Pre-Politics:CRIME STOPPERS EPISODE #8,939,247 or Life on the Other Side of the Drawbridge

TIMELY REPOST, and remembering how to conduct real political business among real common folk, who rarely hang the day in a coffee shop... and, as I take a breath to fight hypoxia, it is always good to remember Tante Louise.

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As it was a hazy, lazy day and we were in a hazy, lazy frame of mind, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore organized a hay ride. Sometimes we have to blow this Joint, Manor that it is, and get out amongst the Common Folk.

So Fred gave up dredging the algae bloom that has beset The Moat. The bazillions of pigmented cells have decided to be red, of course, in honor of our politics. We can't, despite the well-worn furrow in our collective brow (Get it? What a rapier wit.), figure how we overnourished this vast body of water. It's not like we have fertilizer run off from "the fields" -- not us! No, we three believe in extending the fallowed nature of The Back Forty to the Entire Property. Honest to God! Hommage to Captain Haddock's Ancestral Holdings Upon Which We Squat! We've not been tossing the phosphorus around all willy-nilly. The Schmitzia hiscockiana, "small, red, and rare," must have an unusual generative source.

As I said, we pulled Fred from the waterworks, and I put aside the last-minute grading from Fall Semester 1992 (Discuss: Lucky and Pozzo, Gay or Gay?). The Feline Four got all doodied-up, which involved straw hats, berets, and breath mints. After much to-do, I was convinced to brush and puff Marmy's tail, curl Uncle Kitty Big Balls' whiskers on the left side of his face (inexplicably, they droop a good 2 inches below the whiskers on the right), trim Sammy's nails -- he suffers from terrible split ends -- and repeatedly reassure Dobby that he would not miss dinner or any substantive snacking.

You've seen nothing until you see The Castafiore decked out in her HayRide Outfit. Think, if you are able, of a sexed-up Little Orphan Annie, although I believe she might have been going for more of a decadent Shirley Temple. Think spandex, think Pepto-Bismol pink. Think ringlets, think peroxide blonde.

Resist the urge to gouge your eyes... it will pass.

We finally made it out to the beautiful, winding country roads in the environs.

We finished the afternoon in town because we needed to pick up a few items at the supermarché, those things that we get in bulk. Having a wagon handy is a rarity. Finally, we are stocked up on my 6.80388 kg containers of lowfat plain yogurt. I like to have at least four of those babies available for midnight-to-4 am snacks, as well as for yogurt emergencies.

Bianca got her bulk mineral make-up supplies:

Matte Mineral Foundation
Mineral Resurfacing Veil (Fred and I chipped in for a few extra vats)
Mineral Eye Shadows (mattes, satins, and pure pigments)
Mineral Blush and Bronzers
Glo Mineral Luminosity Face Powder (Fred and I snuck almost all of it *off* the wagon)
Natural Lip Gloss
Wholesale Kabuki Brushes (to promote that "natural" look she's famed for)

The 12 kegs of Matte Mineral Foundation, alone, tipped the wagon, so we made sure their weight was evenly distributed in a kind of Stone Henge arrangement.

We stopped for ice cream and "parked" in the shade of an elm on a nearby neighborhood road. We were, without doubt, an odd sight, a bit of chaotic rustica mucking up ordered suburbia.

Entertainment happened along within minutes. We would have killed for a video camera. A quick sketch artist, even.

A bedraggled man in his 50s, a fierce look of determination on his face, struggled by us, trying to push a HUGE widescreen television, attached to some kind of -- equally HUGE -- console, down the road. Once upon a time, it must have had tiny, tiny wheels on it.

He stopped in front of a large house, just down from the corner. It dawned on him -- you could see the lightbulb light up over his hatted head -- that he just could not push this thing all the way to wherever he was going. So he left it and went running down the street. He ducked in between two cottages and shortly thereafter he came back with a shopping cart.

Yes, he had the bright idea that he was going to put this HUGE TV/console inside this TINY shopping cart.

We were having hysterics but we also were dividing into camps -- Pro-Dood-Stealing-The-Big-Screen-TV-With-BigAss-Console versus the ever-predictable Anti-Theft Sermonizers. Sympathies shifted back and forth, with each HayRider adopting, however briefly, a fierce law-and-order stance at least once.

The Four Felines are notorious for preferring risky fun to straightlaced behavior. Go figure.

Anyway, it was like watching a cartoon character have a really bad idea -- the coyote ordering Acme products in the vain attempt to blow the roadrunner to smithereens. One cartoon balloon after another popped up over this Dear Dood's head.

By the way, it was over 95 degrees out there on the mean streets of suburban Tête de Hergé. This was one *dedicated* audio-visualphile, working without a net, working without a clue.

Finally, we regained our habitual sobriety and Fred whipped out his cellphone to call the Tête de Hergé version of 911. In Europe, the emergency phone number is often 112. Here, in our very unique area of Tête de Hergé, it often suffices to call up Tante Louise -- who is a story in and of herself.

We could see neighbors begin to peek out their windows , and a couple of people came out for an unobstructed view of the action, iced sweet-tea in hand, watching the man's progress.
This was what passed for free entertainment on that slow, hot day.

While Fred is chatting up Tante Louise, who on her end is directing all the CentDouze law enforcement, I gave a shriek. Our guy, former treasurer of his high school AV Club, manages to tip the mammoth TV over, after failing to get it safely lodged in the cart [surprise!].

He stands under his thought balloon, scratching his itchy head, while the cart slowly gathers steam and proceeds to roll down the hill. I could not calm myself and gave up trying -- hooting and hollering like the Hayride Hayseed that I am.

Apparently, by then, *everyone* in the neighborhood was watching and had called Tante Louise, who promptly put *everyone* on hold and poured herself a finger or two, so as to better survive the Crime Wave.

Back at the epicenter of the action, Our Guy sprints (about 400 meters, a straight shot out of the starting blocks) and recovers the recalcitrant cart. He drags it up the incline, back to its proper position next to the humongous television. {Il prend donc une petite pause} -- and we on the wagon break out the aftermeal mints and diaper wipes. Always bring a bin of diaper wipes on your hayrides. In these days of green, you might consider Seventh Generation's "only non-chlorine bleached cloth baby wipes."

After the short break in the action, during which Bedraggled Dood perched birdlike on the curb, a timely, helpful soul came slowly driving by (just the first of the rubberneckers) and decided to stop and assist AV-Man in the orderly theft of this TV and console. Together, they managed to *balance* the thing across the cart. The Good Samaritan got back in his truck -- in a confused sort of rush -- and drove away, shaking his head, making odd gestures in the air, talking to himself, apparently realizing -- too late -- that Our Guy was not all there and that he, a Good Samaritan, was now complicit as one-half of a crime wave.

He must have noticed the ronronnement of multiple conversations with Tante Louise, the cell phones everywhere, and concluded that exiting the scene before the cops' arrival was the better part of valor.

As previously noted, the street had a pretty serious incline going on.

We watched SumDood as he first began a fast-paced walk, then broke into an uneven trot, and finally was flat out running like a man chasing Usain Bolt. He managed to keep at least a pinky on the shopping cart, which, honoring the laws of momentum, gathered up its mass and velocity and sped downhill.

We were really sad when he finally flew out of sight.

The cops came pretty quickly and the last we heard, they were trying to match up the HUGE now-wrecked TV set with its heartbroken owners.

We turned the wagon around and began the trek back to Marlinspike Hall, not at all anxious to face the worries that doubtless were waiting for us: the red swarm of algae and the many holes left to chink in the medieval wing (and in some outbuildings -- the more ancient of the gazebos, for example).

Audio-Visual Man, wherever you are tonight, God bless.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Firetruck, Ball, Dictionary

This is the third incarnation of this post, each published on the eve of that phenomenal event known as the "annual physical." Tante Louise, though gone, lives on in the spirit of every citizen in Tête de Hergé and this jot marked her début as elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle's first Official Greeter, Docent, Porter, and Grande Dame.  The custom died out, unfortunately, largely due to her absence, that void of steely graciousness so difficult to emulate.  The genetically indentured Manor Staff, as you likely foresaw, found this change in its generational routine assignments as a violent upset to the Marlinspike Hall apple cart.  

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****
REPOST:  IN MEMORY OF TANTE LOUISE,
WHO HAS MOVED ON
TO WARMER CLIMES.
*****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****


The official motto of Syldavia: 

Eih bennek, eih blavek 

 If you gather thistles, expect prickles (roughly translated)

These days, when you see the Physician's Assistant for the 5-minute cursory exam that has replaced your family doctor's annual physical, she is likely to include a simple test of your short term memory.


 "I'm going to say three words.  In a few minutes, or at the end of this cursory exam, whichever comes first, I will ask you to recall these three words."


Then she will say something like "firetruck, ball, dictionary."


After giving you prescriptions for a new anti-depressant, maybe a statin or two, some thyroid hormone, and a recommendation to lose weight, as your PA is leaving the examination closet, hand on the doorknob, she'll ask you, over the shoulder and not slowing one bit, what those three words were.


Try to be ready.

Sad to say, that's my best approximation of the prevailing ambiance here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, with its lopsided equivalencies, all those adverbs for ballast, my subordinate clause. Unrhymed but metered tercets, I write strings of words that I repeat to strangers in the hope that they will remember, and speak them back.


Just because I have problems with words doesn't mean I've the right to sour the whole experience.


Sensing a looming depression settling over his beloved valley, The Captain recently sent us a team of motivational speakers, the ideal long distance gift from an absentee Manor Lord.  During a cold lunch that featured a perfect mound of tuna salad rising from a Botticellian shell of Boston lettuce -- surrounded by pale green, slightly mottled frozen grapes that were, themselves, punctuated with watermelon and sour cream quenelles -- 


During *that*, we listened to our Plenary Session guru, a self-styled Cicero who could sell Ginzu knives and Veg-a-matics to desert ascetics.


After changing into the Haddock Corporation's new line of  70% bamboo/30% spandex Ye Olde Sea Salt athletic wear, The Manor's indentured-unto-perpetuity Domestic Staff spent the afternoon doing team-building exercises, often blindfolded, sometimes with various legs lashed together.  At one time or another, each employee fell backward -- full of faith -- into the extended arms of their waiting coworkers (relatives, mostly), in whom they already knew *exactly* how much to trust.


Times are tight everywhere, even in Tête de Hergé. We think that's what is fuelling The Captain's new love of all things corporate.  It's not that he doesn't have almost infinite resources -- good Lord, just look around you!  It is more a question of liquidity.  For years, we ran Marlinspike Hall with the proceeds from collectible comic books and by selling off coveted domaine names, snatched up back in the days before Spielberg had his eye on Hergé's Tête.  Shoot, we used to make payroll thanks to a horse stall full of pristine Bengali editions of King Ottokar's Sceptre, carefully packed in hay.  


The bottom line is that we are opening almost the entire Manor and Haddock family land holdings to the public in an effort to make Marlinspike Hall a self-sustaining endeavor.  The Captain wants to be, forgive the pun, a captain of industry, among other things, and so we find ourselves scheduled to host a series of BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps, sort of an Outward Bound experience for the buttoned-down world.  Not just for at-risk youth, our outdoor adventures!  


It's kind of a test.  That's right, we're beta testers.       


Fred has been in close consultation with the Garden, Grounds, and Outbuildings Guild, trying to achieve and maintain a level of preparedness that would rival any scouting organization.  Their first obstacle, of course, was  access to toilets -- just what the forward-thinking Fred had predicted.  But because they had money to throw at the issue, the solution was fairly simple, and would also help us attract people to other events, such as ManorFest and our fledgling 3-Day Substance Abuse Intervention Program for Carnies and Sideshow Freaks (Born and/or Made)*.  Not having a decent place to go would no longer be reason enough to stay away and certainly no longer an excuse to refuse help.

* I know you must be wondering about our work among these talented folk.  It all began when some Cirque du Soleil people escaped from the Lone Alp Rehab.  Lost and high, they were drawn to the various riggings and natural performance venues of Marlinspike Hall.  We found them swinging like inebriated monkeys from the hefty hemp rope that connects the Manor Stables to the Computer Turret. The only way in or out, up or down, that pesky turret is via this thick rope ladder, dyed caution yellow, that extends down (but mostly sideways) out to the Stables. (It's more bridge than ladder, Fred always says.)  Anyway, with the help of our Cistercian monk neighbors, almost everyone got sober, and the word spread.  Lots of our ManorFest vendors have carnival connections, and it turned out that Abbot Truffatore and Father Anthony, Guest TaskMaster, offer a special Retreat twice a year for Sideshow Freaks.  And you thought all those monks did was peddle ink and toner supplies!

Fred waved this Toilet brochure under my sweaty nose as he ran off to tackle some other pressing Guild issue.  


It *is* exciting:


• "Green System" uses minimal water and Green Manufacturing. 
• Warm Fireplace in Women's restrooms. 
• Hot and cold running water. 
• Black Onyx Decor counter tops. 
• Self contained water tank (up to 800 uses). 
• Holding tank allows approximately 2,000 uses before servicing. 
• Ample exterior lighting. 
• Marbled patterned walls. 
• Diffused sconce lighting throughout. 
• Heated and air conditioned. 
• Fully enclosed individual stalls. 
• Sanitary Hands-Free pedal flush toilets and urinals. 


They had me with the sconces!


It's not the sexiest part of Hergé Manor Maintenance, but I know that Moat Conditioning is going to be a terribly divisive topic, what with so many first time corporate visitors arriving by submarine. It's a tenuous ecological balancing act -- on the one hand, we can flood the Submariner's Mooring area with Commercial Grade Bacterial Enzyme Treatments to transform industrial-grade sludge and out-of-control nutrients ("Up to 1,000 Lbs Per Day!") into Essential Angel Farts;  on the other hand, we can quietly, efficiently, and cheaply drown out our problems with algaecides (copper sulphate, iron salts, rosin amine salts and benzalkonium chloride). 


Fred has a dream.  He wants to press The Manor's Miniature Families into special service, such as Moat Maintenance.  I don't know that this is the time for such forward-thinking measures, but you try calming down an excited Fred.  "For only the cost of toothbrushes!" he crows.


I am limited by a pesky Non-Disclosure Agreement, and had to have even this little bit of blog copy pre-approved... but I am pleased to announce that these BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps mark the first event use of our new Class IIa Abbreviated Wilderness Trail and Bird Sanctuary.  It's an amazing piece of artifice made, seemingly, of concentric oak hammocks and dense coastal pine woodland looping around a central marsh, that is, itself, carefully maintained and divided by a system of unobtrusive dykes.  The fake marsh is host to seven tiny -- and very real -- nesting islands.  Weirdly enough, the comment we hear most often from the BETA specialists on site at Marlinspike Hall, as they gaze down from its rarefied heights?  "Nice... but no waterfalls."


Having enjoyed a Power Nap or two, the motivational speakers were excited to herd us mild-mannered mid-management types through the Stable, over the rope bridge, and into the Computer Turret, where we were sequestered for a special brainstorming session. Fred was a little miffed. He kept reminding everyone to send thank you notes to The Captain, our absent host ("...and don't stop at one, send five!").


This whole "corporations are people, too" concept is new to us, what can I say?


The only idea, bright or otherwise, to emerge from our forced meeting of minds was the decision to post some of our older, semi-retired Domestic Staff right beside the blog titles, so that visitors can be properly escorted and supported as they read.  It can be vertiginous, the experience of reading around here. Plus, these sweet old farts absolutely insist on being scheduled for a few shifts each week -- devoted old men, consecrated old women.


Walmart got the whole "Greeters" gimmick from us, you know.  Initially, we thought ourselves quite clever, tapping into such a great resource as Marlinspike Hall's kind and wizened live-in elders.  Weren't we grand, weren't we magnanimous, providing the Old Folk with a routine and some physical and mental enrichment to stave off dementia?! Still, the twinkle in their milky eyes was disconcerting: Fred broke out in guilty psychic rashes; I took to wearing Evil Eye jewelry. (But La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore laughed and laughed!) It took a few years but we finally learned that our bent and rheumatic greeting squad was happily fulfilling the final act of their lifelong (and genetic) dedication to hospitality.


We've caught several of our Cistercian neighbors trying to horn in and cover Greeter shifts. It turned out to have been suggested by Abbot Truffatore as impeccable adjunct training for those monks eyeballing the monastery's Porter or Gatekeeper position. A curious identity, the Porter spans the division between worlds, introducing one to the other, and when perfected to the job, absolutely refraining from judgment.   There's even a quiet tradition of sainthood being bestowed upon these keepers of the welcoming flame.


It's as a reflection of the Porter's mythos, then, that we publicly post our Greeters next to every bolded blog title. Maybe we're a smidgen too proud of our wrinkled Greeters but they've guided us well, without judgment, even in the brash early days when we never thought we'd be anything but Manor Squatters, never thought to make a real home here.  It's those same kind, wizened  folk who wait to show you life in Tête de Hergé, at least how it is west of the Lone Alp, and the way things are done here, in Marlinspike Hall, the Haddock family's humble ancestral abode.

Thomson and Thompson (Dupont et Dupond)
by Hergé

Serving as Honorary First Blog Guide and Greeter, you have no doubt noted, is Tête de Hergé's most famous nonagenarian, Tante Louise. Together with three cell phones, a bull horn, and her panoptic beady brown eyes, she is our first, and best, defense against fire, theft, and trauma of all sort. 

She will be hosting this post for its initial minute inside your skull, at which point Gervaise will step in as Greeter.  

I've just been notified that Gervaise wants to be called "Miss Madame Docent."


We still have a few problems to iron out.  




Firetruck!
Ball!
Dictionary!

© 2015 L. Ryan

the break-out (with panache)

good sunday evening, my dearest, darling readers.

i just organized one of the slickest, coolest ev-er hospital escapes, ev-er (worth repeating the annoying ev-er] -- and i am world-famous for my slick and cool hospital departures.

i simply played my FAMILY card, whilst weeping from the glaucoma drops placed stealthily in mine eyeballs.  my world-class, one-of-a-kind, uber-compassionate professor of a brother has been stricken with the universally unjust plague of c-word curses, metastatic renal cell carcinoma, and i must be by his brave side, pronto!  that was my first missile volley aimed at the almost english-speaking hospitalist in charge of deciding whether i could be discharged or not.  as she did not immediately begin writing discharge orders, i loaded volley number two:  my blessèd 86 year-old sweetheart of a stepmom, weighing only 81 pounds, has three [3] wretched bedsores, and my truly saintèd sister had been forced to remove her from her idyllic beachside cottage to an ugly institution of a rehab center for wound care and for fattening-up!  clearly, what this saintèd woman needs is fugly me, spoon-feeding her peaches and cream!

i glanced at the hospitalist, who still was staring laser-eyed at my feigned tears, and was, most importantly, still NOT writing orders for discharge, sighed, and played my final card in my deadman's hand of aces-over-eights.

the FRED card, i played the FRED card!  "my poor partner of some 24-odd-years, Fred, is completely lost without me..." poor fred couldn't handle the sassy-mouthed Marlinspike Hall staff, and running a medieval Haddock-family owned manor is no easy business, letmetellyou!"  then i slowly added on his never-ending battle with the militant lesbian feminist existentialists at his church, emphasizing his christian and druid tendencies.  i may also have leaked a few details about life with Bianca Castafiore, the Milanese Nightingale who treats us to unending, unerring iterations of Gounod's Air des Bijoux...




...and yes, i may have done a very garbled interpretation of my BFF Bianca.  because it was at that precise point that my tenderhearted hospitalist began scribbling orders into my chart.

while she was writing, i layed upon her distracted ears all the sob stories emanating from lincolnton, north carolina, site of the other wing of la familia -- or, more accurately la cosa nostra -- with exceptions being made for the innocent drug cartel mafiosi children under the age of 13, and for my bio-mom, of course, and her various rockin' and law-abiding POAs.  whether the hospitalist was actively listening or not, her writing speed advanced considerably.

then she paused to consult ms. prissy infectious disease doctor who was vacillating, irritatingly, between continuing i.v. vancomycin [boo!  hiss! though it worked well, or got the work started well!] or clindamycin in pretty pink pill form [no need for an i.v. to finish the vanco's work!], and sputtering about clostridium difficile at soul-decimating intervals.

so i launched into the ultimate deal-closer -- who will properly groom, entertain, and oversee the intricacies of feeding the Feline Triumvirate?  whom does Dobby truly trust with his most intimate secrets?  whom does Marmy Fluffy Butt allow to even touch her pristine long hairs?  and to whom does Buddy the Maine Coon whisper his sweet, babyish "gentle giant" heart's desires [just before declaring jihad].

***  please keep in mind that Buddy is not muslim, he is simply a confused, sweet, and gentle heart trapped inside a territorial, prey-oriented maine coon's body.  granted, he does take the following statement as his raison d'être --  but only if you substitute "feline" or "confused maine coon" for any war-like islamic statements -- which also are far less than true for most bona fide muslims, as well:

"But in a place where muslims [FELINES] are oppressed, tortured,  dishonored,  and targeted for their belief in Allah and His Messenger [THE MOST HOLY CONFUSED MAINE COON SPECIES],  the leadership [CONFUSED MAINE COON] of that place [MARLINSPIKE HALL] may declare a Jihaad [A CAT-WHOOPING] to defend themselves."

at this juncture of my speedy narrative, my darling chinese hospitalist slammed shut the chart, after flipping up the red "flag" denoting "urgent doctor's orders," and left me with these words of wisdom:

"you gotta take life easy, ms. profderien, you gotta take life easy. not good for body if you don't take life easy, got it?" 

she's a good'un, she is. and dr. chaya is her name-o.

There was a doc who had a patient,
And Chaya was her name-o.
C-H-A-Y-A
C-H-A-Y-A
C-H-A-Y-A
And Chaya was her name-o.

okay, enough of my silly stuff.  fred arrived, saved the day, got my wheelchair out of the bathroom (i could not figure out where the nursing staff had stashed it!), loaded me up, and off we went to the elevators, which led us to the 15-minute "patient loading zone," and my liberation.

before busting me out of hospital hell, fred was able to pick up the kick-ass antibiotic that dr. chaya browbeat our famously lazy local pharmacist into filling on an ASAP STAT status.  i noticed that her english suddenly and markedly improved when she was instructing said pharmacist in how rapidly she was going to fill that rx.

hmm.

and off we went to fret over much more important people, that lumpy grader boob, that "baba," little wise brayden... unfettered fretting, unleashed from the i.v. and the infernal touching of caring care givers -- anathema to those with CRPS.

remember the chant for lumpy GB (and Brayden Martin, as well):  "shrink, tumors, shrink!" alternating with a vigorous counterchant of "pain, pain, just plain go away!"

much love to you out there, and thank you, dr. chaya.


© 2013 L. Ryan

My Normal: Am I There Yet?

I'm trying like crazy to return to "my normal."  

Garderobe, Peveril Castle, Derbyshire

This is a term now in my daily lexicon -- it used to be set apart.  (In that there field, yonder, a little farther, a little farther, more to your left -- LEFT, I said -- yep!  Right there!  Good job, Dear Reader!)  It used to be confined to exam rooms.  "So, would you say you're close to 'your normal'?" might be an insightful question for Dr. Shoulderman to ask after giving me a prosthesis, taking away a prosthesis, putting in a spacer, taking out a spacer, or removing the shoulder joint altogether.


The only intelligent answer is a one-sided shrug and a heart-felt muttered: "I guess so." Or just omit the shrug.  We never wanted to hurt Dr. Shoulderman's feelings.

It's that time that comes every three years or so.  My private long term insurance company that pays me 60% of my pay, post retraction of any bit of money due any agency (even my union dues!) at the level of pay I was receiving in the year 2000.  The following year, of course, was when Fred had to stop working because "someone" had to be here to call 911 in case I didn't feel like it. [Ha?]

I'm pretty sure they surveilled us and I bet that was a grand old time for some poor soul.

Anyway, now it's pretty much as my go-to-guy MDVIP doctor promised me it would be:  "No one, ever, is going to question your need for disability coverage.  This is permanent, this is not going to get better."

He actually does have a sense of humor, this devout man.  I've heard him laugh, even inappropriately (the true test of mental health).  I've seen him hold his head in his hands more, though.  And since he and his partner left their huge group practice to go off and practice excellence, he's felt free to say he'd pray for me.

One of his best jokes yet?  I said, "I hope you had a good Passover." He responded, "Did you go to an Easter sunrise service?"

I about died laughing.

So first thing I do wrong this time -- and I'm back to talking about getting re-certified as a bona fide gimpette -- was not notifying the disability insurance company that my phone number had changed.  Oopsies. (I'm channeling Rick Perry.)  So when my "case coordinator" attempted to call, and got the old "disconnected" message, her natural assumption was that I'd grown new arms, legs, bones, and a better brain and had run off to Mexico, living high on Mexican hogs via that aforementioned 60% bounty.  Plus the extra pesos brought in by selling my mail-order drugs.

That's right. I -- me -- moi -- am a cartel.

I knew I was up to something!

Anyway, this is always a time of stress, in spite of my humor-possessing but humor-skewed beloved doctor's assurances that I am "totally and permanently disabled." This is always the juncture when the neighbors might have mailed the company that tell-all video of Fred and me waltzing on the veranda, or me jogging off to teach my early morning yoga class at the community center eight miles down the road.

Hey!  Did I tell you that I have new whatchamacallits?  Elbow crutches, you know, with the cuff the fits on your arm?  Two of 'em!  One for each side, and yes, that part is tricky.  The goal is to be able to stand for three minutes (still don't get how anyone chose "three" as a goal) which I absolutely CANNOT do -- BUT I can walk around for almost that long!  Maybe half that long!  So long as I am within crash reach of the bed or wheelchair!  It's actually pretty cool, even if annoying know-it-all people around me keep changing the various length settings on the suckers.  Fred has never been man enough to accept that I am way-y-y taller than he is.  Way-y-y.

So the forms are here for me to fill out.  I keep moving them around.  I doubt I'll be able to write legibly.  Maybe I can type out the answers, print them, and attach that to the original document?  Or do they want to see me scribble?

On the phone -- we did "connect" -- Gladys, or whatever her name was, seemed thrilled that I still had the same doctor as three years ago, as six years ago, as nine years ago.  "That makes it easier!" she crowed.
I had to pause as a vivid image of the man, his head gently knocking against the doorframe, overwhelmed me.

Like Fred, he had told me he was "overwhelmed."

Neither of them know it, but both of those moments were... sea change.  Pearls, eyes.  But it doesn't read that way, seem that way, exist that way, for Gladys.

I'm still having gastrointestinal bleeds on an ongoing basis, particularly when I don't follow the strict instructions not to take the drugs which help my bone pain the most.  I am doing so less and less, until the next time I cannot use my legs due to pain, cannot straighten them, and definitely cannot stand on them.
Here's something funny.  You know how people lose socks?  That great eternal mystery?  I lost the ankle brace that was making my right ankle fracture bearable.  No, I am NOT kidding.  And I always thought the punchline was that socks had PAIRS.  I only have the one sweet, little brace -- it has no sibling.  My theory?  It's here.  Somewhere.  Yes, that qualifies as a theory.  What do you want?  There was a thief in the night (swam the icky algae-afflicted-as-never-before moat, jumped into Marlinspike Hall via a well-used garderobe -- eww! -- bypassed the small golden museum quality pieces scattered about and took, instead, my damn ankle brace?  Here's the blatant flaw in your version, bud -- I am not sleeping, not since the return of the suicide-inducing spaz attacks.  Even the cats are staying away.  And since I've started guessing at how much insulin I might be needing, I've been in a jolly blood sugar roller coaster kind of mood.  A bit of advice for you:  don't take insulin, then half eat half a salad.  You might be unlucky enough to fall asleep.  I -- being forced awake -- simply transformed into Hulkette, snarling and green.  Fred did the bright thing and ran to get the jalapeño, red pepper-flaked with Thai chili sauce brown rice to shove down my throat... running right past the left over holiday peppermint candy.

What I dislike most about episodes of the sort?  I get paranoid afterward.  Fred must hate me.  The Domestic Staff seems distant.  Bianca has a sudden extra shift at the bar (the opera was among the first and hardest hit by Tête de Hergé's plunge into forced sequestration -- damn this proclivity for copying the politics of governing exhibited by failed and dying systems!).  Buddy came, but decided I'd be best comforted if he deposited his Maine Coon ass right where my shoulder used to be.  Buddy left shortly thereafter, as in:  Buddy fled.

I dunno.  Am I back to "my normal" or not?

What?  You afraid I'll bite your freaking head off if you try and answer?

ManorFest 2012: Growing Pains

I'm making Mom's Best Peanut Brittle.  Don't get excited, it's just a recipe title.  We're testing out some of the suggestions from last week's ManorFest 2012 Planning Seminars.

When Fred and I take up scrapbooking, we are going to have whole pages dedicated to the ManorFest 2012 Planning Seminars.  So many fun mementos.  To me, these things are keepsakes, little plastic and paper memories to cherish, garnished with cheap metals.  To Fred, they are trophies. "In lieu of a Death Certificate," he says, the jokester.

ManorFest 2012 Planning Seminars were sponsored by Haddock Home and the logo was therefore imprinted on every leaking pen and environmentally disastrous styrofoam cup. (Corporate is still trying out monikers... I think Haddock Home is superb, very inviting, non-threatening.  Infinitely better than Hail,  Haddock, the Captain's favorite, or Hershey, Haddock, & Heinz, Inc, the top choice among the pungent Venture Capitalists down at the end of the conference table, right next to the main garderobe drain, the one that empties directly into the familial cesspit.)

Haddock Home name tags, alone, could take up a whole section.  You know the kind with the clear plastic cover that won't stay folded over, with the hot-glued pin that's usually a bit askew?  No, not the easy self-adhesives.  Or the new magnetic do-dads.  Not even the ones with the swiveling clip, for those days when you're not covered in pockets, or when your one badge-bearing pocket is right over your left nipple.

So much frustration, so early in this doggone post!

Don't you love finding the right words?  Those name tags were "pin-style name badges."

Yes, I did spend five minutes in the world of office supply terminology, but then, Abbot Truffatore and The Boys are in the mail order office supply business... so I have an advantage.  I get to sample their Monastery Fudge, along with a cup of their Monastery Coffee, whilst pumping the novitiate for the mystical secrets of staples, paper punches, and correction fluid.  It turns out there is no great incense-imbued Catholic Office Supply Doctrine of Transubstantiation. The Papal Bull on the topic is simple and clear:  Buy Bulk.

Photo from Home Sweet Homewrecker 

Crap.  Speaking of transubstantiation, I decided to use already roasted peanuts in the brittle... Oh, stop laughing.  Yes, I burned them.  Okay, so next time, they won't be added until my candy thermometer hits 250.  Now, what do I do with 40 gallons of burned brittle?

We are still -- as in always -- repairing walls in certain medieval sections of Marlinspike Hall.  Maybe in some of the drier areas, we could substitute my burnt brittle for daub -- you know, the classic wattle and... brittle?  Fred and Sven Feingold have come up with some amazing innovations in our efforts to maintain The Manor in authentic ways without killing ourselves in the process.  You will remember from your last encounter with the wattle and daub technique that the final lime plaster -- a lime and sand mix -- sometime refuses to adhere to the daub.  Bianca Castafiore once ended up with a weekend pass to the Mental Hospital as a result.  Well, Fred and Sven, Bianca's latest Domestic Interest, discovered that adding cat hair to the mix roughens it up enough that it sticks, and even looks naively artistic, kind of Country Bumpkin Cool.  There is, of course, a story behind the discovery, but since the cat in question survived the dip-in-the-daub encounter, healed up nicely, and, with therapy, will overcome his stress-induced flashbacks, we'll settle for naming this new and improved building resource Dobby Daub.  You remember Dobby, yes?  He is the little star-faced one, here seen in his Early Runt Days, when any cat could take a casual chew on his ear.  He's never quite lost that look of quiet desperation, and since the Daub Debacle, it's only become more pronounced.

We're trying to get Haddock Home, or whatever they end up calling themselves, to market Dobby Daub, but the most we're getting from their R&D Division is the offer of a table at ManorFest 2012, where Sven can give trowelling demonstrations and The Castafiore can show off her parging techniques -- who knew she had such a sense for texture?

As for me, my role is as the much ballyhooed Cat Hair Collector, which is what I think I've always been, anyway, except that now I have to carefully wash, dry, trim, separate by donor, and then store the silky feline contributions, a process which may soon get me my own weekend pass to the Mental Hospital.

No, You Smarty-Panted Reader, we cannot substitute the hair from any of the OverSized Herds for that of the Feline Three. (As the Hair Collector, that was my first thought, too!)  It has to do with both aesthetic and maintenance issues, as well as the hair's behavior around various oils.  A long, thick hair from Marmy Fluffy Butt's tail, for instance, can absorb twice its weight in wattle oils (an odd mix of timber resins and termite sweat), whereas an even thicker strand of Big Bo-Buffalo hair will *repel* the gooey mélange, resulting in something comparable to a curdled custard.

Forgive me if I seem obsessed with Things Culinary.  The ManorFest 2012 Planning Seminars have imparted a new, laser-like precision to my thoughts.

Unbeknownst to us, ManorFest 2011 was evaluated by the research firm Press Gainey, which is broadening its area of expertise from Optimizing Health Care Delivery Systems to Mucking Up Obscure Regional Celebrations  So it was that Haddock Home reps informed us that, according to Press Gainey results, it's not enough to offer slabs of beef, piles of fried chicken legs and our famous grilled gizzards, alongside samples of all that can be stuffed into the pork chop of an oversized pig.  Our festival goers are a famously hearty people, but we've left them, they tell us, intellectually hungry.  Now, according to The Wrinkle-Free Suits, it's the "experience" we are supposed to offer, not just a wealth of artery-clogging proteins.  Open kitchens.  Demonstrations of technique.  Celebrity cooks (we cannot afford chefs).

And it all must be done by the dictates of Value Based Purchasing.  We are literally fighting over who gets to attend the four-hour long VBP webinar.  The Abbott and I are of the opinion that Fred ought to have the honor, as he was the only one in our Management Tier to know what ROI stood for.  Bianca blushed when she was asked, thinking of Antoine Rigaudeau ("le roi"), her longtime love interest, now retired, and true source of her basketball expertise.

(Ah, my affection for the out-of-context!)

Anyway, what it all amounts to is that Haddock Homes is smiling at us with big, white teeth, and dictating major changes in how we do things in festival season, using our beloved audience of locals against us.  During a multimedia Press Ganey Performance Solutions presentation on expanding the cultural minutiae of the ManorFest 2012 Food Court, we heard, in a hundred different ways, all bulleted in lists,  that watching meat turn on a spit was hardly entertainment.  What the...?

Our rallying cry, back in the privacy of the Medieval Kitchinette?  Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

And we threw our plastic name tags down upon our eco-friendly tamped earth floor and gnawed on cold turkey drumsticks!  Well, Fred and Sven did.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca and I had ginger tea and scones.

Given no choice by the Powers That Be, we're adapting.  We're coming around.  We're getting with the program, seeing the light, and learning the words to the anthem.  (But if you suggest to Fred that we are becoming "team players," you'd best run for the monastery, and hope there is enough room for you in the sanctuary.)

The peanut brittle is actually a good product to promote -- we're using preferred local ingredients, from the artisinal processed white sugar to the hydroponic vanilla bean pods. (We make some striking naturopathic vanilla extracts using vodka. Who needs vaccination when you could have vanilla vodka?)  But preparing sticky brittle outside, in the heat of our high summer?  Do you want to answer people who inquire about the black specks in their portion?  Shall we add an entomologist to the staffing for that exhibit?

We could always go gourmet, and claim it's chunky black pepper.

I made the mistake of wondering out loud about the feasability of brittle during a mindnumbing afternoon ManorFest Planning session, and a corporate wonk spoke up, as if in response, suggesting that we also take on chocolate covered Big-bottomed ants for the kids.  She bolstered her argument with a handout touting insects as low in fat, high in protein, and tasty as all get out when toasted.  I could have kissed Fred when he said, "Yeah, well, there's an obesity epidemic among termite eaters!"

It's tough being clever in mindnumbing late afternoon conditions.  Surrounded by wonks.

Er, the termite is a fatty snack, in comparison with its edible brethren.  Chewier, too.  It's even possible to extract termite oil.  We're thinking of making that a Marlinspike Hall Cottage Industry during the cold winters.  If we ever have another cold winter...

It's also something that may be therapeutic for the recovering Cirque du Soleil and Carnie Addicts who are housed in one of our best barns, now an accredited rehabilitation facility.  Termite oil, bottled in sapphire blue miniature carafes, might be a way for the Rehab Barn to become self-sustaining.

You know, in case they ever weary of Haddock Corporation "guidance."  Sigh.  Growth is hard.

Meanwhile, back at the ManorFest 2012 Planning Seminar, we continued to devolve in our discussion of Insects as Food.  Foreheads glistening with excitement, looking very much like they'd like to prendre une pause and go mate in the corner, the Haddock House team began making the cost analyses that would "drive" our production.  Nary a thought seemed to be given to Quality Control -- that piddly detail would be left to us, of course.

Meaningless issues like safe storage and preservation. How long can a Japanese Beetle be kept on the shelf without becoming so dessicated as to lose its cloying flavors?  Should we value texture (meaning crunch, mostly) over depth of infused flavors?  (Think garlic, anise, and papaya marinated worms, because, let's face it, worms are pretty flat, flavor-wise.)  The Abbott swears by a Mexican delicacy, caballito del diablo, dragonfly larvae, consumed alike.  That's a whole nother ball of wax.

Ethical issues, too, were blithely tossed aside by Corporate reps, you know, things which pretty much separate the toss-the-screaming-lobster-in-the-boil versus the stab-it-first-with-the-ice-pick crowd.

Bianca had to leave, nauseated merely at the thought of spending all of June catching and parboiling enough local social insects to feed the throngs in July and August.  Hand clasped to the base of her throat, The Castafiore teetered out of the room on her red-soled signature Christian Louboutin's -- the 140 mm., of course.

I'm not a fan of the round toe, and decided to sit and think about that, hoping that my colleagues would construe my far away look as one of dedication to the ManorFest Cause.  I may not be able to sport shoes any more, but no one shall rob me of the capacity to daydream about five-and-a-half inch heels.

O, God.  That's another bug, of sorts.  The Cause.  (Not the heels.)

We are to be aligned with A Cause that is yet to be determined.  None of our suggestions even made it on the White Board. (Fred and I stuck with our favorite cause, Personal Wealth.  The Abbott suggested a fund be established, in perpetuity, for the maintenance of the Holy Foreskin, which the monastics are charged with protecting. Before she wove her way back to our quarters, Bianca voted for joining forces with Save The Operatic Ta-Tas, a charitable organization dedicated to big-chested operatic sopranos. You know, the Brunhilde types, whose "body habitus" prevents decent mammography.

We were not invited, however, to the Vision Quest Seminar where The Cause will be chosen.

Harrumph, and pass the vanilla extract.

the thing with feathers

I had a heck of a time using Blogger last night and hope the issues have been resolved.

Other hopes for today?  That GOOG will shoot up to 700 or so.  That URBN will at least reach that point where I can comfortably bail.  That Marmy Fluffy Butt's left eye ceases to seep, so she can have some relief from her allergies.  That I successfully capture on video the behavior that inspired Dobby the Runt's nickname of "Butt Boy." [And that the video be appropriate for a G-audience.]  That Fred stop racing toward the drawbridge  in his sleep [He keeps hearing knocks and "yoohoo"s in his dreams.  Twice already this morning, he's gone flying by, knees pumping, chest out, yelling, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" My reassurances that there's been nary a knock and not even one "yoohoo," were met with drowsy disbelief.]

Let's see, what else?  I hope that My Hero, Ms. Hannah, gets to go home from the hospital today, after her successful rotationplasty last Friday. Her Mom summed things up yesterday this way, on her CaringBridge site:

I could not hold back my tears of joy as I watched Hannah--my "miracle baby"--do her physical therapy session. She did almost everything on her own. She only had help from physical therapist for balance. Hannah did not flinch or pout or complain or cry. She said it didn't hurt at all and was no big deal. She stood up on her own for a 5-count then sat back down and did that 5 times in a row. Every day I am more amazed by this kid. I'm so proud of her!

I know there are more hopes percolating inside my head and heart.  Dare I give them voice?

I hope that the two-inch nugget glimpsed under the bed (from whence I was retrieving my grabber -- using my cane!) is not what I think it is.  This is the Poo-Free Zone of The Manor.

I hope that federal officials can charge George Zimmerman in the murder of Trayvon Martin, as well as investigate any malfeasance on the part of the Sanford police.  There are several reports that seem credible of officers attempting to "mold" witness statements into a form friendly to Zimmerman's twisted version of the crime.

I hope that yesterday's despair doesn't taint today's progress.  The return of fever, sweats, and that particular pain of the bone infection really got to me, for some reason.  As if another couple of far-from-routine surgeries, $250,000+ in hospital and LTAC bills, intravenous vanco and Cubicin, oral Bactrim, and the wound vac experience were not enough to make me realize that I'm in the midst of another failed attempt at a cure, it took my inability to pop the top off of a can of Progresso soup to have it all sink in.  [The soup?  Tortilla y pollo, doctored for more heat.]

Other fantasies?  That I could spend this Persian New Year with  my former best friend, the Wild Iranian Lesbian, admiring the beautiful table, the flowering hyacinth, the optimistic gold fish.  My hope, of course, is for her year to be a wonderful trip around the sun.


I dare to hope that the Ellerbecks have a measure of comfort, somehow, today.  


I wish Captain Haddock would just go ahead and surface in the moat, in his jaunty little pink submarine -- the threat of a Domestic Inspection is so much worse than the actual wielding of The White Glove.  [Fred found The Castafiore waxing the steps of Buonarroti's Spiral Staircase again, and spritzing the Old Masters with household cleaner laced with ammonia.]


Given what I can glimpse outside this casement window, newly installed in the upgraded Computer Turret, I hope to "play in the dirt again" sometime very soon, if not this day.  The sky is blue and so is the sea... Drat. Why is I Am a Child playing in my head? I fear it is the impact of thinking about the Trayvon Martin travesty down in Florida.

At least my brain picked the Buffalo Springfield version.



Uploaded by SixtiesOnly on Jan 21, 2011

I hope, as does everyone in vicinity to moi, that I can overcome my fear of falling and take a shower today, the first since the morning of January 23, 2012.  Somewhere in this blog, in another of my awesomely introspective and well-organized posts, I detail how to maintain a pristine state without benefit of getting in the bathtub.  It's not so easy these days, and more than anything, I actually long for the feel of water on my skin.  [In my case, due to CRPS, running water feels an attack of tiny needle sticks -- tolerable, but sometimes just barely tolerable.]  My legs, especially, need a soak.

I hope, too, that I can pull off a shower without that being my pinnacle achievement for the day!

Because I also crave and want and expect and yearn for... a day put to good use.  You know, when you don't just fill the pets' bowls with food, but take careful time to sanitize the bowls first.  Did you know that eating from plastic bowls can cause pimples to sprout around a cat's mouth?  I didn't think so!  Only one of our bowls is plastic, and we use it because Marmy Fluffy Butt (aka I-choose-to-leave-my-poo-beside-the-litter-box-for-your-maximum-pleasure) will not eat out of anything else.  That reminds me.  I absolutely pine, fancy, and crave the services of an animal psychologist.

This day, cast useful, should include other bits of spot-cleaning.  The disgusting coffee apparatus that Fred uses -- and that Bianca's frequent overnighter, Sven Feingold, adores -- hasn't been washed since... well, since I last had a shower!  In between hospitalizations, while I was insane with fever and dehydration, I made several inspired online purchases, the best of which proved to be a new Bodum French press, so I am brewing my coffee separate from Fred, Bianca (and Sven).  I tell you, it was like Christmas (finally!) for a few days, in spite of the definite Lenten attitude exhibited by our UPS driver.  I had no recollection of my purchases but fortunately, some innate good sense prevailed and I only ordered household items according to an apparent "upgrade" theme.  Frilly stuff like a new dish drainer, and magnetized tools (miniature grabbers, really).  Even the more wasteful orders are not so wasteful, after all.  Not if you squint and stare into the direct sun.  For instance, even though we now have enough bonito flakes to make dashi for all of Japan, I have faith that my Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten will eat his way through them by the end of the year.

How did the shelter staff not know that he was a Maine Coon?!

Other expectations, faith, and fancies for today?  That we can figure out the idiosyncrasies of this new wheelchair before hosting the "Wheelchair Tech" tomorrow.  It seems like such a small matter, hardly worth someone making the long journey from Tête de Herge's only Full Service Gimp Supply Store.  Still, it is not a good thing to suddenly lose power in the midst of crossing the street.  There's also the whiplash factor!  Fred, stubbornly sticking to scientific method, has debunked each of my theses about the cause of this behavior, citing "coincidence" as the underpinning for my observations.  I much desire equanimity should we tackle the problem again this afternoon.

I'd positively love to do some cooking and baking, but cannot wield a knife.  That's not true.  I just cannot safely wield a knife or expect that my knife skills won't result in personal tragedy.  Hence, the adventures with soup cans and many microwave meals.  Fred is a great cook but he's kind of in recovery right now, himself, you know.  Bianca?  Puh-leeze!  Sven can concoct some amazing comfort food dishes but I can feel my blood vessels begin to clog after the first few bites.  And it turns out that asking for help from the genetically indentured Domestic Staff can result in charges of Abuse of Power.  Who knew?  Damn those corporate flow charts.

Well, if I don't end this, and then finish revising the post that Blogger was blocking last night, I'll never get to my extensive Wish List.  Hmm, how to close, how to close?

As if you weren't expecting it!

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

-- Emily Dickinson

Repost: Spring Cleaning at Marlinspike Hall

originally posted 3/22/2009

I repost this annually, as much for my benefit as for the New Reader who may have wandered in by mistake. To what end? Well, to remind myself that the tasks necessary to keep order in our little corner of The Manor are mere trifles compared to what we face in the rest of Marlinspike Hall. If you are new to elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, this also may help you better visualize Captain Haddock's family home.  And who knows?  Thinking about spring, even if it's spring cleaning, might brighten your day.

I'd best get back to it. Medieval tapestries don't whack themselves clean, you know.

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

Here, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé, it's the time of year when we tenants of Marlinspike Hall clean and straighten, rake and trim, sweep and scrub. Sometimes in matching outfits. Spring might herald a visit from The Captain to his ancestral home, and he expects to find a tight ship.

What is involved in keeping The Manor neat as a new pin? It's not terribly complicated and probably is very much like what you might do in your own home.

The Old Masters must be dusted and straight. Simple enough.

Before I made the acquaintance of The Biddington, I had to use whole bowls full of emulsion cleaner, varnish remover, and even a few drops of Domestic Industrial Strength Environmental Neutralizer for the dingiest of chef-d'oeuvres. Mrs. Biddington -- known in the industry as The Bo-Bizzle of Blue Ball Biddies -- influenced me to try cleaning our oils with various breads and doughs, even the occasional muffin and non-alcoholic fruitcake. Now I only violate EPA guidelines when working on some of the more obscure works stashed in the odd uninhabited corners of The Manor, and I wile away the winter snows by tending to them, one at a time, slowly. Cotton swab by cotton swab, corrosive compound by corrosive compound. Why such diligence? Captain Haddock likes to circulate his distinguished family's art holdings from year-to-year, so you never know when that smoky and yellowed Rembrandt self-portrait is going to see the light of day. (O! There are an annoying quantity of Rembrandt self-portraits to deal with. I keep advocating that they all should be hung in the creepy and destabilizing carny Mirror Room.)

I will never forget the Spring day, several years ago, when my dear friend La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore decided that she wanted to pitch in.

I cocked an eyebrow.
Fred produced a paroxysm of belabored coughing.
Marmy issued a subtle "*ack*-*ack*-*ack*" as she puffed her mighty fluffy butt and stalked off.
I don't know where the boys were.

In one smooth arcing movement, Bianca spritzed Aqua-CitraSolve Natural Household Cleaner and Degreaser on The Conversion of Saint Paul and The Crucifixion of Saint Peter by that murderous, kinda baroque-y, sorta manneristic imp-of-a-guy, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. I can't get the straight poop from Haddock as to how his family put its hands on the pair -- both once graced the Cerasi Chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo -- until Cardinal Tiberio Cerasi, a flighty guy, himself, and Treasurer to Pope Urban the SumpthingSumpthing, couldn't make up his flighty-guy mind about whether he wanted them or whether he wanted to commission another attempt at the religious subject matter. Those Haddocks sure were lucky.

I cannot count the hours I have spent cleaning all that lucky plunder.


I don't like to complain overly much -- but as you can see from the photo at left (taken in the Cozy Breakfast Nook behind The Spit Kitchen in the Western Wing), just getting to these suckers to wield a tentative and gentle feather-dusting requires those ladder skills you learned in high school and never thought you'd use!

Back to that Spring Day of the Spritz. This was the same day Bianca waxed the reclaimed antique oak of the risers on the biggest spiral staircase in our wing of Marlinspike Hall. "Reclaimed antique oak risers"? That's what I said. Wait while I consult the History of The Manor. Yes, here it is! The wood was original to the medieval castle of Vol-le-Bois -- and Lord knows there isn't much built of wood that usually survives that era free of worm holes and degrees of rot. Il s'agit là d'une récolte très sage des produits forestiers. Really, it seems insufficient to describe what The Castafiore did as mere "waxing." She lovingly burnished each step with as much Lemon Oil as she could force the old wood to accept (if not exactly *absorb*), and then polished it all off with liberal applications of thick and gooey Creamed Lemon Wax.

Later, in the Salle d'Urgence, she would claim an unexpected and preventable "slip-and-fall." When Fred called The Captain, Haddock's perennial fear of La Bonne et Belle Bianca kicked in and he offered her a healthy settlement. Their relationship is truly one of a twisted pretzel -- the big, soft kind that street vendors sell. Hmm. Well, the ones here, in Tête de Hergé country, are a nice combination of a Philly soft pretzel, but shaped like, and as tasty as, a New York pretzel --sprinkled with a liberal amount of Kosher Sea Salt and dipped in a good pungent mustard.

But I digress.

Back to Castafiore and Caravaggio: Did you know that one of the theories about why oils can be such pains in collecting dust and crap -- is that oil paint never dries? That's why spritzing the damned paintings was such an ill-advised approach to the maintenance of Old Masters. Bianca adores the fresh scent of Aqua-CitraSolve Natural Household Cleaner and Degreaser. "Ah! C'est fabriqué avec de véritables oranges!" she crows. And crows.

[It smells not unlike harvest time in the Florida groves when The Castafiore exits her bath in mid-morning. Bourbon French Orange Blossom, for a mere $45 an ounce -- it wafts, it clogs the nares, it is unmistakeable. She sought the same cloying scent on behalf of the saintly pair of Caravaggios.]

No doubt, too, that she wants to make everything all shiny, like that bleepety-bleep miroir. It's mindboggling, but even with her troupe being out of work due to the Global Opera Crisis, she persists on belting out, à la Ethel Merman, je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir! I mean, really! They may very well want to mount something besides that tiresome Faust after Socialism takes over everything, including the theatre arts. Oh, what a happy day that will be! Art for all! Health care for all! No more inequality of resource allocation!

Anyway. Cough. The only reason those two priceless works were salvaged was because she did her spritzing right in front of me. In a reaction fueled by a burst of outraged adrenaline, I turned the wheelchair on Super-ZoomFast, a setting only to be used in the event of a true emergency. It requires an immediate administrator's authorization and key code. The first time I used it, both the chair and I ended up on our sides, not unlike Arte Johnson and his toppled tricycle on Laugh-In.

True Confession: I have been hording all the Velasquez works in the cool, dry nooks of the upper story of the Knoppenburg Manor Replica Stables. Sometimes, I lean back against wooden slats and think, "mine, all mine."

Wow. I haven't even begun to explain how we spruce up our digs every Spring. Maybe because it truly is a year long process. It never stops.

Keeping the antique Blue Jasper Wedgwood plaques free of cat fuzz. Maintaining the lawns -- replete with a scale replica of Wimbledon courts 1-19 plus Centre Court -- deeply green and trim. Oh, and the neverending battle to keep the black algae out of the moat... daily brushings and constant correction of chlorine requirements -- not too much, the eel and koi are kind of sensitive.

Like I said, it's simple enough. Sure, this year we may have to pay to have others do certain things -- Fred refuses to serve as chimney sweep, for example, and I am having a difficult time beating all the tapestries clean, plus I get a terrible crick in my neck trying to stop the stupid Persian rug borders from unraveling. There is a fix for the problem -- but weaving wool through all the fringe ends and warp threads -- it's called "cashmere and overcasting" -- followed by lots of fine needle work -- and my sore neck, back, and pinpricked hands are going on strike.

I am not gonna do it anymore.

Outsourcing. That's the ticket.

And La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore? What is she doing this Spring Cleaning? We've put her in charge of morale.