Renter's Insurance

Homer: I’m sorry, Marge, but sometimes I think we’re the worst family in town.

Marge: Maybe we should move to a larger community.

I signed up online for renter's insurance in my new place. But I had to call with a question. I got a really nice agent.

Me: Can I get insurance to cover the interstate move?

Sally: The renter's insurance policy covers you household goods wherever they are, including in a moving van.

Me: So, if the van is swallowed by Montana in an earthquake like Lois Lane in Superman?

Sally: Yep: covered.

Me: What if my stuff is scattered by a tornado across a prairie in Montana? Like that tornado movie, only in Montana.

Sally: Yep: covered.

Me: What if the van driver gets drunk and plunged off a cliff in Wyoming?

WISIMH:  Can't think of a movie reference on that one.

Sally: Nope. 

Me: That was a trick question anyway, because I don't think there are cliffs in Wyoming.

Sally: It doesn't matter. The delivery company is liable if it's their fault.

Me: What about if the driver hits a fuel tanker and they both explode up in flames?

Sally: Apart from the legal question of liability - which I won't answer - moving company pays, not me.

Me: What if Thelma and Louise blow up the van because the driver is a dick?

Sally: Argue with the van company first because they are more likely to get the movie reference.

WISIMH: Ask about an alien space ship hitting the van with a drill intended to implant a black hole inside earth like in Star Trek.

Me: Thank you very much for playing along, Sally.

Hippo Gerosto Niparos!

“In his great book Enthusiasm, Father Ronald Knox gives us two examples of ‘speaking with tongues’: ‘Hippo gerosto niparos boorasti farini O fastor sungor boorrinos epoongos menati,’ and ‘Hey amei Hassan alla do hoc alors louvre has heo massan amor ho ti prov hir aso me.’ Of these, he says ‘The philology of another world does not abide our question, but if we are to judge these results merely human standards, we must admit that a child prattles no less convincingly.’”

-       W. H. Auden, A Certain World

As I have become a hermit pending my resurrection later this summer following another life change or two, I no longer have conversations in my head about people in the Actual World who cross my path. My path these days is through the tall grass of my own health problems and visits to medical practitioners differing from each other only in the number of times they ask me why I am here today. They always want to see you again in 3 months so they can ask you again. Why.

Instead, today I managed today to file a ton of my medical and health insurance records, receipts and correspondence into some coherent form that may permit at least me to know what the hell is going on. I cleaned out the medical and insurance files in TSG's large loose leaf book file, thus killing two birds with one set of labeled tabs. My inner bureaucrat is feeling content now that the book has been repurposed to contain records of somebody still inhabiting the Actual World. And plus, the cat now has another sunny spot formerly occupied by an unstable stack of filing to be done.

I have found that I can tolerate about 60 minutes of somebody else’s company before I get this itching beneath my skin that threatens either to erupt into a panic attack or manifest in some form of inappropriate behavior usually involving vulgar language. Since saying “Holy Shit” before walking out on the pharmacy clerk at Rite Aidless who denied me my blood thinner for the fourth time, I have not used profanity in public. Twenty days fuck-free, bitches. Out loud in public, anyway. I have avoided any occasion that might lead to profane outbursts and/or that might take more than one hour of social intercourse with other people.

By merely human standards, I do not prattle - convincingly or not - these days. I tried to this past weekend when I had less than 2 oz. of honey juniper mead at 12% ABV to cheer me and myself up. Hilarity and atrial fibrillation ensued.  It took me more than 24 hours to convert to normal sinus rhythm.  I am adjusting my medications accordingly and will resume prattling when some sort of equilibrium is reached and the pointless appointments are done.

Meanwhile, hippo gerosto niparos, everybody!

Two Friends, By David Ignatow

I have something to tell you.

I'm listening.

I'm dying.

I'm sorry to hear.

I'm growing old.

It's terrible.

It is, I thought you should know.

Of course and I'm sorry. Keep in touch,

I will and you too.

And let me know what's new.

Certainly, though it can't be much.

And stay well.

And you too.

And go slow.

And you to.

Weather Report

“Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.”

– Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

The worst of all deceptions is self-deception.

-       Plato

Your friends won’t see you to the end I’m sure but you love them anyway.

 - Jack White

I've heart a lot of voices in my head lately, including the strange company quoted above. The common thread in these voices is inspired by the weather. It is something akin to fear that has taken root in my heart like the moss the covers everything here. Fear is just a reaction. Like sweat is a reaction to hard work (sometimes), or like guilt is a reaction to sin (sometimes).

While we cannot always control what happens to us, we can control how we react to it. For me, it’s clenching my teeth and wishing I could shoot deadly laser beams from my eyes. And insomnia, and eventually, fear. Emotions apparently evolve over time. Once, fear would make me cry. Once, realizing my own inability to control my reactions would make me want to be a better person. Those trains have sailed.

These days, I’m not so afraid of what happens to me as how I’m losing my ability to control my reactions. To offset this increasing uncontrollable rage and growing fear, I have found it liberating that at least I no longer cry when I am overcome with nameless dread. I certainly no longer want to be a better person. I’m good enough, and I don’t have anybody I want to accept me as I am. The fucks I now give are well into negative numbers. I finally got USAA sorted and they even refunded the $22 my credit union charged me for the check that USAA wrote and promised they'd cash and then returned to the credit union. Rage is the latest evolution of my fear: you don't want to make me angry these days.

Short of having the roof collapse and direct rivers of dirty rain down my bent back, I pretty much don’t give a shit. I do have a few library books to return in a few weeks. I still have to complete tattoo removal and edit “prayer works” into “strongly worded letters work”. I think the snakes slithering through tall grass between the tattooed words can stay. The traces of green on the bare branches of the backyard tree pictured here are not budding leaves - they are moss. They are my mood of unnamed menace - growing in the rain and smothering everything.

For a while it looked like today would be the second day in a row that it hasn’t rained since I moved here last November. There have been a few days without rain - but so far I have not experienced two in a row. For the record, I’m not talking about two consecutive sunny days. That would be too much to hope. I would accept two cloudy days without precipitation. By the end of the day, it turned out not to be rainy for one and half days.  I hate this weather and pretty much everything it falls on, including the leak in my roof.

The roofing contract has been signed and the deposit has been put in the mail. Now, weather permitting, I will have a roof next month. Then, new attic insulation, then new kitchen lights, then a heat pump recommended by the electrician to replace the struggling oil furnace adjacent to the new water heater that replaced the old one that bled out last week on to the garage floor next to the second puddle made by the leak in the pipe the plumber had cleaned out the day before. 

These days it's not so much fear that makes me go on, but a morbid curiosity to see what the fuck the new day has in store for me besides rain and silent creeping moss.

None of Your Business

“You want to be someplace that people want, you really do. We don’t want to be places that we’re not wanted. We simply don’t.”

-       Donald Rumsfeld

Two young gentlemen just came to my door in the pouring rain. They were wearing unfortunate acid green rain slickers designed to bring their presence to the attention of drivers with their wipers on faster-faster-I-can’t-see before they were struck from behind at the stupidly slow top speed of 30 mph permitted in this state on two lane roads with a double stripe down the middle. Nonsequiturly, the speed limit on my old one lane sidewalk-less residential street was 35 mph, these guys were highly visible on my porch where their jackets merely seemed to give of a radioactive glow in the monochrome landscape. 

One man had his sinister hand poised over an ominous clipboard. Too late I noticed matching corporate logos on their rain slickers. I hate this front door with a window that lets people see that you’re home when you peek to see who is at your door.

Clipboard Guy:  Hi, we’re from (unintelligible to hearing impaired people on porches when speech is drowned out by surrounding downpour) and we’ve just installed fiber optic cables somewhere nearby.

WISIMH:  Ok, I reserve the right to not so much use poetic license when quoting you on my blog later as to simply write the way I fill in blanks on most of what I hear these days.

Me: That must suck in this rain.

CG: (As his companion, standing out of his sightline, nods vigorously) well, we’re talking to your neighbors about giving you – finally – an option for your cable service. Do you have Comcast?

Me: Yes.

CG: And you have cable TV with On Demand?

Me: Yes.

CG: (Nodding and noting stuff on his clipboard.) And high speed Internet?

WISIMH: And vaporized medicinal marijuana, which I was just now availing myself of. But I doubt you have a box for that on the clipboard you are deliberately holding so I can’t see what you’re writing. Not to be more paranoid than usual at such times, but are you writing that it looks like I’m wearing a worn out man’s tee shirt and slippers and I clearly didn’t shower after gymming.

CG: And do you use the internet for business or personal use?

Me:  Yes.

CG: Um, and do you pay about $185 per month?

Me: I’m not comfortable providing any more information. What’s up?

WISIMH:  I would however, be happy to tell you that Bob across the street has always been quiet and kept to himself in case you were going to ask me why I thought he killed people who knocked on his door soliciting something and then buried them in his backyard. He always seemed so nice although I’ve only lived here for a short while.

CG: We’re just trying to make a living in the pouring rain here ya daft old woman.

Me: I’m sorry, what?

CG: We’re just seeing if you might be interested in saving some money now that you have a choice for Internet and shit.

WISIMY: Nah, I’m totally loaded. You wouldn’t imagine what I save by doing my wash and showering in the fucking rain. (Insert maniacal laugh).

Me:  Thanks anyway, but I’m not interested today. Unless you’d like to hear more about Bob.

CG:  WTF? Ok, thanks for your time. Have a good…

...As I closed the door, I reflected that when you live in a neighborhood where the houses are so close together, you’re more likely to get visited by solicitors than I was when my house was relatively isolated and far uphill from the street. The only people who used to knock on my door were people inspired by Jesus to share the good news. They never wore lime green corporate raingear either.

If Life is a Play, this Scene is a Tragedy

“Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art.” 

 – Kurt Cobain

I finally moved into my new house. That's a pain in the ass I don't even want to think about, let alone blog about. 

December 7 is the last day the buyers can back out of the deal to buy my house. They had the plumbing inspected by camera and apparently weren’t thrilled with their dirty movie. Meanwhile, assuming I sell the place I totally regret selling, I had the nicest conversation with the escrow lady who will be processing the transaction if/when she regains consciousness.

Her name is difficult to hear and even more difficult to pronounce, so I just refer to her in my head as Pahtooey. I suppose she could be a sleeper Syrian refugee so maybe I should cut her some slack. On second thought, she’s just dumb enough to convince me she’s a real ‘Merikan. I learned some time ago that the Iraqi bankers in my old home town were much more into actually reading and understanding documents than American bankers. They actually understood what customer service means.

Patooey:  Thanks for the e-mail saying you’re going to have the escrow docs notarized and overnighted back to me. You mentioned that your spouse is deceased. There will be an addendum you’ll also need to notarize saying he is deceased. Also, I’ll need a copy of the family trust since you’re signing as trustee.

Me:  M’kay. Glad you caught me before I left for the UPS store notary and shipping.

WISIMH:  Too bad you didn’t catch me before I spent the morning filling out the forms and talking to my tax lady about one of them. Also, I’m sorry you didn’t happen to notice that certified copy of the death certificate I gave my broker when I gave him a copy of the family trust.

Patooey: We’ll also need a certified copy of the death certificate and a copy of the trust. When did your spouse die?

Me:  December 5, 2014.

Patooey:  Wow! That’s…. sorry.

WISIMH: Did you just almost wish me happy anniversary of TOG’s death?

Patooey: I’m going to need to get you a whole new escrow packet because we can’t leave all those signature lines with his name blank or that might hold up getting the County to record the Deed of Trust.

What I meant to say in my head, but didn’t: Ya think?

What I did manage to say only in my head:  Because it’s going to cost me enough to get that shit notarized on earth and I’d hate to think what UPS charges to notarize stuff in hell. And you cheap bastards should be paying to send a notary to my house and ship the stuff to you anyway because I see you’re charging enough for your tragically lame services.

Department of Complaint Response, Division of You Think You’ve Got it Bad?...

“I was no longer happy in Auschwitz once the mass exterminations had begun…. At first, I felt unhappy at the prospect of uprooting myself, for I had become deeply involved with Auschwitz as a result of all the difficulties and troubles and the many heavy tasks that had been assigned to me there. But then I was glad to be free from it all.”

-       Rudolf Hoess

A symptom of stress over selling a house is having thicker mood swings – higher, lower, longer, twistier, suddenly hitting like a bag of sand dropped on your head. I’m currently in a trough of a mood swing up to my neck in sand.

The house is old. There are some quite serious plumbing problems. Today, leaks in 50 year old cast iron pipes were eclipsed by the chimney sweep who didn't even wear a top hat and whose handshake is supposed to bring good luck. As of the close of business today, my plumbing problems are to my chimney problems as a cool breeze is to having a bag of sand dropped on your head. Tomorrow that will change for the worse. You might say I am waiting for the electrician. The electrician will complete his inspection and then probably back up a dump truck of sand on my head through the holes in the chimney. 

It’s an old house and quite a heavy task to sell. The termites and I have loved it a long time. And speaking of termites and heaviness of tasks, here’s a fun fact. The other day, while I was on hold with the termite inspector, instead of canned music, I listened to a charmingly professional airport announcer lady’s voice telling me that the weight of all the termites in the world exceeds the weight of all the humans in the world. Not the number. The weight. (Well, probably the number too.)

On the bright side - like many problems in life - all I have to do is throw some money at it. That’s what money is for. I could be on a restricted calorie diet like Rudolph’s guests. I imagine they might have been even unhappier than he was. I am in no danger of going to bed hungry with the smell of burning meat permeating my tent.

WISIMH:  Wait! Did you just invoke Godwin's Law in describing how bad it is to move?

Me:  No, fool. I wasn’t trying to prove my point about stress by reductio ad Hitlerum. I was trying to explain that unhappiness is relative. I’m was trying to be all positive and shit. Why are you so angry all the time?

WISIMH: (Going to my happy place) I wonder what my weight in termites would look like. 

Me: I bet the volume of the stacked sandbags that hit me today.

WISIMH: At least, like poor, unhappy Rudolf, I will be glad when we're free from it all.