Aveatque Vale: Midnight Kitty

I'm sure you've probably already heard from Doc that our kitty, Midnight, was struck by a car sometime Tuesday night and died, we are sure, instantly. Those who have met us know that I wasn't crazy about this old cat. We adopted her as an adult cat in 1999 from a wealthy family. I remember going to the door of their HUGE house and waiting for the lady of the house gather up Midnight's gear while her many priviliged children stared at me.

I got Midnight in the car and she curled up shivering at my feet as we made the 45 minute drive home. She was scared at our house and she tried to hide in small places, which was tricky because she was HUGE too. Fortunately, she had a bell on her collar at that time and we could usually find her. One day, while we were at work, she got behind the dryer. I couldn't find her, but Doc did. He tipped the dryer towards him and she hopped up on it, then up on his shoulders. Ever since then, Doc has been her favorite.

Don't get me wrong, she could be nice to me if I were feeling sick. She'd snuggle up on my side or back and keep me warm. She was especially fond of me when I was pregnant. But once I had Riley and then Lucy, she and I didn't see eye to eye. I became averse to her and she to me. Every now and then, she'd attack me for no good reason. She'd just be walking past and something in her little kitty brain would just SNAP and she'd jump for my head.

But since the kids are no longer babies, she and I developed a kind of detant. Since I'm the first one up in the mornings, she would make sure I was up at least 10 minutes before the alarm went off. I'd feed her and let her out and go about my day. She'd greet me in the driveway sometimes when I got home or she'd look up and nod "hey" to me if she were in the house. She returned to snuggling with me on my puny days and we grudgingly pressed on together.

Originally, Midnight was an indoor cat, but when we got her, we lived in the country. She was itching to get out and see it all. She'd stay close to the house and was content to sleep near the bird feeders. But eventually, she'd get brave and she started crossing the street to head up the forested hill. We worried about her crossing the street. It was not a busy street, but when someone came down that road, they flew. But she survied and never got hurt.

We eventually moved to a town house in the suburbs, where Midnight didn't get to go out. We tried putting a harness on her, but she would just melt to the floor. It was very strange. She would not stand up if you put a leash on her.

Eventually we came to our current house, which has a great big back yard but is on a busy street. We've been here almost four years and all that time, Midnight has gone outside. One time she left and didn't come home for three days. But other than that, she's stuck close to home and never ventured to the front yard...that we know of.

Sadly, she must have found her bravery or curiousity drove her to try to get to the other side of the street. Adventure lured her and she took the bait. Only to be struck down on the street.

I was punched with a fistful of grief in the gut when I saw her remains. She's been a part of our family for 11 years or so and the girls have never known life without her. We've fed her, cleaned up after her, pet her, endured her moods, and tripped over her in the middle of the night. I blamed noises in the house on her rather than get scared by creaks I couldn't rightly explain. But I will miss that old girl.

Hail and fairwell, Midnight. We'll miss your imperious presence and your warmth on days we feel puny.

What the What? Living Out Loud

And I'll taste every moment and living out loud
I know this is the time; this is the time to be
More than a name or face in the crowd
I know this is the time; this is the time of my life
The time of my life

--David Cook's "Winner's single" from American Idol

I listen to the local top 40 radio station in the mornings while getting ready and heading to work. It's not too obnoxious and I get to hear the weather report pretty regularly. Some of the songs they play are all right, but it seems like they have a repertoire of about 25 tunes. And they play the crap out of Time of My Life. And when I hear the line about "living out loud" I cringe and regret that I can't un-hear it.

First of all, the line "I'll taste every moment and living out loud" doesn't even make sense nor is it a shining example of good grammar. But I forgive grammar issues in songs because it's more about rhythm and meter and sometimes you've just got to fudge it.

However...

When I hear the phrase "living out loud" I instantly picture the scene from the movie of the same name where Holly Hunter is high on Ecstasy and sniffing Danny Davito in an elevator. So then I can't unsee that for a while.

It starts a train of thought about what the hell "living out loud" even means. I suspect it's some sort of antiwallflowerianism brought about by a mid-life crisis. At least that's what I think that movie is about. And certainly, David Cook might be nearing his mid-life crisis point so it nearly fits (if you squint). At least the person who wrote that little gem of a song was likely to have decided to ditch the pocket protector to grab the tiger by the tail and ride!

Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not sure I want to be around people who are living out loud. I mean, good for you and all for the breakthrough and what not, but I'm unlikely to be swept away with you on your tiger ride. Please don't be offended if I'm not overwhelmed by the new awareness you have. And don't ask me to join you at the top of the water tower to proclaim, well, pretty much anything. I'm really not good with heights or proclamations; both give me vertigo.

But I am happy for you. Just keep it down, ok?

Don't Cross The Street In The Middle (x5) Of The Block

Yesterday, I was driving to the funeral home for calling hours for a relative of a relative. I was heading down west on West Tuscawrawas (West Tusc, if you want to sound like a local) and I glanced over to the eastbound lanes. I couldn't believe it when I saw a pick-up truck snag a pedestrian, throw him to the ground and continue driving. License plate number, I thought, and I quickly focused in on the truck's plates and tried to memorize the characters. I got the first two letters and all of the numbers on the plate.

My stomach turned over as I then saw next vehicle, a green minivan, honk and go around the downed man. I turned into the Mr. Hero parking lot and dashed inside. I needed to get paper and pencil to jot down the licnese before I forgot it. They were already on the phone to 911...

"A man just got hit by a car on Tusc in front of the Mr. Hero..."

Pause...

And then she turned to me, "Was he dead?"

"No," I said, shivering. I had seen him moving as people began to gather around his injured body, half on the curb and half in the street.

She reported this to the ambulance as I finished writing down the license and description of the truck. I went back outside and pulled my car into a parking spot rather than leaving it in the middle of the parking lot. I got out and stood about 50 feet away from the poor guy; other samaratans were trying to keep him still until the ambulance arrived.

In the meantime, his friend from across the street came over. She was very upset to see him. He was crossing the street to buy her a pack of cigarettes. She was barefoot and distraught when she learned that the truck who hit him continued on it's merry way but she was somewhat relieved that I had grabbed most of the license plate number.

Once he was safely in the ambulance, the police arrived and an officer started questioning the witnesses. As is always the case, our stories differed. One lady had witnessed the hit and run from behind and couldn't swear it was the truck or the minivan that hit him. I defiinately saw the truck hit him, but I thought the truck had a cap and she said that it didn't have a cap, but was full of junk in the back. Neither of us could describe the driver. The officer gave us clip boards, pens and statements to complete and sign.

I stood on the sidewalk next to Tusc trying to capture everything I remembered. Once I paused to look down and think and I realized I was standing right where he had been struck. I saw a pool of blood and a bloody handprint on the street two feet away from me. I looked away, suddenly recalling the last time I had seen a pedestrian struck by a vehicle.

I finished my statement, handed it over to the officer in charge and he sent me on my way. To get another close look at our mortality and the fragility of life at a service for my cousin's husband's grandfather, Pap. Before I went into the funeral home, I paused to call Doc and tell him what happened and that once the calling hours were over, I was coming home and never leaving the house again.

Needless to say, this was not a typical Sunday for me. I am usually gathered around the tiki with the neighbors, while our kids gad about in the leaves and we enjoy the last warm days of autumn, standing in it's long light and shadows. But yesterday, I stepped on a rake, which knocked me on the head and let loose chaos in my mind and in my heart. I could barely continue without imagining the pedestrians near the road getting knocked about like rag dolls. I also couldn't get out of my mind the fact that the people attending the calling hours were more inclined to talk about their own problems rather than remember the dearly departed and his impact on their lives.

It made me think about my cousin, who's lost so many people in her life and how many Memory Boards she's had to put together over the years. I thought of how, even though she had a total hysterectomy three weeks ago, she still pulled on a dress and pantyhose and heels to show up for the family. And how she'd had to sit down (at my insistence), take some medicine and rest, since hugging aggravated her abdomen a great deal. I parked myself next to her, blocked the huggers, and shooed off anyone who looked like they might upset her in any way. I sat there for an hour and a half, observing, serving and trying not to concentrate on the violence I had recently witnessed, but being reminded when I'd happen to glance over at Pap's embalmed self.

When asked, I said, I was fine, never better. I listened to the family stories that trickled in, the detailing of other people's recent surgery, the pat offers of sympathy and respect. Finally, when the calling hours were over, Pap's siblings and cousins, all elderly, gathered around his open casket and knelt or stood to say the Lord's Prayer. It was moving if surreal, against the back drop of the casual others who stood around talking about the mundane.

It's unlocked something for me. I'm feeling the pain of the loss of those who have walked on and I don't think I've fully begun to deal with. Even for those who have been gone 15 years or more. Some of those folks were old and it was reasonable and not unexpected to see them pass. Others were too soon, too sudden. Still, I couldn't grieve. I would be sad for passing moments but I didn't feel the gulf of our separation. I'd dream about them and still feel connected.

But...I don't know...today they're all close and I'm missing them. And I want them here. I also want things I know I can't have, like seeing what my children would look like as little old ladies. But most of all, I want you to cross the street carefully and pass that message on. We take so much for granted, but there's so much random violence out there. Why take the chance and shave 2 minutes off your trip only to end up forever in a wheelchair? Think about it, won't you?

What I Hate About Facebook

Before Facebook, I had an idea about my generation (X, that is). Publically, I abhorred the idea that we were being "labeled." But in my heart I kind of dug the label. Because what is X if not something unquantifiable? It's pretty cool.

But then I joined Facebook and hooked up with a bunch of ghosts from the past, namely Friendwhores who happened to go to my high school. I'm an old softy from way back and I found I couldn't resist someone who wanted to be my friend, even someone who for all intents and purposes was a complete stranger to me.

Well, today, I unfriended someone for the first time. This asshat, let me call him "Brent," would fall into the "complete stranger" category. And his status updates would alternate between the very banal to Howard Stern-lite type remarks. For example, one day he would say, "I have to stop treating my body like an amusement park." Then next day: "Happiness is mostly a byproduct of doing what makes us feel fulfilled."

In fact that last remark is what finally gave me the courage to jettison him from my Friends list. If I wanted to hear that kind of bullshit pablum, I'd go hang out at the flea market and read the appliqued sweatshirts or country-style wooden signs. Also, the amusement park remark was not even clever enough to be entertaining. it was too obvious.

These type of status updates beg the questions: Where is the profundity? Where is the irony? On Blogger, that's where.

I guess I blame blogging for having my expectations set too high. Bloggers of a certain age are so much more like what I imagine my generation is like. And having run into so many like minded bloggers who started off as strangers for the most part, I was given over to the assumption that most people my age who are online are exactly the type of people I'd point to and say: there's a fellow Gen-X-er! Sadly, many of the people who find themselves in my graduating class are cheesy and outwardly wholesome-sounding and don't represent themselves well as cynical, frustrated, unmotivated slackers I expected them to be.

Alas.

Old Stomping Ground

I've been in Cleveland for the week for work...pretty much holed up in the hotel/conference center. But tonight the gang and I went out to eat in my old neighborhood with my former co-worker, M. We had a great meal, laughed and rolled our way out to the car. We all piled into Buttercup's SUV and trooped off to Trader Joe's for supplies.


Getting to Trader Joe's meant driving almost past our old house. It really stirred up bittersweetness. Lucy was a baby in that house but we were so isolated. No close friends or family and a house that was sucking the life and money out of us. It was a very tough time emotionally for me for many reasons.


But still...I drive by and recall the sunny Saturday afternoons when the orthodox folks clad in black travelled on foot to Temple past our window. I remember my elderly neighbors' wild flower garden. I had a great little car and we could walk to about any store we needed to go to.


But mostly, it kind of sucked.


And driving past there opened a wound in my heart. Here I am on the road again, yet near some place I once called home. And I don't have Doc or Riley or Lucy with me. It was a pang and a longing. And some pretty deep sadness. We'd really been through the shit there.


I got back to the hotel and logged into Facebook so that I could dive into my photos of the kids and Doc and soak them up until someone picked up the phone at home.


Poor Doc...all hemmed up with a cold and donuts everywhere at work. The kids are pooped...Grandma is pooped. We're all strung out and discombobulated.


But tomorrow, I'll land back in my nest in my cozy home with near my family and friends. I really want to soak it up to, because, in a way, we've really emerged from a tunnel in into that far-distant light. Sure, we may still be essentially broke. But we've got everything we didn't have in Cleveland: good friends, good neighbors, family close by, jobs we like if not love, kids in school and thriving. And I can't remember the last time I felt depressed.


Maybe the force is finally with me...

Is Blogging Going the Way of the 78?

Do you feel nostalgic when you sit down to post something to your blog? I'm starting to. I'm remembering the hey-day, for me anyway, when there was a certain vibrancy to it. But now, it feels like thumbing through the card catalog: It feels like a task, an obstacle to getting to information and feedback. Especially after Facebook came into my life.

I've thought about not blogging. Didn't work. I tried to set goals for myself so that I would write/comment more often. I began to feel that, even though I don't have cable and I still don't have time to catch up with my catalog of favorite shows, how the hell can I blog?

Maybe now's not the time in my life. When I'm at work...I'm working. When I'm at home, I'm with the kids. When the kids are in bed, I'm on Facebook or listening to the DVD commentaries for the Simpsons or Futurama...or, if I'm lucky, a new Father Ted from Netflix (thank you Dr. Monkey Muck for showing us the light!).

I just don't have the opportunity...since shiny Facebook came along. What's better than "Liking" something there? It shows I stopped by and that I care. Because of it and it's simplicity, I'm closer to far-flung relatives, both physically far flung and genealogically far flung, than I've ever been in my life. I'm playing D&D (thanks Frank Sirmarco!), I'm farming, I have a fishtank, I have an appartment! I'm catching up with people I knew and barely knew in high school. I know my co-workers better and like them for it.

It's bizzare and intoxicating. It's Hi-fi, digital, THX communication.

But...

It's somehow lacks the authenticity. The groove has been melded into a sleek metallic grapevine. While useful and somehow easier to deal with, it can't compare to the comfort and ease I get while sliding your blog off the shelf and cranking up the Victorola to revisit your latest post, which is two weeks old. There's something in the quality there...

So, I think I'm going to do what my Dad would do. I'm keeping my collection and I'm still adding to this old blog. I'm going to stop by and visit, even if I have nothing to say. Because if I got rid of them, I'd lose the original record...it would be like tossing the old 78 that captured my Grandpa's performance (in drag, mind you) of his interpretation of Mae West singing.

Come up and see me some time, sailor. Landerhaven Ho!

Bleurg! Post ER Droops

Last night, Lucy was trying to keep up with Riley on the trampoline. The were doing running somersaults and Lucy landed on her head funny. She was inconsolable, though she was able to move her arms and legs, so I knew she was somewhat ok. I moved her into the house. Every time she needed to turn her head, her forehead would rumple and fear dissolved into her eyes.

I was pretty sure she was ok, but I couldn't console her. I managed to get some ibuprofen in her, but I was scared. So, I called my parents and the urged me to call 911. And I did. The fire station is like a half a block from our house and they were there in no time flat. They got her neck in a brace and loaded her onto the ambulance. We headed over to the hospital "nice and easy," which meant no sirens or lights.

In the mean time, my parents had shown up and were looking after Riley. A mom convention had spontaneously started on the front lawn as my neighbors gathered to see if they could help or at least find out what was going on.

Needless to say, Lucy is fine, if a bit sore. We spent about 3 hours at the ER where Lucy proceeded to charm the pants off of everyone she met. With her neck secured, she was no longer in pain and perked up quite a bit. When we got home, my parents doted on her for a while and headed on their way home.

Lucy and I sat up for a bit until I convinced her to lay down in bed with me. We watched the Simpsons as I waited for her little eyes to slip shut. We finally conked out, exhausted.

So, I'm dragging booty today. But It's a good tired...my baby is fine.

Grrr!

I just had lunch next to the most obnoxious dozen people! Not only did they all talk loudly and smugly, but they talked about boring shit. Ugh! They all appeared to be co-workers because they had that sort of comraderie one finds in a machine shop. I'm sure they were in manufacturing because of their swagger and their work talk was technical.

The worst, though, was the adnoidal woman of a certain age who went on ad nauseum about how nice and "womanly" it was to have lunch with just women. Imagine! They only talked about sales and it was so relaxing! No one mentioned construction, or, one presumes, math. They just were girly!

She also went on at length about a trial she was on the jury for, which I won't burden you with. I was ready to impale myself on my drinking straw by the end of my meal when she started talking about someone's birthday at the table and whom did that man secretly want to spank ::winkwink::.

Needless to say, I read 1.5 pages of my book...8 times. Next time, I will trust my instincts and go ahead and ask for a different table before I even sit down.

Now I'm in such a bad mood, nothing but a ton of comments on this post will make me feel better.

Wednesday Whimsy

I've been a bad blogger. I have no excuses. But I do have a list of words I love:

• Cloying
• Redundant
• Pedestrian
• Visualization
• Instantiation
• Redolent
• Clipped
• Far-fetched
• Adnoidal
• Flee
• Alacrity

The Canoe Trip: On the Homefront

While Doc was on his canoe trip a couple of weeks ago, I got to spend a few evenings at tiki. One night, Wednesday, which is traditionally tiki night, I got to hang out with my neighbor dudes and one of my coworkers. And what did we talk about? Cable wiring, in particular, RGB, HD, the value of having multiple boxes. At one point, I was like, "Seriously? This is what you talk about at tiki?" No one answered me, of course, because they were all in the throes of a heated debate over who was right on a job site issue. Three of the guys were working together to expand the patio of a local bar. Markus had said he didn't want to talk shop at tiki but one of the other guys persisted. I think they were looking to my other neighbor, Jerry the Cable Guy, to add his opinion and resolve the matter.

I have no idea if it was settled or not since I was bored out of my mind...and I'd had a couple of beers. So, at the first breath in the conversation, I said, "Peace out" and headed home. What a bummer. But I understand work issues, particularly political ones, can be the source of endless debate and conversation for those directly involved. Since I wasn't involved and the subject matter wasn't sexy enough for my taste, I couldn't be compelled to stay. I did try to hang in there, though and learn something. But beer on top of a full day's work triumphed and led me to bed.

It was a much different experience the following Saturday, after we got home. I had slipped over to the Tiki for a quick break and found Frank there alone. He gave me a beer, as he is wont to do and started a conversation. We ended up talking about relativity, which was a trip as it was a concept he was unfamiliar with and he kept trying to grok my meaning. We were both the worse for the beer and I found myself struggling to explain while he struggled to understand. This was more the type of conversation I was looking for. I think I might have helped him create a new wrinkle in his brain.

However, things turned ugly after a while, since he started to complain about the actions the government (he's not a fan) are taking to set up universal heath care. He's very upset that they are trying to spend money they don't have, since they robbed social security to pay for the war and other pet projects. He was very vocal in his outrage, so much so that I found myself listening more intently. People who yell don't scare me anymore and I believe they are yelling so they can be heard. So rather than fight back, I try to set aside my interior monologue and just listen.

I'm somewhat of a fan of government. I appreciate the protection it provides and I believe that, people being people, there will always be some foolishness involved. So I don't sweat the red tape, the bureaucracy, the inherent unfairness of the fact that the government can over extend itself financially, but I get busted for $39.50 if I overdraft my checking accont by seventy-nine cents. But after Frank's outcries, I'm starting to smart a little bit more from the unfairness.

I'm not sure what Frank hoped to get out of that conversation. Perhaps some catharsis. Perhaps some action. But here's a guy who's self-employed and a host of problems stemming from money (just like most of us have) and he's mad as hell and doesn't want to take it anymore. People are so wrapped up in their own financial maelstorms that they can't or won't look at the source...the butterfly flapping it's wings. And will killing the butterfly fix it? This is where Frank and I disagree. But there must be some middle ground, right?

Shaping up and shipping out

I'm turning this lurching barge of a life around and transforming it into a lithe sailboat that is complex yet fine tuned. One might say I'm trading in the African Queen for the True Love. I'm tired of getting caught up short on things. I hate clanging a wrench on the steam engine of my life to get it running. I'd rather do a series of graceful movements to make smooth transitions over placid bodies of water. I don't want to drag this thing through the swamps encountering leeches, slugs and all manner insects. Especially now, with two kids in school (gasp), I need to stay on top of things. And I'd like to do it with some panache.

Here's a list of what I've done so far:

• Organized the kitchen cupboards
• Removed the excess layer of crappy toys from the girls rooms
• Set up a "cozy corner" in their bedrooms so they have a spot to read
• Organized Riley's armoir...I ran out of time to do Lucy's drawers and closet yesterday
• Rearranged furniture
• Adopted a stern tone and voiced my expectations clearly and resolutely
• Cancelled the cable (just internet and netflix. It's good for you...)

Doc and I are the baby and the only child respectively in our familes and let's just say that we've both experienced some discipline issues in the past. To put it plainly, we procrastinate. Well, not anymore. Now, it is my plan to get the work out of the way before goofing off. It's just like my Mom told me it should be. And I hope to have all hands on deck for this. I'm sure it's going to take more than a whistle to make it happen; we are all so daggone independent. But I think the benefits of teamwork will reveal themselves in this endeavor.

Mom was right of course. I'm happier when I leave the house and it's standing tall, rather than dashing off and coming home to one mess or another. Also, it feels good to have everything ready in advance. I'm hoping the feeling is addictive...and contagious. I'm also more open to others when I know I don't have anything hanging over my head. I want to be a better friend, daughter, mother, wife...

Wish me luck and bon voyage that I can trade my clunker in for style, grace and peace.

If Doc's Huck Finning It, I'm Tom Sawyering It

Recently, my friend and colleague, Valerie, posted the above picture on Facebook and asked if anybody wanted the furniture. I happened to catch the notice first and jumped on it with both feet. So as of Sunday, my family left and this furniture arrived. Well, my Dad and I went to get it. Of course, there is far less snow on it now.

Over all, the furniture is in decent shape. It's a bit weather-beaten and it might need some reinforcement, but, then again, who doesn't need a bit of TLC? So, my project for the week has been to beautify this wonderful Adirondack furniture.

Monday night:

• Went to Home Depot and bought sea foam green stain, indoor/outdoor paint, brushes, etc.
• Began to stain the furniture.
• My mind wandered as I spread stain and listened to the crows and locusts. I was glad to be able to do this project uninterrupted with no one giving me advice or taking it over
• My neighbor Wally walked over and took the brush from my hand and showed me how I ought to do it
• I finished the stain, the 50% chance of thunderstorms falling in my favor
• I walked over to the Tiki and had one beer on an empty stomach
• I staggered home and hit the hay with some Murder, She Wrote

Tuesday night:

• I grabbed a bite to eat on the way home
• I goofed off on the computer for too long
• I began painting the decorations on the furniture, whose stain looks lovely (I can't take a picture; Doc has the camera)
• I completed the design on one of the love seats and nearly completed the other, but ran out of light
• I had one beer, hit the hay with some Newhart

Tonight I plan on going straight home and finishing my designs while it's still light out. I also want to paint a quote or aphorism on the cross-pieces of the love seats. Something short and sweet. I was thinking maybe "Tempis Fugit," but I'm not completely sold. What do you think?

The Canoe Trip

So Doc is about to whisk himself and the kids off to the country and I'll be a virtual bachelorette for five days. Of course I'll be working for four of those days, but I'll have my evenings free to spend as I wish. I'm kind of at a loss as to what to do with myself. Here are some of the things I'm considering:

• Organizing the junk drawer
• Painting the living room
• Getting the kids' clothes ready for school
• Finishing my novel
• Squandering every night sipping mojitos in the swamp

Got any other ideas?

Celebrites Who Have Appeared In My Dreams: Greg Kinnear and Beckeye

It was night and all the neighborhood kids were running around like the Lost Boys. Everything was a mess and I went into the house. Greg Kinnear, our handy man, was dressed in painters clothes and came into the kitchen wiping his hands. His sleeve seemed a bit lumpy.

"Hand it over," I said. Greg had been stealing from us regularly, but he wasn't very good at it. He pulled out a bottle filled with glowing beads (much like those in Bejewelled).

"Hey," said Lucy, "That's the engine from your space ship, Mommy!"

I took it and set it on the counter, about to fire Greg.

"I wanted to tell you," he said, "There's a motorcycle gang out front and their causing trouble."

"Ok," I said, "I'll handle this and you and I will talk later."

I grabbed some bottles of water and headed out to the porch. I wondered why so many people were wandering around my house when I saw Beckeye standing in my neighbor's front yard. She was wearing a purple, taffeta, June Cleaver number. Her hair was pulled back in a fetching pony tail and she was running a mimeograph machine. Pink flyers for a party were flying off the machine and heading toward the street where people were grabbing them and heading for our house. She waved at me as she continued to crank.

I handed the bottles over to the gang, who looked like they just stepped out of Thunderdome. They were a rowdy bunch. They were having difficulties opening the bottles and I spent an inordinate amount of time telling them the bottlecaps were left-hand thread and they'd have to turn them the other direction.

A ghost floated over me and I could feel the hair on my head stand straight up on end.

Then I woke up.