Da Goddess

I started a walk down Memory Lane one recent night that quickly led to a case of nostalgia for my very early years on this earth. It didn’t take long for nostalgia to become obsession.

I was overwhelmed by memories of my maternal grandparents: Grandma and Grandfather. My Dad’s parents were Grandma and Pappy (though Pappy married Grandma Eleanor or Lenore [who had A PINBALL MACHINE IN HER BASEMENT!!!] after Original Grandma died). Anyhow, I was thinking about Grandma and Grandfather this particular time. They were the ones who: had an enchanted garden, a magic mirror in the bathroom, the electric organ, and neighbors with the little girl burned to death (Bernadette). Their house was the second one from the corner. That detail I distinctly recall. How can I be certain? Because the cars would have to slow down for the stop sign at the intersection. We kids slept in the front bedroom and we could hear the telltale clickety tickety of the slowing tires and watch the headlights as they rolled past. I remember Bernadette’s house being on the corner. Grandma and Grandfather’s house was a single story, whereas Bernadette’s house was two stories. These are important details, as you’ll come to appreciate shortly.

For some reason, as my nostalgia gave way to curiosity (oh, shit! I left out that part of the grand journey to obsession, didn’t I?), I started to think maybe I could find their house by googling the road. That’s the only part of the puzzle I had firmly in my mental grasp. No street number, just the name of the street. Should be relatively easy, shouldn’t it? Google maps could lead me down this path and I’d magically (technologically) find a piece of my childhood and live happily ever after, secure in the knowledge that something so precious to me still exists.
If only. All I have to do is find a single story house next to a two story house, second from the corner, on a specific street, and BAM-A-ROONY! Mystery solved.

As if.

I spent no less than three hours trying to find the house. That night. I’ve since revisited the oh so (not) helpful maps of Googleland. My quest, apparently, has no end.

At this point, I should mention that I’m working with a very fickle Bluetooth signal. (Predictive text tried to turn fickle into fucked, which is not only kinda funny, but also a whole MOOD…and an accurate one at that.) So, of course, while I have my Google map groove in gear and hot on the trail of MY QUEST FOR THE HOLY GRAIL of childhood memories, the Bluetooth signal keeps crapping out on me. I think this is how memories become nostalgia becomes curiosity becomes obsession. Curiosity can become victory pretty quickly if you have a solid connection to the world wide web. Denied that solidity? Curiosity becomes obsession. The itch to continue your search leads to a jittery and frantic dance as you toggle between windows/functions. Just as you think you’re on the precipice of a MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH, you get a wee dinosaur and the notice of “lost connection”.

This. This is when you realize you can no longer just drop the search for a bit and get some sleep. Oh no. You’re far too keyed up for sleep. You’re at peak wakefulness now. You. Must. Continue. The. Quest.

So, three hours and multiple “damnit!”, “fucking hell!”, “shit on a pointy stick!”, and other utterances of frustration (are there any other types of utterances?) later, you finally give up — ¡temporalmente! — because your already wreck of a body can’t take any more spasms and teeth-grinding madness. There’s only so much a body can take. I don’t care who you are. There’s a point where you simply must decide that shitting yourself during the marathon just isn’t worth it. I’m all for not shitting myself, figuratively or literally. And my back and neck will attest to the fact that I can no longer spend hours tied up in knots of anticipatory stupor. I just can’t do it.

And thus, I’ve reached the end…so far…of my QUEST for the house my grandparents owned when I was a wee bairn. I shall let you know when — not “if” — I am triumphant.

Wish me luck.

P.S. I blame this all on Covid brain, lingering paroxysmal coughing fits, and my ever present insomnia. But, mostly Covid brain and the coughing. So, basically, Covid.

It’s that time again. Chicken soup is my jam. Whenever I have the energy and the back cooperates, I cook. It’s now all I do when I have the energy, which isn’t often. I’ve just been extremely run down, coughing, night sweats, headaches, chest pain from all the coughing, and generally tired. I’m lucky to get a couple hours of sleep at a go. I’ve decided if this goes on much longer, it’s off to see a doctor because I just can’t seem to go more than a week or ten days before it starts all over again. What’s the deal with that???

I have a new song I listen to frequently when I’m in one of those moods. It helps me wash away the cobwebs and sadness.

And there you have it: the sweetest mind and heart cleanser.

I wish I had photos of all the amazing women who’ve influenced my life and helped me get to age 55.

Barring that, here’s a few of them.

In the past week, while I’ve been cursing the slow progress toward recovery from the dreaded Covid, Mr H got himself another dog.

He got drunk one night and, while on Facebook, looked at the local lost and found pets page, saw a dog he couldn’t resist (this is actually the second one; the first was with a woman who wouldn’t deliver*), and agreed to take if the rescuers could bring the dog to the house. They agreed. And the very next day, voila! Another dog.

It’s a boy.

His current name is Duke. Or Juke. He answers to both (because they sound the same). He briefly answered to Rex. He was also temporarily Billy Joe, after Billy Joe Shaver — he seemed to really like “Live Forever” and so we tried that. Prior to that was Bubba. H calls him Buddy more often than not. He also refers to him as “her” because he’s used to having a female dog around. He’ll be paying for DJuke’s therapy for years.

This beastie is young. He’s totally untrained and, boy oh boy, he’s doing his best to resist learning the basics! I think he was abused before he was abandoned because of the way he reacts to a hand placed on his rump. If you slide a hand down while petting him, he’s okay. Try touching his hind end otherwise? He’s jumpy and he tries to squirm away. So, teaching him to sit is a very slow work in progress. I’m doing my best to capture the behavior and reward him for it while repeating the word “sit”. It’s pretty much the only way to get there from here. I’ve also resorted to asking Cookie to sit and rewarding her for doing so in front of DJuke.

I haven’t worked with many abused/abandoned dogs in the past, but I’m willing to put in the work while I can because I really love this goofball. Already. Yeah, it’s a sickness. I fall for animals very quickly.

DJuke fell in love with the Mr Piggy toy. The weird, deep squeal it had turned into a a funny, higher pitched squeal. Then it went silent. The pig has lost some of its appeal without the sound. According to the dogs, that is. Maybe according to the humans, too. Maybe. Maaaaaayyyybeeee. Possibly.

Now it’s time for me to go slather purple dye on my head again. I have errands tomorrow afternoon with H’s sister and I’d like to look presentable. Ish.

* H’s car has died again and he needed to have the first dog dropped off. The woman agreed to it, but flaked. I was secretly relieved because the dog looked less-than-healthy. With DJuke, the young couple who found him had taken him to the vet for a once over and a chip check. He was deemed healthy and unchipped. And thus he was posted to the Facebook group. The couple also delivered.