A Speckled Trout

The Butler & Me

Many years ago, my writer friend, Martha, told me about the website Head Butler. “You’ll like it,” she said. I did and started following him.

The Head Butler is Jesse Kornbluth and he reviews books, movies and music. Off the radar kind of stuff, and my fondness for him and what he writes is because he never……….and I mean never………..dumbs anything down. He always assumes his reader is intelligent, well-read and curious.

In this world we live in where everything is dumbed down, I am hopelessly devoted to Mr. Head Butler. About once a year I send him a quick email to tell him that I love what he does because when it’s just you and a keyboard and a cursor it’s hard to know if anybody is out there.

This year when I saw Anne Lamott she said the same thing. Am I reaching anybody? Am I any good at this? Anne Lamott said that. Oh yes she did – the woman who packs a room when she’s in town, so self-doubt must be the oxygen of most writers.

Sunday morning when the whole house was a quaking shitstorm, I decided to read a couple of weeks of posts from My Butler and once again he blew me away. So I sent this…………….

I am spending Sunday a.m. catching up on The Butler. While paint cans stare at me and demand I finish the job I started, I choose to steal some time to be enlightened by your fabulous site (which I bring up to friends about ten times a week). Enjoy your week……….I will enjoy mine being a tad smarter thanks to you.

He sent this…………

So I like praise.

But this a bit….beyond.

You fog my head.

Do we know one another?

XXX

I wrote back (with a plug of my own blog and the post I wrote about Will)……….

J………..No, I don’t know you, but I’ve kind of made it a point in the last couple of years to send an email of thanks to people/places that make my heart go pitter-pat. I have worked customer service jobs in the past and I now have a couple of kids doing that. It is rare that they hear words of thanks, appreciation or kindness, and so I do what I can to spread the love.

I am also a writer (http://aspeckledtrout.blogspot.com/2013/05/coming-out-pursuit-of-happiness.html) and appreciate the work that it takes to convey one’s thoughts.

Carry on and I shall do the same…………………k.

He wrote back……………

Great post

I look forward to reading much more of you.

And if you ever want to review for Butler….

THNX

Much more of you…………

In italics and those were his italics.

Oh geez. I wasn’t expecting that.

The Butler fogged my head.

If You Give A Trout A Paintbrush……….

Since I had FIVE days off in a row due to the 4th, I decided some sorely needed home improvement was going to take place around here.

Specifically, our bedroom which was last painted in 2003. That also could have been the last time it was dusted.

I cleared some space and started on some built-in cabinets, doors and trim. Vic says you should start with trim stuff first, then ceiling followed by walls. Things were going well and it was amazing what a difference that white paint made and I was energized. Before long we had to move the bed and so I went to Ace to get some Sliders and a gallon of ceiling paint.

Vic was there and we got to talking while my paint was mixing. I told him how I crazy love hardware stores and he said, “I see you in here often. Now what’s your name?” I told him and that’s when he said…………”Kathy, are you married?”

Oh for crissakes, Vic, don’t go and ruin our great relationship trying to make a love connection in the paint aisle.

“Yeah, Vic, I am,” I said, and he said the good ones always are. Ace is the place with the Flirty Hardware Man.

I came home and things went down the toilet pretty fast after that. Crap everywhere, dripping messes, rolls of dust (we are slobs) and me laughing that scary, freaky laugh when a project that was my idea starts going incredibly bad. The Big Daddy was not amused. Not once this entire weekend did he think anything was funny.

We shoved everything off the bed in order to go to sleep Saturday night and I figured a new day would bring some new enthusiasm to the project. I went back to Ace in the morning and got a quart of the color I was sure was going to look great.

I liked it. I hated it. It was gray. No it was pink. Maybe it’s the light. Let’s try another wall. I like it. No I hate it. What do you guys think? Be honest. Really, you don’t like it? Why not? Let me see the comforter again. It’s perfect. I love it. I think. No I don’t. Do I even like this comforter? Give me the paint deck. What about beige?

It went on like that for hours and then I said screw it. This bedroom will be Seattle Mist because I love Seattle and it’s going to look great and everybody needs to calm the heck down. Or maybe just me.

I went back to Ace and Vic was working the paint counter.

“A gallon of Seattle Mist, please. Shaken, not stirred.”

“Coming right up. You still married?”

“Yes, Vic, I am. But things have been a little dicey this weekend.”

“I hear that all the time in this business,” he said. “That’s why I keep checking.”

Oh Vic.

I love you.

I need you.

You make me crazy.

It’s like we’re already married.

Patriots

The other night before I went to bed, I checked the news online and read that 19 fireman were missing and presumed dead. I didn’t think that was possible. Surely by morning they would be found and safe at home.

The morning brought no such news and I watched a wife talk about her husband and their four children who are too young to even comprehend what their future will be like without their father. Like everyone else, the enormity of the loss has weighed heavy on me these past few days.

There were also stories about Edward Snowden, George Zimmerman, Paula Deen and Kim and Kanye’s baby.

Voting rights and marriage rights.

I suppose there is an audience for the former in a culture that is enamored with the celebrity of the moment, regardless of the unseemly behavior that got one there. There is also an audience for the politician who vehemently opposes or supports the latter, although those opinions are strikingly predictable.

Thankfully, though, the majority of us live in the middle and avoid the fringes. Mildly amused, irritated or angry with the daily news or the state of our country, but very well aware of the people in our communities who run towards the very things we run from, and whose claim to fame breaks our heart.

Vic The Paint Guy

Our Ace hardware store was having a paint sale. Benjamin Moore paint. I’ve been a big fan and used to use it all the time, but when it hit the $60.00 a gallon price range I had to bid it farewell. I missed that paint, though, and so at 30% off I decided to date it again.

I went to the paint department and wandered the aisles looking for my Ben Impervo with no luck. That’s when Vic appeared.

I told him what I needed and he said because of the VOC it had been replaced by something else. “VOC, you know? Gets into the atmosphere. They banned the Impervo in California first then everywhere else. But heck, you can’t even grill a burger in that state.”

Really?

“No. That’s just my opinion.”

He sold me on all the features of this replacement including the fact that it is not oil based and cleans with water.

Sign me up, Vic.

While he was shaking the paint I picked out a Ben Moore brush for half price.

“Now what will you be using that for?”

Cutting in.

“Well, I can’t let you buy that. I made a living for 30 years as a painter. Did you ever notice the line from cutting in because I have. What you need is a wider brush and then you’re going to blend in with the roller and you won’t see that line.”

Okay.

“You have to give me that brush. I can’t let you buy that.”

I turned it over like a middle schooler busted with a pack of Kool Menthols.

My gallon of paint was done mixing and while Vic was putting it in my cart, I was putting some rollers in.

“Now what will you be using that for?”

The walls.

“I can’t let you buy that. You can’t go cheap on the rollers. Turn that over. You have to get his kind.”

And that’s how it usually goes with Vic The Paint Guy at Ace Hardware. On days when I have extra time and money, I love him. On my normal days I want to say………..

Vic, Vic, Vic……….

I have painted oil over latex and had a peeling mess on my hands. I have not primed when I should have. I painted white on white stripes on the bedroom walls and when I tired of it I had to sand and prime the whole thing to paint over it. Except behind the bed. If you move the bed you’ll see a five foot square of white on white stripes because I said screw it. I painted Maggie’s walls blueberry and then PAINSTAKINGLY painted a white picket fence around the whole bottom wall. The blueberry was too dark and the cutesy fence was a bad idea once she hit 13. I had Mark take down the drop ceiling on the screened-in porch and there was the most beautiful vaulted ceiling and beams. Then it took 13 gallons of primer and paint to cover that raw wood. I painted the kitchen cabinets and never followed the drying times. I painted the garage door and when I took the paint chip to be matched they didn’t have the formula so I said, “Give it your best shot” and so the door is lighter than the house because I wanted cheap paint fast. I have never NOT gotten my hair in the paint. My prep work is using my tshirt to dust the baseboards as I paint them and squeezing behind a dresser I’ve moved a foot away from the wall. I lean way too far away from the ladder so I don’t have to get down and move it a foot. I take Motrin every four hours because I know the next day going up and down that ladder is going to make me want to cry.

Vic, you’re an outstanding employee and an asset to the painting community, but Vic, despite your years of experience and best efforts, you don’t stand a chance of saving me from myself.

Why It Matters

I got an iphone awhile ago and it sits parked on my desk at work. It is my news source from 8:30 to 5:00.

On Wednesday I was frantically scrolling every few minutes and it wasn’t long into my work day that I found out the Supreme Court’s decision on gay marriage. There was nobody there to whoop and holler with (like Jude and Marian at my old job) so I emailed Mark and my friend and thanked Jesus that love kicked some ass first thing in the morning.

During those early days when we found out Will was gay and I wandered around like some lost dog, my neighbor called me over one evening when she saw me in the yard. “There’s going to be an article about me and some of my friends in the New York Times,” she said.

“The New York Times? What??!! How did you end up there?”

“Well, we’re kind of politically active and get some good results so that’s what they’re focusing on in the piece. A bunch of Democrats in Middle America.”

“That’s so cool.”

“There’s another part to the story. It’s gay men and women who are doing this. Getting people elected that will work on behalf of equality because here’s the thing………….I’m gay.”

“Oh, honey. We need to talk. Will is gay and I need somebody like you to help me out. I need a consultant because screwing this up is not an option.”

Her eyes widened and she said, “So you’re okay with this?”

“Okay??? I’m better than okay. In fact, this could be the best thing that’s happened to me since that closet door swung open. Maybe not you because I might be knocking on your door every other day but we can work that out. I’ll bring wine and you can be my gay-therapist-advisor-neighbor.”

Since then she has met someone and they have lived next door to us for years. We adore them. We invite them to parties, Easter dinner, Maggie and Nate’s wedding. They send over cocktails in the middle of a Sunday afternoon that make us have to nap for awhile after.

Yesterday was my turn. I took over a bottle of wine with this note……………..

Do you need a bridesmaid?

Tee hee.

And alleluia.

The Civic

After many, many weeks we finally found Mallie Bee a car. Due to our measly budget the competition was fierce and three times we lost out on three different cars by a matter of minutes.

I became me on overdrive which makes even me crazy.

One day I left for work with instructions for Mallory to call on the Honda Civic I found on Craigslist. ASAP!!! DON’T DELAY! TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!!

That night we found her new/old dream car within our same/old budget.

Because the car was purchased in Missouri it had to be inspected in Kansas by the Highway Patrol which we were told was a formality. A piece of cake.

They checked some things out and called the numbers in and for a wee few seconds there was some discussion of the engine perhaps being a stolen part. Mark had a sick smile on his face trying to pretend all was cool and I felt the need to breathe into a brown paper bag. This was after I had been up all night earlier in the week because I’d convinced myself that the miniscule dent in the hood was because the car had been involved in a hit and run. But the windshield isn’t smashed. Hmmmm…… Maybe they replaced the windshield. Maybe they took it in and got that fixed but forgot to get the body part that’s stuck underneath. Note to self in the a.m: Look under car for a leg.

Alas, it was legit.

I was driving Mal somewhere and told her the story of how the car we had for a few days could have been impounded. I was so scared, Mal, I thought I was going to get sick.

“Actually, Mom, I’m pretty sure you’ve been scared through this entire process.”

Well, that’s kind of a snarky thing to say.

“No, it’s sassy which is different than snarky. Sassy’s endearing.”

Yes, Beester, you always have been and me and my blog will miss our little car chats. Now fingers crossed all goes well at the DMV on Friday so you can drive this cutie and get some freedom from your very neurotic mother.

Persecution

As I’ve grown older, I am very aware of my spiritual self. It may be my grounding in Catholic school and parents whose lives were steeped in that faith, or maybe it’s due to age and experience giving me a view of things that repeatedly defy explanation.

Whatever.

I have always believed in a higher power and a new life after this one. My faith is not in step with my parents or their generation, however, for decisions made by the Catholic Church have become more and more to difficult to accept.

***There is the continuing pedophile scandal that has been so grossly mishandled by educated men (even to this day here in Kansas City) that it sickens and enrages me.

***The obsession with women’s reproductive organs as if we are no more or less than a uterus.

***The political bent of this church with admonishments from the pulpit every election year to vote in the interest of the Catholic church.

***The ridiculous public lecture the church hierarchy gave to the nuns last year to stop focusing on the poor and to fall in line.

Sigh.

For a free will kind of girl seeking a deeper meaning to life, it’s all I can do sometimes to show up.

******

On Saturday night Mark and the kids and I all went to Five Guys to grab something to eat. While we were sitting at our table I noticed a man in traditional Muslim clothing going up to get his food. Then I noticed the woman he was with.

She sat at a table twenty feet from us completely clothed in black, including her gloved hands. Only her eyes and nose were visible. When her partner brought their burgers to the table she took her gloves off and tried to eat. Every bite and drink was consumed under her veil, slowly and carefully brought towards her covered mouth while he chomped away unencumbered.

As I watched this I felt like crying for the indignity of this stranger trying to eat her dinner under a veiled mouth that was nothing more than a roadblock to satisfying her hunger………….or maybe I felt like crying for myself and many other women of faith who have long tried to dine at a spiritual table that seems to only be reserved for men.

The Rules of the Table

My sister, Jean, is a guest blogger today with this story she remembers from the family dinner table.

When we were growing up our Dad worked in an office north of Chicago. We lived in the south suburbs so his commute was over an hour during rush hour. When he came home he and Mom would have some quiet time with the newspaper and a glass of wine before we all sat down to dinner. It was so much later than every other neighborhood kid that it seemed as if we ate dinner and then went to bed. He insisted that with six kids manners were a priority at the table A sampling of some of the dinnertime rules:

*All dishes were to be passed clockwise around the table.

*You could never take too much on the first passing to ensure that there was enough for everyone.

*If you wanted seconds you had to get the attention of the person closest to the dish and ask:
Me: “Tom?”
Tom: “Yes, Jean?”
Me: “Can you please pass the green beans?”
Tom: “Sure.”
Me: “Thank you.”

*Only one person at a time could talk…no raised voices and no interrupting.

*You could not take the last of any dish without first asking if anyone else at the table wanted some.

*You had to finish everything you put on your plate and when finished you had to clear your dishes from the table, take them to the kitchen and rinse them off.

Even though we had a lot of rules there were many memorable dinners and lively conversations. I remember one dinner in particular.

Since we lived in a small house Kathy and I shared a bedroom. The room was too small for twin beds, so we had a full size bed. Kathy is neat……..me not so much which was the cause of many disagreements. The biggest one was over making the bed. Kathy insisted the bed had to be made. I was sure I had something better to do. I have no idea what that would be but nothing was still better than making the bed.

The battle of making the bed carried over into the dinner conversation one night. In retrospect, I’m sure mom was tired of hearing about it so she let Dad handle it.

After some back and forth I said: “Why should I make the bed? I’m only going mess it up again.”

To which Dad said………………

“Well, why wipe your ass if your only going to go again?”

The man who wore a shirt and tie every night while sitting at the head of the table, who insisted on impeccable table manners not only swore, but made his point in the manner that his smart-aleck kid would understand.

Then right to left the food got passed around the table.

The Uncle

Last week my dad’s brother died. It was a long time coming, but as Maria Shriver once said, “Death, even when it’s expected, is always a surprise.”

Larry was my dad’s youngest brother, and growing up I can’t say we were all that close to their family. It wasn’t due to some long-simmering feud which would have made for a more interesting story, but more because of two brothers with busy lives who lived far enough apart that staying close seemed like one more thing to add to the list of grown-up obligations.

A few years after my dad died, my Aunt Pat got leukemia. As time went on and her health deteriorated, she sent me a note saying that Larry would need things to do to keep him busy after she died and if I had any projects that needed to be done around my house I should ask him to come and do it. Anything, she said.

Our house is one big project.

Months later I got in touch with Larry and it was decided that my downstairs bathroom would be Project #1. He and my mom drove to town, tools in tow, and he laid the tile for the shower and floor. I wanted the floor tile angled and he had never done that before. “Well, how am I supposed to do that,” his voiced bellowed.

I don’t know. I thought I only had to say what I wanted and you made the magic happen.

When I said my neighbor had done it that way in her house he said, “Tell her we’re coming down to see it,” and he was halfway down the driveway with no idea where he was headed while I was still scrambling for my shoes.

One trip to barge in on the neighbor and a five minute conversation was all he needed to figure out the logistics of this job and he ~~nailed~~ glued it. In fact, he was so happy with this novel way to lay floor tile that he went home and did the same thing in his house.

He came back a couple of years later and did my upstairs bathroom, mom and toolbox in tow again. My own dad would have likely offered me help like that if he had lived long enough to see Mark and I become homeowners, but he had long moved on by the time that happened. Having Larry in the house was the next best thing. He asked the kids what they learned in school when they walked in the door, marveled at the way Mallory inhaled asparagus for lunch in her high chair, and yelled. Mom would remind him every afternoon that there was a napping baby in the house.

My sister says that Larry’s hands were just like Dad’s. I saw it in his nose. Each of us staring at the features in him that we missed in our dad, clinging to his presence like a life raft in choppy waters.

I have stared at the tile work he did for me years ago as if it’s some kind of priceless heirloom, but the true legacy of this uncle was the infectious, booming spirit of him in our lives………..

………….and now another family life raft has drifted off to peaceful waters where news of his pending arrival must have been highly anticipated.

The Trouble With Facebook

There are things I love about Facebook. I like to see what my very cute nieces and nephews are up to. I like being able to stay in touch with old friends and classmates. I appreciate it when somebody posts a link to an interesting article or funny video. An engagement, new baby, new house, great trip, funny dog, graduation? Yes! Yes! Please post pictures. A significant loss or disappointment? Sorrow should be shared to lessen your burden.

The other stuff – the running updates on every moment of life………..is wearing me out. Does anybody go out and put the phone down and enjoy the experience?

************

*Guess where I am? No, don’t guess. I’ll tell you. Every single time I walk out the door.

*Were you wondering what I had to eat and drink for dinner tonight? Not really? I’ll tell you anyway. Wait, I know what’s even better. I’ll post a picture of it.

*Let’s document us getting plastered. This won’t be used against me in a court of law, will it?

************

I was talking to a former student of Mark’s – now a professor of biology and in the Army reserves. Nearly two decades past the age of consent, he got shipped to Afghanistan for a year and the emails he sent during that time are more than worthy of a book deal. His goal as captain was to make sure everybody came home, and one of his emails talked about the unrelenting pressure of that commitment for 365 days and nights. The making sure as a leader that everybody lives to see their family again.

His take on our society? We have become a nation of narcissists who think sacrifice is a long line at Starbucks and being without cable for half a day.

One click and you’ll find plenty of evidence to confirm that.