Another milestone

Today is the one-year anniversary of my blog. Drinks all around!

Thanks for being part of the magic.

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Trash Police

We have a new trash collection policy here in town, effective on July 1. We already pay a fee for curbside pickup, and it's jumping from $180 to $226 a year. We're also now limited to four 30-gallon containers a week and each can not exceed 50 pounds.

Hence my first question: Is there a scale on the trash truck to determine whether my barrel weights 49 pounds or tips at 51 pounds?

The other part of new policy is what's called "Visual Recycling." If the trash hauler determines through visual inspection that my trash contains material that should be recycled, they won't take the trash.

I am supposed to separate my recyclables and put them curbside in a recycling bin.

I admit I'm not as good about recycling as I should be when it comes to items other than paper. I have a recycling bin hidden nicely under a table in the dining room (the table is covered with a table cloth, so you can't see the bin). The bin is home to newspapers, magazines, flattened food boxes, and paper we generate (if it's sensitive it gets shredded) and anything else I can label as recyclable paper. Once a month (or so) I pull out the bin, bag up the contents, and lug it out to the curb (or smile sweetly at Dave or PJ and ask them to take it out).

Where I fall down is on cans, glass, and plastic. I don't have a place to store these items while we all wait for the next collection day. Sounds lame, but it's the truth. This is a small 6-room house and there's no good place to do it on the main floor. Recycling in the basement isn't particularly convenient. We don't have a garage.

Our trash barrels are on the edge of the property and a favorite target of four-legged woodland neighbors when there's something of particular interest waiting to go away on trash day. If I had a dime for every time we've come out in the morning to find the contents of the trash chewed, shredded and strewn across the yard we'd be rich.

In the summer I sometimes have to take to putting garbage in the freezer until trash day, just to keep it "safe" from the raccoons. But that makes the ice cubes smell and taste bad.

We've talked about building a secure enclosure for the barrels for years. Doing so would allow me to be a better recycler because I could go outside with the occasional can or glass bottle.

The excuses are many and all rather silly, but I know I have to do a better job at it. I think a small container of some kind out on our little deck, disguised perhaps as a bench, might do the trick. As long as I can secure the contents, we should do fine.

All of this may be moot. This morning Dave told me that he saw a snake over by the trash barrels yesterday. That news is enough to keep me in the house until a hearse arrives to carry me away. He said it was a small snake. "Small" is in the eye of the beholder. I'm of the opinion that all snakes are large enough to grab me by my ankles and pull me to the ground. It may not otherwise hurt me, but I know at the least it would hiss in my face and say something like, "You think I'm scary? You should meet my uncle Tony Snake-prano. Lady, he'll eat you alive with a nice Chianti."

If only to avoid the snake, I'll find a way to be a better recycler. Where there's one snake there are surely more. And I don't particularly like the idea of the trash police deciding whether I'm following the rules.

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Marriott vs. Sheraton

We went out to dinner tonight with our friends Chuck and Gail, to the buffet at the Sheraton in Lynnfield. Gail is a five-star employee of the Marriott Hotel chain. When the waitress handed Gail her check and a Sheraton pen with which to sign the credit card receipt, Gail didn't skip a beat--she opened her purse, took out a Marriott pen, signed the receipt and tucked the Marriott pen in with the signed receipt. The Sheraton pen "disappeared."

That's how you chip away at the competition. I wonder how long it will take someone to notice the switch.

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Life is too short...

to wear sock with holes
drink crappy beer
have breast cancer (today is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis)

What can you add? I'll add to the list and we can watch it grow.

Dave offered several, here are the highlights (it's my blog, I get to pick)
to drink white beer
fold underwear

From Kathy Rose:
Life is too short to iron .. well, anything.
Life is too short to yell at your kids for leaving the lights on.
Life is too short to talk to telesales people.
Life is too short to worry about what other people think of your clothes, your cooking ability, or how clean your house is.
Life is too short to keep track of how many times you've been insulted (and who did it).

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Unwanted guest

Insomnia dropped by recently and decided to stay for a few days. Insomnia and I have had a relationship (notice I didn't call it a "friendship") for a while, and now that Aromasin is part of my life, Insomnia shows up more often than she used to.

Aromasin is, I hope, the miracle drug I take daily for five years following breast cancer treatment. It should ward off any chance of recurrence. We'll see, won't we??

Aromasin is good friends with Insomnia and another occasional guest, Joint Pain. Makes me hope all the harder that, in spite of her other relationships, Aromasin will have an overall decent one with me.

Anyway, in an effort to send Insomnia packing, I tried the usual good remedy of an OTC sleeping pill on Thursday night. Usually works like a charm but not this time. I spent Friday with a bad case of the stupids. I was just slightly off center and a half-step behind everything. Classic sleeping pill hangover. And then along came Joint Pain! Oh my! Couldn't lift my arms without my shoulders screaming at me. I figured maybe I could beat it all out of myself with another solid night of sleep.

Last night I contemplated another sleeping pill but didn't need it. I was fighting to stay awake at 9 p.m. and finally decided I could fight it in bed. No fight. Out cold in minutes. Woke briefly a couple of times, and finally decided at 8 a.m. it was time to get up. I probably could have stayed there all day, but if I've learned anything from Insomnia over the years, it's that she respond best to routine. Go to bed at the same time, get up at the same time.

I think some exercise will also help. Long days sitting at a desk in front of a computer don't help matters. So, shortly, I'll be off to the gym. Or maybe I'll just take a good, long walk. We'll see, but it will be one or the other, without fail.

If you see Insomnia, be rude. No matter how much she begs, don't even let her use the bathroom or the phone. She'll find a way to stay. She's just a rotten house guest. Doesn't even bring a hostess gift.
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Share your prayers

Here's a link to a Web site for a little girl who is fighting brain cancer. This came to me through my cousin Dan, who asks for prayers. I have some to share and hope you do too. Many thanks.

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It's not a lack of loyalty

I admit an affection for the hometown teams... the Celtics are making it fun to watch basketball in June and the Red Sox are hot (isn't that Mike Lowell a dream?). With the change of seasons I'll care about the Patriots. Sorry, I never got into soccer or hockey.

All that said, I've got half an eye on a new team and a new player this baseball season. Check this out!



That's Brad Penny, the Dodger's pitcher. He's not having the best season, and in fact is headed to the DL with shoulder troubles. And yes, I'm old enough to be his mother. Still, I just had to have this shirt. My treat to me. Besides, they're a National League team. It will only matter in the World Series finals.

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Amazing Grace

I respectfully invite you to visit a blog I read every day, Peacebang. She is a Unitarian Universalist pastor in the Boston area and--I don't know why--but I am just pulled to her. Some one of these Sundays I'm going to be sitting in her congregation and then, I expect, she'll never be rid of me.

Read the June 13 entry posted at 6:22 p.m., (third post down dated June 13) titled "Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant." It's a lengthy post and you must read every word. It's a powerful story of the death of a dear friend. It's a story of the way, I believe, every one us hopes we are loved. It's the way, I believe, every one of us hopes we will be thought of and cared for. It will, I think, claw at your heart and make you weep. I sobbed.

I've warned you. It's not a happy read but it's a very important one.

There isn't anything else to say.
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Thankful on Friday

Hey! It's the weekend and I have a short list of things for which I'm thankful.

• PJ is home from Florida, tanned and lovely. She had a rough plane ride home through thunder storms (I'd have walked). It's good to have her bouncing around the house again. No sooner is she settled in than she's off to puppy sit for the weekend for her friend Griswold, the English Bulldog.

• Dave had mega dental work done the other day and lived to tell the story. Tonight we celebrated the fact that he can eat big-people food again with steaks smothered in peppers and onions.

• Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of my first breast cancer surgery. My, my, time flies, doesn't it?? It's not necessarily a day to celebrate, or is it? I guess so. As I often say, it beats the crap out of the alternative. It's the first of a number of milestone days to come.

I've got some people on my personal prayer list (David and Claire, Ally and Matt, and Suzie's friend Susan). If you can, send them a cyber-hug and share some love. You don't have to know them, you only have to care.
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Who's having fun in this awful heat?

If you go back to some post I wrote in the middle of winter, you're sure to find words to the effect that some day when it was hot I'd be wishing for a cold snap. Well, that day is here. It's hot (high 90s) and I hate it.

I told Dave yesterday that these are the days that make me wish I was bald again, and of course he balked. I remember how cold I got without hair. I wonder if I'd be cooler without it. I wonder if I'd remember to put sun block on the top of my head.

And then there's the price of gas, sitting at pennies under $4 a gallon. I don't think it's put a true crimp in our habits just get, but the day is coming quickly. My mother has moved to the farm in Nobleboro, Maine, for the summer and of course I want to get into the car and drive up. But gas prices are making me think long and hard about it, and that makes me angry--to think that my life style and desires are being governed by oil prices. And when I get boiled up about it I get mad at myself for being selfish, when there are people without jobs, suffering without health insurance, and on and on. And then I get selfish again and WANT to feel sorry for myself about it. Silly, I know, but it's real.

We hired a marketing manager at work (I think I mentioned that earlier). She drives down every day from Rochester NH, and claims she hasn't looked at the mileage and isn't thinking about the additional costs. That's got to be a 70 or 80 miles trip one way... crazy distance.

The farm is about a 160 mile drive. Double that and drive around a bit and let's say a weekend trip is 400 miles. At 20 miles to the gallon (I have NO CLUE what my car gets), that's 20 gallons. At $4 a gallon it's an $80 trip.

Is a weekend at the farm worth $80? Honestly? Yes. Cheaper than going back to Switzerland. I'll have to take a Monday off and go. Soon.

PJ called us last night, she's in Ft. Lauderdale after having done a day and night in Miami Beach. I pointed her to the Delano Hotel, and apparently they not only found it but had themselves a party until the small hours of the morning. I wonder if it ever crossed her mind that her mother must be pretty damn cool to know of a place like that. Possible but probably not.

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