigate but Mark said not to get out where we were - too many lanes of traffic and the light wouldn't be red much longer. We would drive to a service station where we could pull over safely. We weren't especially worried about any damage because we have a tow bar on the back of the truck. Anything that hits us, actually hits the tow bar. Toyota vrs. F250? Pretty easy to figure out who wins that one.

We were on our way to the next intersection where we could pull in to a service station. The Toyota seemed to be following us and we indicated to move to the right so we could turn in to the service station. We thought the woman in the Toyota who'd hit us would be following us over but instead, she accelerated into the car that had been in front of us. We were shocked. Stunned. We stopped. People all around were stopping to help. She'd rear ended us, and now she'd rear ended someone else. Most of the people who stopped had seen her hit us and plow into the back of the other car. I'm not sure whether she had a stroke or some other event that caused her to be disoriented, but clearly she was. Mark and the men in the other car she hit helped her turn the engine off, got someone to call the police and an ambulance. Her head was bleeding and she was completely disoriented. They found a towel to hold on her head to try to slow the bleeding down while we waited for emergency response. Because we were involved (we were the first vehicle she hit) as well as witnesses to the second and far more serious crash, we ended up waiting for the sheriff and then the highway patrol. Poor dear - she was probably close to 90. She probably shouldn't be driving at all and she was probably lucky she didn't kill herself or someone else this time. I do know that if we'd been in the PT Cruiser instead of the F250, we'd probably have been hurt and the car would have been totaled.

As for the people in the other car she hit, the driver told us that he was driving his friend home from the ER when the accident happened and his friend had to be taken back to the ER. He thought he was okay but thought maybe he should go to the hospital to get checked out because as a single dad, he couldn't afford to miss work. And I'm not sure what happened to the lady in the Toyota. By the time the police got there she was able to talk coherently. She said she couldn't find the brake when she ran into the second car. That really doesn't explain how she managed to run into us. But it's not mine to worry about since we weren't harmed in any way.

It made for a relatively exciting day but not really the type of excitement we like. We're just thankful that the people involved are most likely going to be fine. And we walked away with a little white paint on our tow ball.

We're Still Waiting

Applying for a mortgage is not for the faint of heart. I wish our house in Texas had sold first, but it didn't and we're doing our best to get on with it. A week ago today we were given "conditional" approval to close. Initially, I was told that once I met the conditions, the approval would be firm, etched in stone - we'd be good to go. So I provided the additional documentation they wanted this past Tuesday, but we're still waiting. I really don't know what we're waiting for. I was told that we were waiting on the title work. Why the title work would make my mortgage "conditional" is not clear to me. I understand that having clear title is essential to closing. I get that, but it's nothing to do with me.

This is so different to my first home buying experience back in the 80s. Then I was treated like someone who was trying to buy a house but needed a loan to do so. (Which is pretty much everyone who's trying to buy a home.) I turned in my documentation and was given a close date and all I had to do was wait for them to get all the paperwork done. If there was a "conditional" close approval, I sure don't remember it. This time around, we've been treated like potential criminals. ("We have to do all of this because there is so much wire fraud and so much money laundering.)

Problems with wire fraud? Stop wiring. Back in the old days, you showed up at closing with a certified check. I'm guessing banks still do that. Not a lot of room for fraud in that that I can see. But then I've never been on the lookout for fraud opportunities.

And as for money laundering - let me just say that we've managed to get into our late 60s/early 70s without any criminal record of money laundering, or anything else other than minor traffic violations. Why would I take up money laundering now? Our credit scores are over 800. Do they think we got that because we don't pay our bills??

And here's the other, somewhat disturbing thing - we've met the loan originator and his assistant. They have names and faces. I've also spoken with the loan processor - she, too has a name. But "the underwriter" remains shrouded in mystery. No name. No face. A fierce god who makes demands that must be complied with for reasons that don't have to be explained to anyone.

As a HUD consultant, Mark has some experience with underwriters. In his role as a HUD consultant, he was allowed to know their names. And he will tell you that all of them operated under their own set of rules. Even within the same mortgage company, different underwriters would demand different things. One went so far as to refuse to get on with it until a comma was removed from the paperwork. (The offending comma was programmed into the HUD paperwork, and it was no easy task to get it edited out.) But it had to be done or the loan wouldn't go through.

Even though they all seem to operate on their own set of rules, they cite "federal regulations" as being the reason they are asking for all of that documentation. Maybe so. But I can tell you this - the financial/mortgage crisis was NOT caused by consumers. It was caused by BANKERS. So now, the bankers who should have gone to jail for that fiasco have license to treat consumers like potential criminals. It boggles the mind.

But in the meantime, we are still waiting.

Words with Friends and Creeps

I played Scrabble as a kid. Loved it. Once I got married it fell by the wayside. To his credit, my first husband tried but he really wasn't a good speller and almost every play he made had to be challenged. Second husband didn't like games and he couldn't spell either. And Mark would be lost without spell check. So I'm happy to play Words with Friends.

It's like a Scrabble game, but it's not actually in real time. You don't have to challenge anyone's word because the game won't let anyone play an "unacceptable" word. (Although I know there's a glitch in there that sometimes allows non-words to sneak through.) I've been playing online for eight or more years. When I first started playing, it actually was Words with Friends. You had to be Facebook friends with your opponent. That gradually changed to allow you (indeed, strongly encourage you) to play with people you didn't know.

I'm okay with that. I don't mind playing with people I don't know. Can't say I've met any life long friends playing, but there are several people I play with regularly whom I don't actually know.

But within the last six months I've noticed a really disturbing trend. Creeps. And it's all men being creeps. I've yet to encounter a creepy woman. They challenge you to a game and after the first move, they engage the chat feature.

"Hi"

I typically respond with "hi" because it would be rude not to return a greeting.

"Where are you playing from?"

My response "Dallas (or now Orlando) - and you?" - again because I don't want to be rude. Truth is, I don't care where they're playing from.

"Are you married or single?"

"I'm very happily married." This is where I start to lose some of the politeness. I don't reciprocate the inquiry into their marital status. Because I don't care. I just want to play the game.

"What do you like to do?"

"I like to play Words with Friends. I don't like to chat. I'm not a very chatty person."

Then they suggest that if they had my email address, we wouldn't need to use chat. What kind of creepy idiot am I dealing with? Do they realize how much junk email I get in a day? What makes them think I want an email from them? Some have asked for my phone number so they could text me or phone me. Seriously, I'm not making this up. Some of them believe that if we are playing Words with Friends, that makes us friends. Sorry, that's not how I see it.

Some of them have claimed to be soldiers in Afghanistan. (Dude, I see your picture - you are too old to be a private in the army! And you seem to be playing in the same time zone I'm in.) I'm sure one of them was some type of foreign national - his average word score was 4. You get more than four points playing the word "the".

And call me old-fashioned, but I don't like to be addressed as "Beautiful" by someone I don't know. I suppose there are women who don't mind and others who thrive on it. I am not those women.

One told me his name was Harry and asked me my name. You can see people's names on their profile all through the game. I didn't bother to answer that one at all.

One asked if I liked walking in the park. (How was I supposed to answer that? I lived in Dallas and now I live in Orlando. We don't walk in the park this time of year. And what difference does it make to this guy?

One asked what turned me on. I felt like I'd been thrown back in time to a 70s singles bar. I didn't answer. In addition to it being none of his business, it's an inappropriate topic of conversation for mixed gender strangers. So when I didn't respond he came back to ask if the question had "hurt" me. No, it didn't hurt me. It annoyed me. So again, I didn't answer.

A few of them have become incredibly insistent that I give them a telephone number or an email address. And when I refuse, they quit the game. And some of these are people I've gone "silent" on, not answering their nosy and irrelevant questions. Seriously, dude, I'm not responding to you on chat. Do you seriously think I'm going to open the door for you to call me, send text messages, or email?

I suspect they're all up to some kind of scam - I just don't know what kind of mischief you can get up to with someone's first name, last initial, and email address. But I assure you I do not intend to find out.

Nowdays, I'm saving myself the trouble. If I get a game request from a man I don't know, he has to meet certain criteria for me to accept the game. His picture has to include a female partner and he has to have an average word score over 15. Or, he has to play regularly with someone I know. If not, I decline the game. I've declined three so far this week. It's easier that way.

'

Becoming...Special

I recently read Michelle Obama's book, Becoming. I also read Becoming Mrs. Lewis, a novel about Joy Davidman who married C.S. Lewis. One of the themes running throughout both of these books was the feeling of not being enough - not good enough, not smart enough, not pretty enough. I certainly experienced all of those when I was a teen. My parents were of a mind that you didn't want to overtly praise a child for fear of them getting a "big head". 

Then I got married. That bolstered my self-esteem!. I was chosen. I was loved. Then one day at the tender age of 23, I found that I'd been deselected. No longer loved. The effect was devastating. What was wrong with me? Not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not attentive enough. Not a good cook. Not a good mother. I wanted to see the woman he preferred to me. I wanted to compare my hair, my eyes, my body to hers so I could see where I was deficient and fix the problem. Maybe she had a better sense of humor, maybe she was an auto mechanic. I had to know so I could remake myself in her image and save the relationship. When I realized that there was no other woman I was even more upset. That meant that it was just me. When it came down to being with me or being alone, he preferred to be alone. Total devastation. Not good enough. Not enough.

To top it off, he told me that I just wasn't fun. And that was what I needed to hear because that made me angry. He had the nerve to say I wasn't fun? He was no barrel of laughs. We had a three year old, I worked full time and took two classes per semester trying to finish my degree. And like so many woman in that era, the housekeeping chores were primarily mine. When did I have time to be fun? And what fun was he looking for? He sat around and watched TV all evening and if I had anything to say, I had to wait for a commercial to say it. That certainly wasn't fun. Did he think I was obliged to amuse him? But it did motivate me to stop crying and get some semblance of a life back.

It took a lot of support from friends and a few professionals to help me recover my self worth and realize that I was good enough, pretty enough, and smart enough. I could cook. I could sew. I could hold down a decent job. I made As in my classes. I was never beautiful, but I was attractive and I never lacked female friends or male attention. He couldn't take that away from me. Those friends and professionals helped me see that I'd stopped being me in order to be the person he wanted and in the end, he didn't want that person.
I vowed to myself never to compromise myself in that way again, and I haven't.

Every now and then I have a day when I have feelings of inadequacy. Not good enough - not pretty enough. (I almost always think I'm smart enough.) Fortunately, I got past most of that insecurity all those years ago in my 20s. I am smart enough. I am pretty enough. And I am special.

In fact, there was one hapless young man when I was in my 20s who managed to show up at my house intending to take me out. He arrived about a half hour later than the agreed upon time after spending the afternoon out drinking with his buddies and if that wasn't bad enough, he had no real plan for the evening.

I was not happy. He'd turned up at my door in jeans and a grubby tee shirt half drunk with no plan! What was he thinking?? I remember telling him at the time that I was special and he needed to treat me like I was special. Showing up half drunk with no plan was no way to treat someone special. I didn't stand for it then, and I wouldn't stand for it now.

And thank goodness I don't have to. Mark always treats me like I'm special - except when he walks ahead of me! (He says I need to speed up.) I wake up in the morning and I see him. If he's awake, he's smiling. What could possibly be better than waking up to someone who loves you smiling at you? I can't imagine anything better. I never experienced it before. And while I don't necessarily wake up smiling, once I see him smiling, I automatically smile back, because I know that not only am I enough - I'm special. And I'm grateful to have someone in my life who recognizes that.

Hello Dali!

Salvador Dali - the surrealist guy who painted melting clocks. And he liked to do different things with his mustache. That was pretty much all I knew about him until we went to the Dali Museum in St. Petersburg this past week.

The museum houses a painting he did when he was only 10 years old, a self-portrait he did at 17 and numerous works from when he was a young man in addition to much later works. Since he was born in 1904, he lived through both world wars but the second war greatly affected him, which shows in his paintings.

I'm sure the story of his wife Gala was just touched on and glossed over. It appears she left her husband and child immediately upon meeting Dali and never left his side again. She was older than he and became his business manager. He signed many of his paintings with both his and her name. There are probably some fascinating tales in there if one chose to dig into them.

But enough scandal, back to the art. There were two master work paintings that I found particularly impressive. The first, Gala Contemplating the Mediterranean Sea - which when viewed from a distance becomes a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It just makes you wonder "how'd he do that?" 

The second, The Hallucinogenic Toreador, is one that is extremely rich in details that I would have missed if the docent hadn't pointed them out. Hard to miss Venus de Milo, but I could easily have missed the matador, the bull and the dog and I wouldn't have known why the flies were there. It made me go back through some of the other works and look for those types of details.

Here are some photos of some other works that struck my fancy, including some bronzes, one of which was made into a full size sculpture for the garden.

His eyes are Dutch Masters, his nose is a Coca-cola bottle...

The Average Bureaucrat

A sketch of the Marx Brothers (Dali especially liked Harpo)