Comforting Sounds

I was lying on the upstairs guest bed this morning, petting Lucy, when she sat up and stared out the window. A school bus had stopped up the street and the noise it made as it revved its engine and pulled out caught her attention.

I turned nostalgic. How easy is it to close your eyes and remember the sound and smell of a school bus? The always underlying smell of fuel, the steamed windows, the humid air of too many kids crowded into one space, all stuffed into mufflers and winter coats and now perspiring in the interior heat of the bus.

But it was the sound of the heavy engine pulling away that really brought it back to me. And I started thinking of other "comfort sounds," most from childhood. We all have them. Here's my list:

• The muted whoosh-whoosh sound of the dishwasher running at night, reassuring me Mom and Dad were still up and about and therefore lessoning the chances I would be eaten alive by the monster that was surely hiding under my bed
• A crackling fire
• The distant sound of the train whistle I can hear from my bed at night
• The sound of your parents car pulling in the drive when you were being babysat
• A purring cat (it never gets old)
• Chalk writing on a chalkboard
• The radio playing softly in the mornings downstairs when I woke for school
• The satisfying "splash" sound from running and jumping in a pool
• The sound of a lone car going up the street at night
• Shawn Cassidy singing "Da-do-da-run-run" on the 45 record I used to have
• The pop sound that used to made when you pulled the metal tab off a soda
• Silverware clinking on plates at Thanksgiving
• A dogs toenails on hardwood floors
• My husband humming in the shower

It's important to remind yourself every now and then that life is good.

Chill Out

Seven degrees here and the pipes are frozen--again. While it's a lovely excuse not to shower, I'm teaching a public speaking class tonight and I do think it adds to the presentation when the instructor shows up clean.

Aside from no hot water, there is also a chill in the air. I've got the downstairs heat set on 73 but haven't been able to get the temperature past 69 degrees this morning. This old house just has too many drafts. You basically have to bundle up to walk past the cracks under the front and back doors, and the kitten was frozen to the couch this morning from the drafts seeping in from the window. I made the mistake of stepping on our hardwood floors without socks and had to use an ice-pick to free myself.

The only thing I can think to do is to drink large and piping hot quantities of coffee. I'm on it.

I'm still feeling stymied by that "so much to do I don't know where to start" feeling. I believe I'll devote the day to finishing up the application for my artists grant. I've written the narrative, and now must pull together the budget numbers.

Budget numbers. See, that's what's driving me into the closet. Numbers. Math. I break out in a flop sweat if someone even mentions the word "algebra." I should not be left unsupervised to do this.

But it's that or take an ice-shower, so project numbers it is. I love when life presents one with choices.

Happy bathing.

Sick Confessions

I kind of enjoy being sick.

Not the throwing up, aching head, raw nose, room spins every time you sit up kind of sick. But more of the "I sound stopped up enough on the phone that I don't feel guilty knocking early for the day and laying around in a pile of tissue and hot tea while I watch Oprah and wait for my husband to arrive home and cook me dinner."

There's something hedonistic about lying on the sofa with a remote and absolutely no intent of moving for the next four hours. I can't do it when I'm well. I'm too busy thinking I should be writing or reading or cleaning or paying attention to the cats or repotting the plant or any one of a million chores. But give me a sniffle and I'm good to go. My brain wave patterns change and I rationalize that it's only right, nay, imperative, that I watch reruns of "Gilmore Girls" and "Friends" while I try to recoup my strength.

I suppose it says something about our lives and society when the only time we feel good about relaxing is if we're sick. That must be why we get sick when we're under stress--our minds are saying, "Enough! Just lay down for 12 hours and stop thinking about things for awhile!"

I can almost control my sickness. If I feel my body start to wear thin I start negotiating. "No, no, you can't be sick until Thursday. I'm too busy too take care of you. I promise, if you get me through this week, you can be as sick as you like on Thursday." And it's amazing how often I'm able to starve off the worst of a cold or flu until the designated sick day.

I say this because I'm not sick now, but it would be a lovely day to fall ill. There's a rain/sleet mixture moving in, the roads are icy, it's dark outside even though it's only 2:30 pm, and the house is warm and stocked with food. What a great day to veg on the couch with a book or stick a movie in and watch TV.

But I have an article due, I'm applying for an artists grant to self-publish my cat book, my desk is gasping to be straightened up, I'm supposed to be editing Millicent, and I haven't journaled in over a week.

Screw it. Bring on the book. I'm pretty sure I feel myself coming down with a sniffle.

The Creature Lives

Creature Under the Stairs - 500
Dena & Blair - 0

We are losing the battle, the war, and everything in between.

The Creature Under the Stairs continues to thwart us. This morning it was growling and squealing and doing high-impact cardio under the stairs. Noon seems to be the time it's most active.

I had the Critter Control guy out and while he was very nice, it was a less than satisfactory experience. We walked around the outside of my house and he pointed out places where animals may be getting in and quoted a hefty sum for them to plug the holes up.

"But that's not getting at what's under my stairs," I said.

"It's probably mice," he said. "They won't travel but 10-25 feet from where they nest."

"So how do we get them?" I asked.

"We'll bait under your house and in your attic," he said.

"I thought you said mice don't travel. How will they get to the bait?"

"Oh. Well, yeah."

I took over. "Listen, we have set out baits and traps and whatnot and none of it works. How do we get to those things in the wall?"

He shoved his hat back on his head. "Well like I said, we'll set out bait and stuff."

AARRRGGGHHH!!!

We circled around this conversation and finally he threw something out that we can't drill into plaster walls b/c we may hit a wrong section, and big chunks would have to be removed and I don't know what all. What it comes down to, in my opinion, is that we're stuck with these stupid things under the stairs. Which I refuse to accept. There has to be someone out there who has a solution. People don't just live with things growling under their stairs.

I know one thing. The money I paid this company is good for 30 days worth of work. I'll have them out here every day if I have to. They'll break into my walls if for no other reason than to get me off their backs.

If anyone out there has any suggestions, I'm wide open.