DIARY OF AN OLD MAID: or the continuing mis-adventures of a mis-begotten Miss

Well my friends, I'm back--sort of. I don't have any screen left on the right side, so using the scroll bar and other right=side functions is pretty useless...strictly hit and miss with the scroll bar--picture trying to find the scroll bar blindfolded, and that is my situation, pretty much.

 I am going to do the next three or four pages in all in one shot, more or less, can't break it up due to my situation==can't toggle between screens, either.

So, what's below has been my daily journal for the couple of weeks, on and off. The next few pages will be devoted to what's been going on in my life since I've been "away." Tonights entry will appear several entries from this one, just so you know. The first entry here is notes on my move around the 20th November. The rest are whatever I was doing/thinking in the last week or two.

DIARY OF AN OLD MAID:

Diary of an Old Maid: Or the misadventures of a middle-aged miss

29^th November, 2006

Well, just because this ol’ gal hasn’t internet service, made me realize that I could still write--even if it is to no one whatsoever. So the next few blogs will be excerpts of what was going on in my life--and inside my mind---for the last couple of weeks that I hadn’t any access to my blog(s).

Moving--or as I am apt to call it these days, “the move from beyond Hell.” I mean, it makes the Doctor’s adventures in the Satan Pit seem like a holiday lark, a picnic in the park, dancing in the dark--okay, no more rhymes, just the low-down on the move.

Okay--got the apartment, yes? Just5 days before I was to be evicted. Got the money to the landlord literally--very, very literally--just in the old nick of time, as they say. Okay. That’s done. Next move: reserve a truck. Find out I have to shell out a 200 dollar deposit for a rental truck, as I don’t happen to possess any credit cards. Okay--I can live with that--supposedly I was supposed to get anything back that I didn’t use, in regard to mileage--the rental was 40 dollars a day and 39 cents per mile--with two trips plus (more about the plus shortly), I should get back some money (haven’t yet, but that’s another matter). I call up Sunday morning, the day of the move, and verify that the truck will be ready by mid-morning….told yes, but they haven’t my credit card info, and could I please give it to them? Oh boy. I told them I was told by the man who reserved the truck for me, that I could give them a 200 dollar cash deposit. “No, we don’t do that here.” “WHAT???!!!???” I moan, on the verge of a state of total panic. “That’s NOT what the guy told me when I rang you up to reserve the truck.” I cried--nearly having a king-sized little girly fit, trying desperately not to hyper-ventilate. “I have the 200 dollars cash, right in my hands, I’m only moving from Lake George to Glens Falls, it’s a one-day move (or so I thought at the time) can’t you help me?” I pleaded with my best lost little girl voice. Thankfully, I was talking to the owner and he did eventually relent--albeit reluctantly. So I took a taxi to the rental place, shelled out the 200 and drove off my nice new little Penske truck.

Okay. Get to the flat, a neighbour’s son offered to help me move things into the truck--never showed up. So I was stuck--mind, I’m 212 lbs, 46 years old, and very much slightly disabled---I carried downstairs--by myself--a 20 year old television, my antique bed, my mattress and box spring, my big antique dresser that goes with said bed, my solid wood (and excruciatingly heavy) end table with the marble top and my computer, among other things. Oh, and, as Detective Columbo (and my late mum) used to say, “just one more thing:” my computer desk. My computer desk is a wide desk, with a small drawer above a little cabinet with a door. It had a sliding thingy for the keyboard, and a bookcase attached to the back--a tall bookcase, that couldn’t be unattached, as it was nailed on. I managed to maneuver the darn thing out the office door, into the little hallway and down the first few stairs.

This is where the fun really begins. The desk weighs about 50 pounds (not sure what that would be in the U.K., but trust me--it’s heavy.)  It slipped from my grasp while I was working it down the stairs…dropped the desk on my left foot, let go the desk, it went sliding downstairs until it got stuck halfway down the low-hanging overhead wall of stairwell and stopped--stuck fast. Meanwhile, I was pretty certain that I’d just fractured my foot--having had a similar break just last May in my right foot. I tried to get downstairs to shift the desk--to no avail--that sucker was just not gonna’ budge…not by my power alone, at any rate.

But that wasn’t the really fun part--I discovered that I was well and truly trapped. No, not kidding. I couldn’t get round the desk, so I couldn’t get downstairs. And there was no one around and no one in the building. So…I called the Warren County Sheriff’s Department dispatcher. She was rather sarcastic and not in the least bit helpful--asked if I couldn’t just climb out a window or call the landlord or a friend…explained that I was totally alone and there was no one to call--and that I was somewhat disabled and climbing ladders wasn’t really a good idea (one of the few things the Doc’s told me to stop doing altogether when I hurt my back 15 years ago--that and pushing a big heavy wheelbarrow full of manure, ha-ha)…finally got her to begrudgingly call for assistance from a deputy.

Anyhow, after about 20 minutes the deputy arrives--only he can’t get in. The stupid landlord, who been downstairs for a few minutes earlier that morning shortly after I’d come back with the truck, had locked the outside door on me, the thoughtless prat. So, in the end, I had to pry open a window--nearly decapitating myself in the process, as the front windows didn’t stay up--you had to keep them propped open with a book or something, or as quick as you’d open them, they’d rather rapidly slide back down on you, very much like France’s Madam Guillotine. 

Anyway, managed to open a window without losing my head or sustaining yet another concussion, and threw the keys down to the deputy. He let himself in--and couldn’t shift the desk/bookcase either. He radioed for backup, then, at the last moment, it shifted, and all was well. And he didn’t even laugh at me--he was very nice (and rather looked like Capt. Jack from Torchwood, besides)  J  Sadly tho’, the desk proved to be a casualty of the whole operation: it fell to pieces as I was attempting to load it on the truck and had to be left behind. Now I’m using an upturned cardboard box as a desk, and the tower and screen are sharing space on my little antique oak dresser, with the television set and table lamp. Bit crowded, but I’m making it work--tho’ it’s not the most comfy arraingement going, I must admit to you. Gosh, didn’t my foot hurt--but at that point, I was quite literally too stressed  out and exhausted (It was now 11am Sunday, and I’d not slept since 7am or so on Saturday--and only then, had about 4 hours of sleep!)

So, I’ve loaded most of the really heavy furniture--I’d hired a young man from work to help me shift things upstairs to my new apartment. I get to Glens Falls, and the young man proves to be an hour late. Okay, I can live with that. He gets there at last and announces that he has band practice (seems he plays in a local folk-rock band), and can only stay for 30 minutes--mind, I’d already paid him 40 dollars cash in advance, as he was recommended as a reliable young man--and he is actually a nice kid--so I was a bit taken aback by this announcement--told him this was only the first load, that there were two trips involved, and when would he be coming back to help? He wasn’t. That was a bit of a blow--especially since my back and foot were all but crying out in agony, by this time, and I was starting to physically feel like the walking dead.

So, I made a trip to the local day-hire place, only to be told yet again that I couldn’t do a thing without a credit card, that the day hire place didn’t accept cheques or cash…a business that doesn’t take cash? (She raises an eyebrow). Okay, well, trudge back to the flat for the rest (meaning most) of my stuff. Feeling a bit put out, about now, I was. But I was a good soldier and carried on--but not laughing, truth to tell.

Anyway, got back to the flat and saw the neighbour across the street out feeding his chickens, so I lassoed him and his daughter into helping me--for 35 dollars--on the condition that he wouldn’t have to do the stairs on account of his bad knee--oh, I forgot, in climbing up into the back of the truck with the TV set earlier, I ruptured the bursa sac in my left knee--and trust me, that HURT. So I was left handing the stuff down the stairs to him, he handed off to his daughter, who stayed in the back of the truck and shifted the stuff to the back…worked out quite well, actually. Mum and I used to use a similar system, when we had our flea market business and had to load the pick up truck up in the wee hours of a Saturday or Sunday morning.

 So, working together, we loaded most of everything--except for the bulk of my clothes and papers--I was simply out of steam and by the time I got to those items, just plain didn’t have anything left in me to shift any more stuff down the stairs. I was very much at the point of checking myself into the emergency room, I was that knackered and in awful pain. But…I carried on--most definitely NOT laughing, by this point--not crying yet, but I wasn’t a happy little camper, let me tell you.

I got back down to the city of Glens Falls…and the hunt was on for someone to help me move my things upstairs--by this time it was 6:30 PM. After 2 hours of searching the halfway houses, Veterans Home and literally the not so nice back streets…I finally found a cabbie to assist me--for 100 dollars. Okay, I don’t care at this point--if I’d had a million and he’d asked for it, I would have gladly handed it over--no joke. So, I wait and the guy sees the truck--asks if it’s full. I say yes. Okay, so far so good. It’s raining/snowing, I’m cold and tired and in pain--but by God, I’d found myself a mover--not.

The guy gets there, opens the back of the truck, looks at the stuff (would have taken a slow guy about 2 or 3 hours to shift it all, by my estimation). He declares that he won’t do the job for 100, he wants more. He knows he has me over a barrel, sadly. We haggle briefly, and he settles for 125--reluctantly. In the meantime, I told him I needed a mover as I was somewhat disabled and had a couple of injuries, besides. He shifts three boxes, then announces that he will bring the stuff in from the truck, but I have to cart it upstairs--this includes the furnishings! I, at this point, am just too damn tired and wrung out to give a damn anymore. And yes…I carry on. The cabbie brings up one more box--total of four…then announces he doesn’t want to do it, and I can just pay him now. I was just going to give him a five--but he looked like he was going to throw a girly fit on me, so I shoved a 20 at him and told him to take a hike.

So, back tooling around the streets in my yellow truck, trolling for moving help--to no avail--okay. I pulled over and started bawling, pleading with God to get me the hell out of this mess I was in--there was no physical way I was going to shift all that stuff by myself and still have the truck back by morning! I decided that I needed a time out, and dinner, for that matter, as I’d not eaten a bite all day--not that I was especially hungry, but needed something in my stomach, as I’m a diabetic. So I went to the New Way Lunch hot dog stand, and ordered a hot dog and a Coke. The waitress noticed that I was upset, and very kindly asked if I was okay--I let out my tale of woe--and you know what? Ten minutes later I had a mover! Seems the kid behind the lunch counter was an air force brat and was an experienced mover as a result of a lifetime of shifting about from base to base--and here’s the really weird part: he was one of the former occupants of my apartment! No, really. He lived in my building--in my very apartment--for two years. This is a city of 15,00 people--and Glen St. and the surrounding streets are mostly nothing but apartments--loads of old Victorian buildings--and an old school--apartments and flats abound in this area. What are the chances that he’d lived in mine? Weird.

Anyway--all’s well that ends well--the young man showed up on time--12:30 PM, moved everything in less than an hour, took my cheque for 100 dollars without a fuss, swept out the van and left.

But…still had to get the van gassed up, back to the rental place and call a taxi. By now it’s 1:30am on Monday--and I had to be to work at 9am. I gas up the truck--and can’t pay, as the attendant on is making sandwiches for a couple of state policemen and can’t seem to be able to do more than one thing--literally--at a time, and the cops ordered four sandwiches! So I had to wait 20 minutes to pay for my gas. I didn’t get home to the new place until 2:40 in the morning--and into bed until 3am. Slept in my clothes--didn’t even bother to remove my shoes, I was that exhausted.

But wait, as the adverts say, there’s more! After getting out of work, I grab a cab to the flat to get the rest of my stuff. No prob, right? Wait a mo, you haven’t heard all of the tale. I get to the old flat, only to find a note demanding I mop and vacuum before I leave! I’d already done that, but tracked dirt in from outside whilst moving, it seems. Well, the vacuum was broken--dropped while moving, so I swept the rugs as best I could. I couldn’t see where I needed to mop--but did it anyway--and loaded 8 heavy bags of clothes and four boxes full of misc. papers and other items downstairs. Called the cab--told them to bring a van as I had a big load--unplugged the phone, rolled up the line, stuffed it into a box and waited for my cab--and waited, and waited. Mind you, it’s below freezing outside, by this time, and the heat to the building’s been shut off…even tho’ my notice gave me to the 20^th--and the 21^st was still a couple of hours off. So I waited…the van came by nearly an hour later--breezed past…and kept going on north towards Warrensburg. I thought, “oh heck, he’ll figure it out and turn around soon--the town line’s only half a mile on.”

Ha! After waiting another 20 minutes, a grabbed the phone out of the box, unraveled the line, and trudged back upstairs and plugged the dang thing back in. Called the cab company--only to be told that the driver was out of radio contact! So, long story short…about 15 minutes later, he drives past again--and nearly hits me as I dash out to the side of the road to flag him down--then, he sees all my stuff-which, as you recall, I told the dispatcher I had--and tells me it will cost me an extra five dollars for the stuff--which he doesn’t bother to help me load! My last five, mind. I am really not happy, by now, but again, too tired and in far too much pain to give a damn about, overmuch anyway. So I get back to the new place in the city. A kid from the office happens by and helps me carry the stuff up to the front door..no compensation required, if you can imagine that? So after 8 trips, I do manage to finally be done moving in--at 1am precisely on Tuesday morning.

I slept for a week--in between work and some phone calls from the little grocers across the street and a bit of shopping. The big Thanksgiving holiday (2^nd in America, only to Christmas), I went to the good ol’ Presbyterian church down the street (no excuses not to go to church anymore, ey? J) and had a wonderful free Thanksgiving dinner: cheese and

crackers with punch to start, in a room off the sanctuary, then downstairs to the hall for dinner:  Pumpkin-squash soup, fresh roast turkey, 3 veg and mashed, homemade bread stuffing, cranberry jelly, dinner rolls--I’d left no room for the homemade pie, I’m afraid. They even had people designated to sit with you, if you were alone, to converse with you…that was a nice touch, I thought…although my guy seemed really shy and conversationally awkward--something I relate to really well, for the first three quarters of my life so far--I thought it was  a lovely do.

Then, I came home to the new place--only to find a note stuffed under my door that the the realty company (they are selling the building, it turns out) was showing the apartments to prospective buyers the next day--cutting it fine with the notice, as state law requires 24 hour notice for a landlord to enter your apartment--barring an emergency.) Anyway, spent most of Thanksgiving day unpacking and making the apartment presentable--and clearing a path to walk, besides, with all the boxes and such---in between watching every episode of Series II of Doctor Who, and playing computer cribbage--and soothing the still-pouting cats. (Note: most cats--unless they’re a bit off in the head--don’t really care to be shifted.)

But, I’m mostly moved it--just some more books and odds and ends lying about. Getting a new stove--the old gas stove isn’t working properly--found out by almost gassing myself, ha-ha. And things are coming along--going ten rounds with the cable/phone/internet service--seems prior tenant skipped out on his or her bill, and I have to provide the service with a notarized copy of my lease before they will even agree to come! The only time I have free during the day, is my (way too short) half-hour lunch, so that’s a bit of a challege.

I took a half-day off from work last week, to go have the foot x-rayed, and yes, I did fracture it--but not badly, thankfully--don’t even have a bandage on it. It aches a bit, but is tolerable--my knee--that’s not too good, but the back is gradually getting better…and I’m catching up on my sleep.

Next challenge: My day job ends Jan 1^st, and goes to just 4 or 5 hours a night--so I have to get busy and find a day job for after the new year. Fortunately, I can keep the night job, and even work weekends if I want on this job, so that’s not so bad. Two jobs would be tiring, but it would be nice to be able to buy extras (ie: new knickers, snow boots, new keyboard for the computer, an actual professional haircut--I butcher my hair I’m sorry to say.)

So that’s what’s going on with me, at any rate, as of 29 November, anyhow. Not been fun. I’m hoping I’ll laugh about this, someday, but….we’ll see.

Doctor Who questions and thoughts.

30^th Nov. 2006

Well, yours truly really misses her internet--not just the blogging, but visiting my different Doctor Who websites as well.

Watching and re-watching all the new series episodes though, has left me time to reflect on various aspects of the show. It’s also left me pondering a few questions.

For instance, in Doomsday--the last episode of Series II---right after the Doctor goes to close the Void--Dalek Sek disappears--quite literally into thin air. Where does it go? Leaving me to wonder--was Dalek Sek sucked into the Void, or will Dalek Sek be back for Series III?

Speaking of the Void, why wasn’t the Tardis sucked into the Void? She’s a living thing, in a way…as we’re told that she was grown, not built, in Impossible Planet. Why couldn’t the Doctor just have shuttled everyone into the Tardis to protect them, if the Tardis was Void-proof? Maybe he wasn’t sure, maybe he just didn’t think about it, maybe he was being a typical guy in middle-age crisis and just didn’t want the responsibility of worrying about Rose anymore? Most likely tho’, maybe the writer never thought about it…guess I’ll never know for sure, ey?

And, although in the end, it proved a good thing she was there (to help re-set the lever that closed the Void), really the Doctor had planned on doing it all himself, or he’d not have sent her back to the parallel earth with alternate Pete and her mother Jackie, would he? Or would he? So, technically, Rose could have been shunted off to the Tardis without much muss, fuss or bother--or maybe there wasn’t time? I’m just thinking about…well, nothing, really…I don’t write the show or have anything to do with it, these days, except watch the re-runs. I don’t even write fan fiction any longer (at least not for the present), so who am I to say, what is and what isn’t, ey?

For another thing, in School Reunion, Anthony Head’s character (wasn’t he just fantastic?) Headmaster Fitch is supposedly killed by the explosion of the oil caused by K-9---however, we never actually see his demise, do we? Did the headmaster perish, or will he be back to mess with the Doctor yet again (wouldn’t that be brilliant?) Or, did the director just either not shoot or cut the scene for production reasons? Your guess is as good as mine, but I think Fitch is just about one of the best villains Who has had in ages--of course, that’s merely my own opinion, and I’ve no idea if anyone else feels that way.

I keep going back to all the references in Series II, to the unusually cold temperatures--significant? Or just the writer’s way of getting around having to film summer scenes in off-season temps?

The Doctor keeps going on about bananas… “Bananas are good.” in both Series I and II…what’s with that? Just conversational filler--or something more? Or does the writer(s) producer(s) just have a banana fetish?

Since when doesn’t the Doctor like cats--he’s always liked cats--as I recall Doc 6 thought they were quite tasty, or maybe David Tennant is allergic, ha-ha.

So the Doc revels he was a dad once--not too huge a shocker for us older die-hard fans, but still--significant revelation, or just something the producer decided to stick into the conversation to make things more interesting?

The Doctor’s lost his physic paper…will he lose his sonic screwdriver as well? I hope not…love the ol’ sonic screwdriver…for that matter, will he get more physic paper? Not a bad plot device, that--tho’ sometimes a bit overused, I think. Maybe not…dunno’.

So a runaway bride got into his Tardis…will anything else get into the Tardis in Series III? Hmmm---.

Well, that’s all the time I have for pondering, tonight. Must pop off to bed, as it’s past midnight…first time I’ve stayed up late in over a week--slept so much in the past week and a half--I’ll be wide awake for a month! Won’t need my Vermont Green Mountain Breakfast Blend coffee in my old -fashioned blue enamel “butch” Adirondack coffee pot, ha-ha--I think I’ve caught up on all that lost sleep and passed it by, by now. Now if I can just get my daft ol’ knee to work properly again…

30^th Nov. Addendum: Dear God!

I think a better title to this post would be: The Natives are Restless, Somebody  Stop Those Drums! Or: why rugrats (of any age) should be banned from owning stereos.

Yeah, I’ve had, oh….all of about 3 hours sleep, since I got home from work, yesterday. The really lousy heavy metal music (have I mentioned I detest heavy metal? I’d rather listen to ten hours of a Wagner on the accordion and bagpipes, than listen to heavy metal, punk or rap music--really, I speaking in the literal sense here). Yeah, it was blasting away when I got home at 5:30. I went out at 6:30--gave up the ghost and went to do a couple of loads, to catch up a bit on the washing. Got back at 8 and all was quiet in the jungles of  my part of Glens Falls….until I went to bed, that is, at 11 pm. At 11: 17, the drums started in. No way I could sleep through “boom-boom-ba-boom-boom,” so I got up, made some microwave popcorn, put on a little of my own music--which I could barely hear through the other stereo’s noise--and played some cribbage on the computer, thinking it might stop by midnight--did not. By 1am, it was so loud, there was no sleeping at all--you could hear it right outside on the street, and it was consistently getting louder, the little miserable rugs! I’m told the couple’s in their early 20’s but I’m thinking--12 years old?

Anyway, the way the building is, all the apartments are grouped with separate entrances…second floor entrance on my side is for just the two upstairs left apartments, the downstairs all have their own separate entrances, the upstairs right apartments are entered from the rear--and the outside door is kept locked--so it’s not a matter of just knocking on the door and asking politely for them to keep it down. I tried knocking on their wall and calling out, but the little…dears…just turned it up louder..some of the other tenants were less than pleased, but would do nothing. Not me. I got out of my jim-jams and back into my street clothes, marched downtown…and found that Glens Falls’s downtown is pretty much devoid of pay phones--only one is at the bus station, about 10 blocks down from where I live. So, I rang up the police--and left the landlord a polite but strained voicemail message. Got back at 1:45, and all was reasonably quiet..still playing the stereo, but down enough one could barely hear it. Until 2:20 am--up it went again…and kept on until 4:30 in the morning, when it was finally turned off…until it was blasted again at 5 am--and finally turned off--heard someone yelling at them--at 5:30.

Yes, it’s the neighbours from hell. Lovely. The other neighbours are pretty nice, and reasonably quiet--one man stomps around a bit at 3am, and the people across the way from me have a barking, howling dog--that doesn’t do that for long or too often--and it’s really not bad…until the rugrats moved in, over the weekend. So, now I have to make collections calls (actually, it’s easier than selling, but a bit tiring, being yelled at a lot) with all of 3 hours sleep.

And, tho’ it’s unnaturally warm for this time of year, it’s also rather gloomy and quite rainy--and I’ve yet to find my umbrella, so it seems I’m going to be wet on the way to work--and likely late for work as well, as it’s 8 am and usually by this time I’ve had my breakfast, showered and changed and am either am doing a spot of housework or leaving for work early, by now. I’m still in my pyjamas, eating breaky, and pondering having to spend my lunch hour at the bank, getting the money out for the phone/internet man, when he finally decides to show up. Lovely.  Oh well, if I’m late, I will just have to work late. Never been late before, so they can’t kick about that--there’s such a high turnover at my office in help, that they love anyone who shows up on time and works their scheduled shift always. I made 14 sales on Monday, (only 5 on Tuesday, sadly), and got 27 people to cough up some money for their past-due bills on Wednesday, so they sort of like me.

So, breaky’s nearly done and I’m off…gosh, I’m am so incredibly tired tho’, I’m not going to have a fun day, today!

30^th Nov. (evening)

Well, managed to get through a day of collections calls--only a couple of screamers, not many sales, but on the whole people were reasonably civil--tho’ it still appalls me how many of my fellow Americans don’t even have basic language skills--I mean, we are known world-wide for our lousy spelling (I’m proof of that, I’m afraid)…more than once I’ve seen adverts for restaurants serving “chicken cordon blue” and “lobster bisk.” I’ve seen American bulletin boards on North American club websites, where the spelling of the adults is worse than some 4^th grade elementary kids. But, our average newspapers have seriously reduced column inches (the space allotted to stories), stuck huge colour photos in the fold (the center of the front page) in lieu of stories, and the average American newspaper--which 25 years ago, was written on the sophomore high school (10^th year here) level--is now written on the middle school (7^th year) level--or lower! I recently read an adult rag that I swear was written expressly for 5^th graders--no joke.

I think some Americans actually like being ignorant--

Okay, I hate the word “ignorant.” To me, it’s just a fancy name for deliberate stupidity. But really--learning and thinking take effort and care--and Americans are inherently lazy, I’m sorry, but we just are. Too much being handed to us all the time, we’re a bit like spoiled children, sometimes, I think…and Washington doesn’t help--taking away rule after rule that governs civilized behaviour and yet, making things harder as well, for people to live in comfort. That leads to anarchy, I’m afraid.    

So, those are my opinions--feeling a bit feisty tonight, blame it on lack of sleep and PMS (sorry, guys, but that’s the truth).

So, I made myself a cheap beef stew--frozen stew veg (1.59 a bag, on sale), a bit of stew beef (1.79 on sale) and some “homemade” (bouillon cubes and flour paste) beef gravy, throw in some bay leaf and a bit o Worcestershire sauce and black pepper, and I’ve got a supper fit for…well, fit for me, at any rate. Toss in some buttered rolls, and I’m a happy little camper--or at least, my stomach is.

Still warm and rainy here--just 3 or 4 hours south of Canada--but down in Texas (not far from Mexico) they are having a blizzard and ice storm! Weird weather.

Going tonight to pop in to the library, to see one of my old English profs, Paul Pines, give a poetry reading from his latest book of poetry. He’s a poet of some small reknown--mostly locally, but he’s had some national nods as well. I’ve also got to pop round to the chemists, and pick up some ear plugs--maybe then I can actually get some sleep at night, but not holding my breath. Well, I’m off to the Crandall Library and a night of poetry (yawn)--Prof. Pines was a great teacher, and even tho’ I don’t like poetry as much as I used to, I want to be there to hear what he’s written--he’s very innovative and thought-provoking, and I learned a lot about “thinking outside the box” from him--even if my poetry did suck…although, I did have one poem that I wrote for his class, published, in a small publication based in Chicago, once.

The three cats are content--all three keeping my bed all toasty warm with their sleepy little bodies--not sure how I feel about them laying on my pillow, but..oh, what the heck, at least they’re happy.

Memories, from the Corner of my Mind…whoops, sorry, that’s a song.

Anyhow, I’ve been thinking on mum a bit, lately. I’ve a photo of her, taken, oh, about 15 years ago, in my sister’s apartment, where mum is sitting on the ratty old brown overstuffed sofa, holding my infant nephew--just under a year old, I think…even in diapers and his jim-jams, he still sort of looked then, as he does now…although my nephew is umpteen feet tall and wearing man-size shoes, at 16 years of age.

But I miss mum, quite a bit, sometimes…I miss our conversations--even our fights--okay, not the bad one’s, but the little spats where we would hug each other after and say we’re sorry and carry on as if we’d never disagreed on anything whatsoever. I miss our dinner conversations. Tho’, I’m sure, mum likely got tired of me talking about stuff going on at school, or what happened on a trip, and the like. I liked it when mum talked about her family, and the stuff they used to do--especially trips to the family farm in Ancram, NY back in the 30’s, or trips to the family’s rented camp, at Hero, on Lake Champlain. We’ve loads of photos of family members with these enormous strings of trout, bass and pike.

She sometimes spoke of how she was made to sleep in the same room as her dead grandmother, as back then, the dead were waked in the palor of the house. And there was nowhere for mum to sleep, that time, but on the sofa near the coffin. She was about 8 or 9, I think. When mum went to visit the farm, she had to contend with the resident goose, whenever she needed to spend a penny in the old outhouse…the goose would chase mum in there, hissing and squaking and fanning his feathers…and chase her out again, when she was done. She used to talk about how she hated the butchering of the chickens--them flopping about headless, and the smell of the singed pinfeathers.

Mum would talk about her dad and when he was a pressman--how he was so very depressed, when he’d invented the device that automatically stops the presses, when a man’s hand is caught in there, while working at the New York Daily News, and the idea was taken out of his hands, and patented by grand dad’s boss--and grand dad got naught for his efforts…it changed grand dad, I’m told. Grand dad was a great inventor and liked to make things. He liked his model railroad and played the nimble jack and harmonica. He ran the loud speaker system at local polo matches, as well.  He ran the local theater in Rennselaer, NY, as well, for a time. He used to go ice skating at the Hudson NY cemetery pond with mum, when she was small.

But mum sometimes hinted that her dad had a darker side, as well. She always believed that her dad was unfaithful to her mum. It seems there was a mystery girl somewhere west of Albany, NY, and mum never could get the straight of it. It bothered mum considerably, although she only spoke of it, once or twice in my lifetime. Her dad had a live in girlfriend, after grandma died, so I think mum was being more perceptive than paranoid, on that count.

Mum would talk about how she had wanted to go to fashion school in New York City, to be a dress designer..but her mum talked her into going to stenotype school in Albany, instead. I suspect that’s maybe why mum was always to keen on me doing what I wanted to do, and not what life’s circumstances might force me into doing, for my living. She was a good drawer…could do people and clothes pretty well, for someone totally untrained as an artist--but life sort of beat mum down, towards the end--well, that and dad. Dad was a frightened, petty, jealous and less than mature man. Don’t get me wrong, I did love him, but dad had some serious issues that were never addressed. And dad had a tendency to take his fears, his insecurities and his feelings of helplessness, out on us. He was always at me to “get a state job.” Didn’t matter what I wanted, money was the only thing that impressed dad--money, material items, power. I have no idea why mum married dad--they were polar opposites, in how they each viewed the world around them. But with dad, year in and year out, putting mum down and denying her things and just generally being a right miserable bastard, at times, mum kind of centred her life on us kids, and gave up her dreams forever--although, mum admittedly loved being a mum.

And gosh, didn’t she just enjoy being a librarian/library director. And mum loved her genealogy..and her books. Her favourite authors were Jean Plaidy, Mary Higgans Clark and Jack Higgans. She liked books about WWII espionage, towards the end of her life, for some reason. And, like me, she enjoyed reading about local history--especially the stories. It’s true that fact really can be more interesting and stranger, than fiction ever dreamed of.

I liked those stories: some comic, some tragic, all fascinating.

There’s one tale of Saratoga Lake, back between the times of Queen Anne’s War and the Revolution. Saratoga Lake is rather large…but it’s also very, very deep. The local Native Americans had a superstition about the lake: Do not talk while paddling a canoe across the lake, or the evil spirit of the lake would tip your canoe over and consume you. Well, it seems that two white settlers hired these two Indians to paddle them across Saratoga Lake. The Indians would only do it, if the white people promised not to talk. It was agreed. Halfway across, the woman settler couldn’t take the silence--it was a broad lake and took awhile to paddle across in a big canoe. So she blurts out something like, “it’s so quiet,” or something like that. The Indians stopped paddling, appalled. But after looking at each other a moment, they resumed paddling. The white man said to them later, on shore, “I thought you said the evil spirit would take us for speaking, see, it’s just a foolish superstition.” The Indians simply looked at the wife and shrugged, one saying, “Oh, the evil spirit knows you can’t keep women silent.” A Native American version of the do-over? In golf terms, with a woman present, the evil spirit takes a mulligan.

In the mid-19^th century city of Albany, there were myriad little cemeteries scattered in a place known as the State Street Burial Ground (now known as Washington Park). Body snatching for medical schools was a thriving business. One night, an upstanding citizen of Albany was walking past the burial ground on his way home, when he noticed some suspicious activity. He hid in some bushes, and watched to sleezy guys pull up to a fresh grave with a wagon--which the citizen noted was from a local livery stable. The two guys begin digging up the fresh grave--but when they get down to the body, they hauled it out and placed the coffin in the back of the wagon…then decide they’d worked enough for the time being, and go off to a nearby tavern for a bottle of gin or whiskey. The concerned citizen gets an idea. He hauls out the body and hides it, then actually climbs into the coffin--I kid you not, this really is a true story---and waits for the return of the would be body thieves. They come back, finally, and standing next to the wagon, one says to the other, “how ‘bout another little nip?” and holds out the bottle. Concerned citizen pipes up in his most chilling, unearthly voice, “don’t mind if I do, it’s cold in the grave and these old bones could do with a little snort.” The two body snatchers gave a start and ran away screaming like little girls. Concerned citizen put the body back in the grave, replaced the dirt over it, then climbed into the wagon and took it back to the livery stable whence it came, laughing all the way.

Sometimes Life is Worse than a Dalek: or dealing with National Grid and other utilities

Okay, still trying to wrestle with getting phone/internet service. Seems the 50 some-odd dollars that the cable company told me I needed to give them for the honor of having them come and connect me, was misquoted. When I called to confirm the appointment (over a week wait for that, and I would have to take a half-day off (unpaid) from work, as well), the lady on the phone informed me that the amount was actually 106 dollars! Told her that’s not what I was told--then she informs me that the person had signed me up for standard cable tv service (I’d merely enquired about the cost of the basic plan), and that the cost for all three was 106 dollars a month, payable up front, at installation. Well, nuts to that. I’m calling today to cancel. I haven’t had tele in nearly 2 years, I can live without it a bit longer.

So, I’m off today to make a passel of phone calls to both the telephone and cable companies, to see if I can do something better, within my meager budget. Worse comes to worse, I will have to buy a mobile phone and do without internet and TV service--for a while longer, anyhow.

After nearly two weeks, my mail has finally caught up with me. Which means I just got my new National Grid bill---700 dollars plus! They do this all the time! They keep taking me off the budget plan (roughly 80 dollars a month) which I’ve stuck to and we’ve agreed on. I’m so angry with National Grid, I could chew nails. I mean, what’s the point of making a budget plan, if the greedy little mindless apes at NG are going to dishonor their word all the time? I miss the old power company--a local NY company--Niagara Mohawk, those people were human beings. I’m not sure who runs National Grid, but I’ve a feeling that they are not quite as human as the Nimo people we were used to dealing with. I suspect Hitler was easier to deal with than National Grid.

Anyhow, fed the cats, now I have a long day of phone calls and trying to shop for food that fits within my tiny food budget…and I have the long trek down to the one dollar store, to see if I can find a cheap mop…been doing my kitchen and bath floor with a hand-held sponge, not great for the old back and knees, I must say. Somehow my mop got left behind. And, my vacuum cleaner was dropped and now no longer works, so I’ve got the do my rugs with a broom and dust pan.

 My life just plain is no fun at all. But then, I guess I’ve had all the fun I’m ever going to--more than some people have done, in their life times--so who am I to complain? I’ve done some traveling, seen things I never thought I’d see, was able to do hobbies and such. I can’t do any of that now, but I did get to do it before, so I’m not going to complain. Boring really isn’t that awful. I mean, it’s neither negative or positive for me. It just…is. For me, these days, boring means that nothing bad is happening at the moment--no big anxieties, or pain, or fear, so boring isn’t really negative, I suppose. But it does make the days long, sometimes, I do admit, and the nights even longer. That’s why I valued the internet and my Doc Who DVD’s so highly. They kept me from just laying around staring at the ceiling, for want of anything better to do.

Yesterday, we had thunderstorms and tornado warnings, today the great heaving grey clouds are scuttling across the sky, amid snow flurries. I cannot help but wonder, is this a harbinger of what this day is to bring to me?

2^nd December, one hour later.

I don’t know what to say, what to think, what to write. National Grid has killed me. The inhumane bastards and their stupid system have done me in. I just don’t have in me, to do this anymore. Even if I go back on their Goddamn budget plan--they factor in the usage of the previous tenant for the last three months or something like that, into what I myself have to pay---in this case, the budget plan is nearly 350 dollars a month! I was paying between 80 and 90, and that was difficult to meet, as it was…but 350…might as well be 350 million. I only make 1100 dollars a month, rent due third week of the month is 600…the math just won’t work, here. I might as well be dead. Really, would you want to live like this? What the hell’s the point? I don’t see a point, anymore. What’s the point of going out to a job everyday, if you can’t even afford to feed yourself? What the hell’s the point?

Every time I start to get back on my feet nowadays, the baseball pitcher of life throws me another curveball…and more often than not, they hit me in the face. I wish I’d killed myself, back in September. God, I wish I had. I can’t take this pain and isolation anymore, this totally meaningless existence. I’ve my friends across the pond, but is that enough, anymore? Is it enough, just to exisit? To breathe the air? What have I, to offer life? I am nothing. I am no one. If I die in the next breath, less people will miss me, than I’ve fingers on my right hand.  Despite the encouragement and support of my few friends, right now I feel so alone, so deep in pain, so incredibly worthless.

What I wouldn’t give at this moment, for a time machine. So I could go back to a “normal” existence--to a time when I could work for a living--because I wanted to, not just so I could have a roof over my head and heat and…maybe a little food, now and then. I hate my country so very much. I know I am not alone in my situation--there are millions of us, and the numbers are only growing--and, unlike other countries in the world, America’s social system is severely broken…sliced away, bit by bit, to pay for wars and corporate tax breaks and a national disaster that only occurred, because the federal government cut funding to fix broken levy’s. The governmental safety net is fragile and virtually non-existent.

I’m likely to find little, if any, assistance. Perhaps a stave off in my shut off notice--oh yes, National Grid is shutting me off, even tho’ I’ve paid  EVERY bill since March, when I went on the plan. What’s the point? Somebody please tell me, because I’ve lost it. What’s the point of breathing, of having a heartbeat and a mind and a soul, if all there is, is just…nothing. Even if by some miracle, I find a second job--and now I can’t even afford a telephone, thanks to NG. Even in this small city, not having a car severely curtails one’s ability to look for work, as most businesses are located in the suburbs…there’s really few businesses in downtown Glens Falls, outside of some insurance companies and the banks…and I’ve a math learning disability, so working at a bank is pretty much out, for me.

So, outside the windows of my living room--left the curtains off, as I didn’t have the money to buy any, and I live high enough that few if anyone, can see in--the snow continues to fall.

Believe it or not, I used to love days like this. I used to love to hear the late autumn wind rattling the dead leaves on the trees, feel the snow on my cheek, watch the clouds scuttle across the sky. Days like this, I used to go hiking in the woods with the dogs, or later, to the horse auction to visit with acquaintances, or to the library to browse the stacks. I used to love Saturdays like today…now I can only remember them. Like Christmas.

Oh, I used to love Christmas. Mum wouldn’t allow me to decorate until the end of the first week of December. We’d get our tree the second weekend of December and make this big deal of decorating…actually, sometimes getting the tree itself (if we were using a live on) was in itself, a big deal. A couple of years, I even went into the woods and cut down a spruce with my own two hands, and dragged in home on the end of a rope, if there was snow--or over my shoulder, if there wasn’t. Mum would make a big production out of ensuring the tree was perfectly decorated--and I would be just as bad, I admit. ‘Tho it did get a bit of a bother, after a couple of hours of fussing with ornaments and lights, only to have mum say--“you left a gap,” or “Those ornaments/lights don’t look properly balanced to me.” Or, the dreaded (after I’d finally done decorating) “the tree’s crooked.” That meant getting down on my hands and knees and very carefully adjusting the screws that hold in the tree--without knocking any decorations off, or blowing out any lights.

We’d shop together for presents, and I’d wrap things ever so carefully. We’d sit one night, with the Christmas music playing, and make out the Christmas cards…we’d go to Christmas bazaars and parades and tree lightings, we’d stroll around Saratoga’s downtown and the mall, admiring the shop window decorations. It was a big deal, as little as 2 years ago. We even had the tradition of buying each other one special ornament for the tree, each year.

All that’s gone, now. Even the Christmas decorations--lost in the move back in March, after I’d lost the house. Accidentally taken to the town dump by the guy I hired to haul unwanted things away. No one to celebrate with, to share with, anymore, so Christmas last year, was my first, totally alone and totally without meaning, and this year makes my second, as well. The sun’s shining, the snow has ceased, the wind’s died down a bit, and no longer rattles the windows. But I’m still here in my apartment, alone--well, not totally. Flame, the minute I came in here, crying, put herself in my lap and has spent the entire time while I write this, sitting forward but with her head reared back, gazing at my face, worried. My only physical comfort, now. I know that I’ve the comfort of my far-distant friends, and these three things are the only things that are sustaining me, now. I had hoped to be able to go to the post office today, to buy some airmail stamps so that I might send my friends some letters, but now even that’s being denied me, with this new bill. Unfortunately, I still have to buy some food and do laundry, but it will be a bleak, stark Christmas this year. I had thought, when I woke this morning, that since I was going to the one dollar store for a cheap mop, that I might also look into getting one or two Christmas decorations--but now those plans are gone. I will not celebrate this year. I will not celebrate ever again. It’s just not meant to be. I will try to survive this blow that National Grid has heaped on me, but now I realize that my life--life itself, is completely meaningless for me. I was born, I lived..someday, God willing, I will die.

I still have the comfort of knowing I have friends (at least, I hope so) and that I still have at least three cats…but knowing that’s all…I wonder, now, will this be enough? Is this enough? I don’t know. Guess it will just have to be, not like I have any choices open to me, is there?

Life’s a bit of a drag, when one door opens and the next one is slammed in your face. I haven’t had tele in nearly two years, it’s been 15 months since I last went out to a movie, and about the same since I’ve been to the theater. I haven’t been able to rent a movie in about 10 months, and now have no internet service, except for 10 minutes here and there, some days, at work. Don’t even want to think what my e-mail in-box looks like. I can’t use the library, because I still owe over 100 dollars in fines from when mum took ill and lost a mess