I can see clearly now

Through the windows, anyway.

This may be one of those tips that everybody has known for a millenium. . .except me. On the off chance, however, that you missed it over in your parallel universe, too, I’m going to pass it on.

I may have mentioned that Casa Lagarto has a lot of windows.

This means, of course, that there are a lot of windows to clean. It’s true that window cleaning can be put off for a while. Sometimes a long while. I suspect all of us have deep sympathy for the cliché household help who states firmly, “I don’t do windows.”

On the other hand, there are times in your life when windows must be “done.” This is especially true when one of your home’s salient features is the view.

Being a child of my era, I have tended to rely on Windex® as my window-cleaner of choice. I’ve used some generic versions, and they don’t seem to work so well. I’ve used vinegar. It’s okay, but rather pungent.

I have recently stumbled upon—as in, found on the internet—the surprising (to me, anyway) fact that dish detergent works wonders. Mixed with water, of course, and applied with the kind of squeegee that has a sponge on one side and a rubber blade on the other.

Streak free!

And, I suspect, cheaper than all the specialty cleaners. I’m saving on paper towels for one thing.

Of course, there are a couple of drawbacks. A bucket of water is a bit heaver than a squeeze bottle. And the whole thing is a far drippier process. (Hint: Only use the dish soap and water process on the outside of your windows.)

Oh, well.

The windows look good. I’m settling for that.

The sun’ll come out. . .

Tomorrow.

I’ve been singing that for about a week.

Unfortunately.

It sticks in your head. Along with visions of little red-headed orphan girls.

It’s a horrible song—of immense popular appeal.

(It should be noted that its horribleness is not due to any intrinsic compositional or lyrical flaws. It’s just that it will not go away!)

The thing is. . .the sun may or may not come out tomorrow. I don’t know.

I do know that it came out yesterday. And it’s out today. And. . .yay!

Because it was getting very, very depressing.

It is truly fine for it to be gray and gloomy in the north. It’s the paradigm for the fall. But this is the Sunshine State. Got that? Sunshine. It’s in all the ads. So I expect. . .you know. . .sunshine.

Not only do I expect it, but I need it. We have to decorate the dock. The Boat Parade is coming. Not for about a month, but still. When the boats come by, we have to have the lights up. And I need sunshine for that. Not warmth, necessarily, but sunshine. It’s very difficult to get in the holiday mood when it’s all foggy and misty.

Dock decorations are hard enough. One year we tried for a New York skyline, but you can’t make a good corner with a rope light. It put a damper on our creativity (to say nothing of a vaguely pornographic twist on our Empire State Building), so we’ve given up murals. Now, we just try not to fall in the water as we’re stringing the lights up along the roof and around the pilings. We have acquired a nice lighted peacock lawn decoration this year—although possibly not for the dock.

Peacocks are big in my family. My grandparents used to have a bunch of them hanging around the farm. In fact, their descendants are still over there yelling away, wandering the highways and byways. And all of us have various vases and umbrella stands full of feathers.

That’s another little miracle.

You can just walk around behind a peacock in the late spring, early summer, and pick up those beautiful works of art.

So, I’m delighted to have this light-up bird. I look forward to seeing him twinkle away.

But, I’m more delighted to have some sunshine. . .and I definitely look forward to the voice of Li’l Orphan Annie fading off my internal audio track!

Bet your bottom dollar.

Sssssteam heat–we got. . . .

Not really.

High on the list of things I miss from living in New York (in addition to the laundry room) is steam heat.

Oh, the luxury of coming in out of the snow to a toasty warm apartment and changing into shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of January! We almost never turned the radiators on. The heat from the risers—the pipes that carried the steam to the apartments above us—was more than enough to keep us comfortable.

You’d think I’d be warmer now that I live in Florida.

Ha!

It is true that the outside temperature is warmer. Inside, however, is a whole other story!

My house has at least four climate zones. Upstairs, the air is one temperature. Downstairs, another. My office, a third, and the sunken living room is a fourth. I’m betting there’s about ten degrees difference from one area to another.

And, of course, it’s a damp cold. Not good. Not good at all.

I’m adapting.

I may spend the winter upstairs. I may break out the sweaters and leggings for the times I need to be downstairs.

(I do realize that normal people might think I’m crazy. The house is not that cold. It’s just not toasty.)

I suspect finally getting ceiling fans will be a big improvement. I also know it will be better if it would get colder outside. That would make the heat cycle on more often. (A dilemma. Warmth? Bank account?)

Eventually, I will get the ceiling fans. I will get the gas fireplace repaired. I will bring the kerosene heater in from the garage. I might even buy a pair of slippers in a bigger size so that I can wear two or three pairs of socks.

I could always wear my magic hat. (Ask my nieces and nephews.)

While I’m thawing my toes here, you might enjoy this little clip from the 1957 film version of The Pajama Game with Carol Haney and some quintessential Bob Fosse choreography

Stay warm!

Celebrating the dark ages

Technologically speaking.

I bought a phone yesterday for $2 bucks.

A corded phone.

The thing is—I have this house. It’s a big house. It came with a phone jack in every room. (Almost.) Plus the garage and the dock. That’s a total of about eleven jacks. And I came with exactly three phones. Well, five if you count the extra handsets to the cordless phone.

One of the handsets fell off the hood of the car over by the chicken church. (Don’t ask.) Anyway, it’s gone. Run over by a car. Eaten by an alligator. Something.

Lost to me forever, however it happened.

The other two handsets are, at any given moment, in need of new batteries.

I know, I know.

Many people have switched to a completely cellular communication system.

I’m not one of them.

I’m not a “millenial.”

Sue me.

I like corded phones.

I hear better on them. It’s easier to hold a handset between your ear and your shoulder and do two things at once. They don’t need batteries. I don’t have to remember to charge them. They tend to stay in the vicinity of the phone jack instead of ring from beneath sofas and behind bookcases. If a hurricane hits and the cell tower falls, the phone lines might still be up.

I like corded phones.

So, I was very happy to find one at a garage sale one block over for $2 bucks. Once upon a time, this was a fairly expensive, 2-line phone. Speaker. Programmable numbers. The works.

It cleaned up nice.

It works.

I only need 3 or 4 more, and I’ll have one everywhere there’s a jack. I think I’ll be spending some more time at garage sales.

Oh. . .and if anybody knows how to get a phone to call itself. . . is that possible?. . . maybe I won’t have to get an intercom system or a sackful of walkie-talkies in order to find my husband. He’s hard to keep track of in all these rooms.

Over thinking it

Is that even possible?

In general, I suppose I would lean towards a “no.” Thinking is almost always a good thing. I think, however, if you’ll take a look at this Friday’s Find, you will probably agree that over thinking is possible. (Over rehearsing is not. That’s a myth. We’ll take that up at another time.)

In some instances—like this Friday Find—we might all agree about over thinking.

Take a look at OverThinkingIt.com. Their descriptive line says the site ‘subjects popular culture to a level of scrutiny it probably doesn’t deserve.’

This is true.

But it’s great geeky fun when they happen to subject any of your personal favorites to analysis. I found them because a post analyzing the Law & Order verdicts of the past 20 years popped up on Digg, and, of course, I had to take a look.

Firstly, having worked with statistics for more years than I care to remember, I find statistical analysis of TV shows that I have viewed to be oddly fascinating. Secondly, I was an extra on a Law & Order episode once. I feel a proprietary interest. (My episode was called Bait, and I am briefly visible when the camera pans the grand jury. Don’t worry if you can’t find me. My own parents didn’t recognize me. I am also briefly visible as a lawyer at the end of a hallway in another courthouse scene. I’m so out of focus in that shot, I wouldn’t have recognized me.)

Anyway, I’ve watched a lot of L&O over the years. Part of it is for the fun of seeing friends—since practically every New York actor worked the show at some point in some fashion. Part of it is the scripts are smart enough to hold your attention while you’re watching and not memorable enough for your brain to recognize that you’ve seen them before while you’re watching them again. So, they’re a reliable temporary distraction.

Which is sort of the point of the OverThinkingIt website. Another excellent distraction.

Like we need one of those, right?

Have fun!

Time passes

And that’s a good thing.

I’m thankful this Thursday for the passage of time. For the wisdom that comes with experience.

Such gloomy days we’ve been having this week. Wind and rain. A slight chill.

It’s all very depressing, and I’ve been feeling a little depressed. That old “what’s the use?” feeling. A little bit of “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, gonna go eat some worms.”

But, the thing is, I recognize this place. I’ve been here before. And the recognition is something for which to be thankful.

I know that I do not like gloomy days. I like them less now that I live in a house with lots of windows—and, it must be confessed, as yet inadequate lighting. (Lamps. Must put lamps on the shopping list.)

I have a cousin who says she is solar-powered, and I’m thinking, perhaps, it runs in the family. Not that I’m a sun worshipper. I can imagine few things more unpleasant than an afternoon broiling on a beach towel. But I do like the world to look cheerful.

So, it is nice that I have reached a stage in my life when I can feel this way and recognize that it’s because of the recent time change and two days without sunlight and my thermostat set a hair too low—and, probably, because my To Do list bores me and I haven’t anything terribly interesting on the horizon just now. I recognize that the sun will come out, I will get lamps eventually, and something new and good is probably just around the corner.

I know that later tonight my husband will say something funny, or I will have a surprisingly delicious meal, or an old friend will call tomorrow, or I’ll have a sudden idea for a new play, or my new neighbors, when I get them, will be the most awesome people in the world.

See, time passes. And we learn things. And it’s all good.

Why?

I’m just asking.

Why do men—and it must be said—men of a certain age begin to yell at the TV during news broadcasts?

I know no women who do this. (Not saying that there aren’t any—just that I don’t know them.)

Is it, perhaps, because their early spectator training is ball games? Where yelling at the ref is part of the experience?

It just seems a singularly futile thing to do. To say nothing of clearly being bad for one’s blood pressure.

Can’t we all agree that the pundits are going to talk over each other? That they are going to focus on domestic politics when you want to know about the Middle East? Or spend all their time on the Middle East when you want to know what happened with that hurricane? That the ones with whom you don’t agree are going to say utterly ridiculous and stupid things—while interrupting the ones with whom you do agree in a singularly crass and boorish manner?

And can’t we further agree that all those people in the little box? They can’t hear you.

I know when you were children—or, in some cases, when your children were children—that Miss Sally may have looked through her magic mirror and read off your name. And, yes, you could draw a bridge that helped Winky Dink cross the river. But, generally speaking, you really have no capacity to affect the behavior of those on the goggle box.

(The Kool-Aid Bunny Man did come to our house once. But that is another story, and nothing to do with yelling at the television set. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Bunny Man would have frowned on that. )

I’m sure the men I’ve heard yelling at the TV don’t think they’re really making a difference. I’m sure they are just blowing off steam. I just wonder where the dividing line comes between the point where you observe television quietly and the point where you launch into diatribes.

Hint: I think it’s around retirement age.

Maybe it comes with the gold watch?

What’s in YOUR wallet?

No, I’m not jumping on the Capital One bandwagon.

I’m asking a serious question.

If you lost your wallet today, would you know what’s in it? Would you know who to call and what to cancel?

This week’s newsletter from Cheryl Richardson had a reminder, among others, about keeping a record of the contents of your wallet. She suggested taking 5-10 minutes to make a list of card numbers and customer service phone numbers.

But I’ve got a better tip. Next time you’re in the library or the UPS store or the FedEx store or anywhere they have a copy machine, shell out fifty cents or so. Take all the credit cards and ID cards and membership cards out of your wallet, put them flat on the glass, and copy them. If they have phone numbers on the back, turn them over and copy the backs. Take the pages home and put them somewhere safe: file cabinet, desk drawer, wherever.

If and when you lose your wallet, you are going to be SO glad you did that.

I know. I got pick-pocketed once. It’s a nuisance, but nowhere near the nuisance it would be if you don’t have the list.

Think about it.

All the phone numbers to call—right there.

All the account numbers to cancel—right there.

All the stress and worry, the danger that you forgot to cancel the one card that’s now being used to buy 37 iPads—out the window.

Isn’t that worth fifty cents or so?

Inside and Out

Mis-spending my life?

Emily Christensen (I’m sorry—I don’t know who she is) once said that a clean house is the sign of a misspent life.

This may be true. Certainly, there are more significant things one could be doing than sweeping floors.

But, I’ll tell you this. I’m sort of enjoying my currently—quite possibly temporarily—orderly house.

I was chatting over the last couple of days with various people who have been looking at the house next door. It’s recently gone on the market, and a lot of folks seem to be interested in it. It’s in a prime location, doesn’t need much work, and the price is pretty good. The realtors all seem to think it’s going to sell quickly.

The would-be purchasers have all had the usual questions. Do you like the neighborhood? How long has the house been empty? Is there anything wrong with it? And, because we live on the water, what about flooding?

What’s interesting to me is they almost all say very complimentary things about our house.

Mostly, I see the fogged window panes that need replacing and the parts of the lawn that are mostly weeds and the cracks in the driveway and the treehouse that needs drastic renovation.

Their enthusiasm has caused me to take a good look at it again.

And I’ve realized how far we’ve come since we moved into Casa Lagarto. Yes, there is still a long way to go. But. . .a new roof, the river rocks in all the flower beds, a front door instead of plywood, a roof on the dock, all the exterior trim painted, a new a/c system, new carpet in three rooms, furniture for the master bedroom, furniture for the guest room, the whole interior painted, a kitchen sink, a bathroom sink, two termite-damaged walls replaced.

That’s a lot.

And. . .there are the results of my hour-a-day cleaning and hour-a-day yard work.

At the moment, however long it lasts, there’s no clutter and no dust. The driveway and sidewalks are edged, the flower beds weeded. There are some leaves—because the dang Wizard of Oz trees shed from October to March—but the bulk of them have been raked and mowed and handled. The ligustrum has been trimmed. And the pittosporum.

We’re looking pretty good.

Inside and out.

It’s a miracle.

I plan to enjoy it while it lasts. (Check back with me next week!)

The eleventh hour

Happy Veterans Day!

To all the veterans of the United States Armed Forces—thank you for your service.

November 11th.

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month—when the fighting ceased in World War I.

Originally known as Armistice Day, back when the War to End All Wars looked like it might have done that, and changed to Veterans Day in 1954 when it had become abundantly clear that it hadn’t, this is our national holiday to honor the patriotism and sacrifice of our veterans.

I hope none of them will think I mean to diminish their contribution when I say I hope we are approaching a time when the world will learn to live without such sacrifice.

I’m not the first, and, unfortunately, I probably won’t be the last to say it—but wouldn’t it be nice if we could figure that out?

You know—before the eleventh hour?

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Monthly Archives: November 2012