radioactive spider bite

These way-cute rain boots were a Christmas gift from a friend.

They were parked on my porch for two months waiting for a rainy day that didn't also include ice.

I was pretty excited to wear them for the first time  a few Mondays ago, they made the rainy day a little brighter. I snapped this photograph right after I put them on for the first time.

About five minutes from work, I felt something bite one of my left toes.

I drive a standard transmission which means that in order to stop I need to use both feet. One on the clutch and the other on the brake pedal.

I had to wait until I could pull into the parking lot to peel off the boot and claw at my foot.

My toe had a little hole in it, itched like hell and was turning red. I downed two Benedryl - incidentally I had a very productive day.

I sort of thought it was all over, but by Thursday I was sitting in the doctor's office.

Nothing ten days of antibiotics can't fix.

Stupid spiders.

I still love the boots.

grrrrrr

I’m wrestling an 81 year-old house in to the digital age. 

And we’re both dragging our feet. 

Even though it’s called ‘wireless,’ it requires wires. And drilling through brick and plaster – and woodwork, unfortunately.

I’ve been paying for internet access for years, but the wiring and controls were on the other side of the house (I own a double and live on one side and rent the other) and I wanted to move them for a couple of reasons. I hated that if something was wrong I had to ask my tenant to deal with it or go to her house to fix it. Of course, it also felt a little shady to have to bill go to one address and the access go to the other.

Last Saturday was a crappy weather day. It is waffling between big fat raindrops and big fat sleet. The technician and I walked around the house discussing our options.  They both involved drilling. His idea was to drill through the floor of the other side of the house, run the wire under the floor, drill through the cinder block wall dividing the basements and then drill through my floor. My idea was to run the wire around the outside of the house and drill into my wall. One drill hole, verses three. And I figured that plaster is easier to patch then replacing the wood trim.

He promised that he would drill through the plaster and not the wood trim. I even offered to take the storm window out so that I could hold a yardstick out to show him the spot. Nope, he had it.

His first attempt hit the edge of the wood and cracked it! I was yelling, “STOP!” through the window. He came in to check it and went back out and drilled LOWER – through the woodwork. I thought I was going to punch him. 

But I’m a wuss.

And at this point the damage was done. What good would being angry do? He was a subcontractor for the giant cable company, so I knew that my chance of any reparation was slim. And it was my idea...and I got to pay $49 for the pleasure of having two holes in the brick and the woodwork. 

I wonder -- at what point do I stop putting up with things being ‘good enough?’ I don’t let myself off the hook that easily, why do I let others slide?

In the meantime, I’ll drown my sorrows in a rousing game of on-line Scrabble. 

feet frequency fail

It tried, I really tried.

I had a grand and ambitious plan for 2011. I blame this guy - Doug W. ran every single day in 2011. And if that's not crazy enough, he blogged about it too. Every single day. Jerk.

I thought I could do the same thing in 2011. Not the running part - don't be ridiculous, the writing. Couldn't be that hard, right?

I had the idea that I would take a photograph of my feet that day and blog about something that happened along the way.

The photo above, of Doug and I was snapped on December 31st, after his last run of the year. I had a head full of good intentions and a belly full of stew and Guinness that afternoon.

I did pretty well the first two weeks. My parameters were that I had to take the photo that day and at least start the blog post.

That part was easy. Finishing the posts in a timely manner was not. Some days were just to frantic and busy. Or boring. Or sad. Or in some cases all four. I was missing out on some good stuff for lack of time and throwing up some junk just to check it off. I can't tell you the number of times in the last twelve weeks that I've fallen asleep with the open computer on my lap and jerked awake with the idea that I was failing.

I'm throwing in the towel on the blogging every day scheme. I just can't do it, and the myriad of other things in my life. There are several blog posts that were waiting for me to fill in the days between. I'll post them now, gap days be damned.

Starting now, I'll blog when I can, most likely with a foot photo.

Thanks for swinging by....

xoxox,
N.

baking

I baked tonight -- shortbread cookies for the Saint Valentine's Day party next week. I have a fancy mixer, but my kitchen is so small that it's a major production to even get the darn thing out. And then there is not enough space between the cabinets and counter top for the mixer to fit between, so I have to either hold the edge of it up prop it up with a complicated system of cutting boards and upside down bowls and pulleys, or haul it to the living room and use it on the coffee table.

Instead, I love pulling out the Pyrex bowls I've collected over the years from family members and cracking open my well-worn Joy of Cooking cookbook and baking in my ancient oven. This evening I didn't play a DVD in my laptop or turn on the radio or spin a record. I soaked in the sounds of the wooden spoon on the side of the bowl, the eggs cracking and the cookie cutter slicing though the dough and the old timer ticking.

I don't have many periods of quiet like that. It drove me slightly crazy. But I made myself do it. And it turned out well. As did the cookies. I've been buying Indiana produced butter and eggs, the results were delicious.

I typically give myself permission to eat the broken cookies, but that is not a Weight Watchers sanctioned activity.

What the heck, one won't hurt, right?

mail

I got a package in the mail today. It was properly wrapped in brown paper and lots of tape.

The box inside was pretty swell too — a vintage clothing box, with a tag ostensibly signed by a friend's cat, that I watched this summer.

The box was chockful of vintage Saint Valentine's Day decorations.

Thoughtful, amazing and perfect.

icepolocypse 2011 day 6 - the super bowl edition

These sensible boots are on some stylish woman at a swanky hotel opening. I couldn't stand the snow boots one more day, so I broke out my brown 1970s Frye boots.

The JW Marriott is Indianapolis' newest upscale hotel. It has changed Indianapolis' skyline — it is now the seventh tallest building in Indianapolis.

It has been fun to watch the construction from our seats at Victory Field during the baseballs games the last two seasons.

I'm not someone who likes building for the sake of building, but the new hotel fits into the skyline. The building has a gentle curve that mirrors the center of the town, Monument Circle. 

I was invited by the opening by Risa, who was on the Bahamas trip last Super Bowl Sunday. It was almost like being in the Bahamas. With an ice storm and winter coats at a potato fork, which I still need to navigate walking up and down my driveway. The valet parking guys were kind enough to not point it out, although they had to wonder what the heck it was doing in the front seat.

You can see a photo of me and some swanky folks at the party by clicking here — we made the  Talk of our Town section of the Indianapolis Star. Society folks at our finest!

I loved seeing everyone and drinking a fancy $10 pomegranate Cosmopolitan and pretending I was one of the swells.

I feel like the article calls for a Paul Harvey, 'rest of the story' explanation.

First of all, I worked at the Red Key last night and it was 4:30 in the morning before I was showered and in bed. Up at 9:00 for a meeting at church, then 10:30 Mass, followed by working at Marigold all day. Not to mention that the ice made everything from walking to driving difficult.

At half time of the game I started to head to the washroom but decided to go to the lobby to call Dad instead. I knew that he would enjoy hearing about the new hotel, all of the televisions, who I was hanging out with and the fancy drink. 

Dad sounded a little odd and swore that he had not dipped into his homemade wine. I asked if he wanted me to drive out, and he did. Which he never does. 

I thanked my hostess and joined my friends in the valet queue. I was concerned enough that I didn't take time to go to the restroom. 

The drive to the farm from downtown took about 25 anxious minutes. 

I drove straight back to the chicken house, now repurposed to his workshop. Dad was fine and working on restoring an old cider press that he remembers using as a child. 

I was relieved that he was okay and slid back out the door to make the trek to the house and bathroom. 

I crashed through layers of ice and snow in my beautiful boots on the way to the house, falling twice. Trust me, falling in the freezing cold and struggling to stand up while having to pee is torture. Why did I leave the potato fork in the car? 

I finally made it to the house. The laundry room door was iced shut — three inched of ice kept the door from moving. I skated cross-legged and fell up the step to the kitchen door. Same deal, iced shut. 

Back to the work shop, more falling, more crashing through the ice-crusted snow, to burst into through the door. 

N: [hopping from foot to foot] Dad! How do you get into the house? 

D: [looking at me like I was nuts] What do you mean? 

N: [exasperated] How are you getting into the house?

D: I use the ski pole.

N: [shouting] What? 

D: The ski pole I found in the ditch. 

N: [with tears of frustration] How. Are. You. Opening. The. Door. To. Get. In. The. House? 

D: I wonder how a ski pole got in the ditch. It's amazing what I find out there. 

N: [screaming] Dad! I NEED to get in the house. 

D: The doors are frozen. 

N: Yes! Have you been living in the workshop this week? 

D: [looking at me like I'd said the most ridiculous thing ever] I go through the garage. 

N: [so relieved I almost wet my pants] How do you get in? 

D: Through the garage. 

N: How. Do. You. Open. The. Garage. Door? 

D: I push the button. 

N: What button. 

D: I think it says 'enter.' 

I crashed back out the door, this time following the path of the driveway, and using by best ice-skating techniques made it to the garage door. I flipped open the key pad (things are getting modern at the farm) and jabbed 'enter' with my mittened finger as hard as I could. 

Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. 

Arrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhh. 

Remember that bad word that Ralphie said in A Christmas Story, when he was helping his dad change the tire? 

That was my mantra all the way back to the work shop. 

N: Dad! I couldn't get the garage door open!

D: Did I tell you there was a code? 

N. Nooooooo....what is it? 

D: I haven't told you the code before? 

N: I don't know....can I have it now? 

D: It's ****. Do you want the ski pole?

N: I'll be back. 

This time I took a different route. To the back of the cow barn. 

All of the practice of going to the bathroom outdoors in my farm-girl childhood paid off. The added layers of clothes and coat and sub-zero weather added to the fun. I did it. And didn't get any on my boots. 

And that is the rest of the story: from the society page to peeing behind a barn.

Ain't life glamorous? 

Dad and the damn ski pole.

icepolocypse 2011 day 5

It was very important that I get the car unstuck today. Because it was very important that I be sitting in this chair, reading a magazine and getting my hair cut (and let's be honest, some color too).

At first I thought I could walk to the appointment. It was only a mile away, a mere ten blocks. Ha! Not on this ice. Not even with the potato fork.

Friends to the rescue! As much as I like to think I can do everything myself, pushing the car out is a team effort.

Don used a pick axe around my tires. I tried not to micro-manage, but an axe, near my tires. Really? Trust, it's all about trust.

Scott shoveled and pushed. 

I might have given this helpful message the finger. 

In the end, we freed the car. Don drove and I joined Scott pushing and it popped right out. I was able to guide the car down the icy hill without hitting the vehicle parked on the street across from the driveway. 

And I got a kick-ass new haircut.