Appreciating Depreciating

My house is 38 years old. Young by people years; a little bit of a misfit in house years. Not charming, not trendy, sort of dated and not "mid-century" chic (what, can someone please tell me, is chic about a three bedroom ranch with blond wood and a slate foyer??) A house is cool if it's really old or at least over 60 years old (oh wait - that is old)...it's even cooler if it's really young and has all the latest stuff. (I personally believe that granite and stainless steel will be come like the Harvest Gold shag carpet and the Avocado green appliances of the 70's...so I won't and don't have either....). Depends on taste.  A 38 year old house, my friend, is never cool UNLESS there has been some extensive - and expensive - "updating". Then it becomes like the Housewives of Your City...still not-quite-right.

When a house nears forty, things start to fall apart. This is what my handy-guy told me this morning. ( It sounds right. I started to fall apart as I neared forty.) When this process of aging and decay begins things crumble, rust, leak and generally suck your bank account dry. I need to point out that this is exactly what happened to my body - except for the bank account thing cause those were the days of really good health insurance.

Like everything else in life, my house is falling apart in bunches.  First there was the garage roof shingles that mysteriously started folding into themselves during the relentless Spring rains. ( Much like the effect of humidity on my disgusting silver,grey and black curly -once upon a time straight- hair.)  I sat at my computer for weeks watching their edges curl and their middles puff outside my window (not to belabor a point but my body did the same thing) Finally I told my husband     who muttered something under his breath and called the roof-guy. Ca-ching $$$$.

 Next came the first basement issue - the river running through it. It went from my well tank across the concrete and into a drain conveniently located on the other side of the room. No fish.  Shouldn't be there.  Call the plumber.  My handy-guy ("I don't do basements") stood in my basement waiting for the plumber and taking bets on what was wrong. "You look like you have a hole in your well tank. That'll cost ya." He was wrong. Our basement sink drain was clogged and the water, according to Mr. Plumber, was overflowing - thus creating a river that ran through the basement, into the drain and out into the nether world. The well tank - however - did have a busted pressure valve.  I am fortunate that I have not sprung a leak in my body basement.  I am blessed that way. Tough bladder and no babies. I do get pissed off a lot though.
Ream out the sink pipes, replace the valve. Ca-ching $$$$$

Fast forward one day.  "Bob - I found the source of the water in the basement" I announce. "The wall is wet. The f--king wall is leaking!"  This, of course, was the only wall in the basement that hadn't been "waterproofed" years earlier. The wall behind the plugged up sink...(or was it?) Why didn't the $75 an hour plumber guy see this? This was where the wall braces ended. Crap. Now - to continue the analogy of my aging body to the aging house (in case you missed the point of this)...I have had the total opposite experience of leaking...it happens in older women.  They can't replace your mortar or brace your walls - but they can give you some stuff that helps. I know.  I call my parts-fixing guy and he takes care of things. Just sayin'. But for this, we call the basement fixing-guy.  Nice estimate. There goes the trip to Costa Rica.

Last night I was in the basement and heard a waterfall.  We don't have a waterfall so I was concerned.  There it was. Another leak.  From the pipe that comes from the half-bath and forms a tributary of the other river.  The wax seal (sounds like a Fellini movie) under my toilet was broken.  The wax seal keeps the toilet from leaking. Handy-guy again.  We're claiming him as a dependent on our taxes.

I've recently notice that the concrete slab that serves as a "stoop" or ugly-porch at the entrance to my house is pitted.  The garage floor has cracks. The soffets in the back of the house appear to be separating from whatever caulk someone used to seal the edges. The back door has been painted so many times I've started calling it "Joan"..no more paint is possible.. New door comin'...

The handy-guy says the house is "settling" How long does a house settle? Am I still settling?   I know there have been times in my life when I've "settled" but I had choices.  I don't think you get too many choices about how or when your body - or your house- settles.  Bummer.

Trending at a Starbucks near me

I don't drink coffee. I've tried. I've tried it with sugar, cream, and sugar&cream. Naw. Tastes like mud.  I don't even like mocha - why ruin perfectly good chocolate with coffee? If I believed in sin - putting coffee and chocolate together would be a BIG one.

No coffee; no daily trips to Starbucks. Right?

Sort of.

When I work, I go to Starbucks and get a Venti Black Iced Tea, unsweetened (shaken, not stirred). Really, they actually shake it. When I was a therapist in West Bend, Wisconsin, I stopped there every morning. I knew all the Baristas.  They were all twelve, had perfect skin and were chipper at 7:30am.  I'm not even fully awake or aware at 7:30...but still I drive.

Maybe there is something to drinking coffee.

My local Starbuckery is about two miles down the road. I don't go there often, but when I do it's in the morning. Except for today. Today, I stopped in after buying a million dollars worth of fruit and vegetables at an upscale grocery. I had $2.50 left and that's what a Venti Black Iced  Tea, unsweetened costs.

What did I see? Not twelve year old women with firm bodies and perky boobs. Not studly men in tight tees working those foamers like they were making art with their own body fluids. Not even anyone who reminded me of all the gay BFFs who have come and gone in my life.  I saw WOMEN.  Middle aged women with poochy bellies, wiggly butts, and  breasts beginning to go south. Real live people. ( I'd guess 50ish...and that would be generous.)

These midlife ladies weren't perky - they were nurturing.  When I placed my order the Barista turned her head towards the one youngster Barista and said, "Honey - can you make this nice lady a Venti Black Iced tea, no syrup?  Thank you, dear." I could barely move- so stunned was I.  "Hon, just wait at the end of the counter and Steffy (or Steffi, or Stephee, or Steffie)  will have it right up for you, " she directed.

At the pick-up counter a smiling, raven haired Mom-ista stood smiling. Her bright (and I mean neon bright) red lips beckoning me closer. She produced the tea, smiled big, "Okay darlin' you just have yourself the best day ever! Here ya go."

I don't know if I could be as nurturing or as friendly as those women. By nature I'm sort of a bitch. But at a time in my life when finding a "fun" part-time retirement job is quite a feat, this is a beacon of incandescent light - not one of those horrible curly lights.  Older people are easily discounted and invisible.  Ask an older person.   But here was a chance...a thought...a possibility. I will tuck this information into my tiny, disorganized, brain for "later".  (Although I have no idea how much 'later' I actually have) When I am tired of writing reports that frustrate me or tired of listening to the whining and sniffling of clients....I might be come a Gold-ista and start a trend towards Grannies whacked out on caffeine and servin' up a little wisdom...for tips, of course.

Thank you, Sam

Sam is my dearest friend's grandson. I first met Sam when he was three.  We were both visiting my friend at a rented, glorious, beachfront cottage in Door County, Wisconsin. We played a few handheld video games, blew bubble and generally messed around. I love three year olds.  One night I made him monster spray and showed him how to apply it to the various monster hiding places in his vacation bedroom.  Cool kid at three.

Fast forward to two days ago.  Again Sam and I cross paths in the same place with more or less the same people. This time Sam is five.  He is taller, very handsome, super charming and smart.  "I remember you," he said. "You made the monster spray."  He paused, "But you look older."

It's the damn gray hair.  Even the kid noticed.  But he was honest.  Thank you Sam.

Nasty Bits

The first time I ever cooked anything resembling a meal (Note: I mean resembling) I was in college. Freshman year. New guy. He asked me out and, as it turned out, it was an apartment date. I was expected to cook the dinner.

I'd never cooked anything. Ever.

My mom used to shoo me from the kitchen with wise words like "Get outta here! You're gonna spend your life in this room eventually - don't start now!" I always loved her for that.

But, there I was in the galley kitchen of a third floor Boston walk-up with a guy who looked like Paul Newman. And he wanted me to cook (audition?) for him.  In one hand he had a London Broil and in the other a can of peas. He might as well have handed me a live chicken and two sticks to create fire. At least you could drop a live chicken, open the door and let her run. Then you'd have to GO OUT for dinner. For wings, of course.

What to do? Call my Mother, naturally.
But how?  No one had cell phone. Long distance was expensive.Who cares? Not my phone.He'll never know.
So I sent my date out for something from the grocery store..I don't remember what. But he went.

Fast dialing. (yes, dialing) "Mom. I'm in a guy's apartment and he wants me to cook a steak and a can of peas. help!" She quickly imparted all the knowledge she could fit into two minutes. She also gave me a trick to use to get him to actually finish the steaks himself. Before we hung up I asked the most important question. "Mom! How do you cook the peas?"  I remember the silence.  And the answer. "Open the can."

So that was 1965.  This is 2013 and I've done a lot of cooking. But one thing always stumps me. ..the recipes that say, "after browning the meat, remove from the pan. Deglaze  (why can't they just say pour in some liquid?) with some chicken broth, scraping the brown bits from the bottom of the pan..."

WHAT BROWN BITS?  I confess that I never ever ever have any brown bits. It doesn't matter what I make or how nicely I've browned it...there are no bits. Where are my bits?

I skip over any recipe that calls for scraping up the brown bits.  Because I am bitless.  And you can't fake brown bits...and you can't cheat cause no one sells them.