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Dear Wonderful Readers,
Yep! I’ve broken three lamps and lost the flatware and everything.
In Pursuit of Martha Points has evolved.
It is now: In Pursuit of It All.
The new RSS feed is here.
I promise there is more humor to be found, epic tales of people with maddening decorations, the evil done by cats, and your classic Lori rants.
Please visit? I’d love to see you there.
When you have a group of women…
Who have a wacky hobby in common….
Give them access to an incredible hostess…
And put a couple pitchers of sangria in front of them….
There’s going to be a really good time had.
They will speak in a language that normal people couldn’t possible understand.
They will make inside jokes that no one else gets.
They will drink wine in completely inappropriate quantities.
They will share love as if they’ve known each other for many decades.
Even when they’ve only met once or twice (or never) before.
They will understand the essential need to capture a picture of a cat in a baby basket.
And the fact that 99.9% of their relationship exists in the pixels of a computer screen will not matter one, teeny, tiny, eensy, weensy little bit.
The first house I ever owned was a little tract home with a yard the size of a piece of lunchmeat.
The long hallway was lit by two absolutely uninteresting overhead lights.
There was a light switch.
In the living room was pair of track-lights.
There was a light switch.
In between them was a light switch with two switches, one that controlled the hall lights and one that controlled the track lights.
Here is a schemata. (This is the technical term for silly drawings that want to seem more important than they are.)
So there are two switches that control each sets of lights. Convenient, yes?
Switches A and B controlled the hall lights, from either switch. If light A was up, you could turn the hall lights off from switch B.
Switches C and D controlled the track lights, from either switch. If switch C was down, you could turn the lights on from switch D.
So convenient. Yes! Yay for modern wiring!
Until one of the light switches broke and needed to be replaced.
This should not be a big deal. It’s not like we were rewiring the switchboard for AT&T’s customer service line.
A light switch. One. Simple. Light switch.
We replaced the light switch. We turned off the breaker and followed the instructions.
Something went wrong. Horribly wrong.
Turning one switch up and the next switch down stopped turning off and on the light. A up B down no longer meant a light going on or off. C down D up no longer had anything to do with illumination in the living room.
Instead we ended up with this:
A up B down C up D down meant one light on and the other blinking morse code.
A down B up C down D up caused the garage door to open.
A up B up C down D up launched the space shuttle.
A down B down C up D down caused Donald Trump’s hair to eat the nearest journalist from Mother Jones.
A up B down C down D up made blue chips stocks on the Dow Jones dance the polka.
A down B up C up D down meant six more weeks of winter.
A down B down C down D up caused guacamole to turn black.
A up B up C up D down made 80′s pop groups to go on reunion tours.
A down B down C up D down caused a flock of migrating Canadian geese to become disoriented and poop all over our yard.
People would walk down the hallways and we would fling ourselves at them to keep them from flipping a light switch and potentially reversing the earth’s polarity, or, equally bad, causing reruns of “Who’s the Boss” to air on all available cable stations.
Having influence over the earth this way was just not as much fun as you’d think.
Nor, I must say, was walking down the hallway in the dark for fear of turning on a light switch.
I had lots of stubbed toes during that period of my life. But, it was for the best. I really hate black guacamole.
This weekend I took my life in my hands.
Armed only with a cup of coffee (a disaster in its own right- we ran out of coffee creamer and tried to buy a carton at Whole
Paycheck Foods, which meant we ended up with a soy product that while labelled “hazelnut” would have more appropriately been marketed as “Wooden Spoon”) I embarked on one of the most hazardous of all house-taming missions: dealing with accumulated mail.
I had no tranquilizer gun. I had no net.
I had no smooth-tongued narrator.
I did not have Jim to wrestle the beasts to the ground.
I had only the crappy tasting coffee and my wits, which, frankly, have been listed recently on the endangered species list.
Step One: Identification and Tagging.
Mail taxonomy is often tricker than it seems. For while the major species junkus prolificus and correspondus personalis are easy enough to identify, others can be more difficult. For instance, some very crafty species of junkus mimickus can actually resemble legitimate strains of mortgage ginormica, in hopes of tricking the unwary home-owner into forking over muchas dineros. And in the sorting phase it’s not at all uncommon to discover a violent species of HOLY %$#&ICUS that needed to be identified, processed and transported several weeks ago. Specimen growth and the discovery of penalty offspring often accompany the identification of HOLY %$#&ICUS.
Step Two: Processing and Habitat Re-Introduction
Once you’ve identified your various mail species, you must move to the crucial processing and habitat re-introduction phases. Some species can be immediately relocated into the circular-shaped habitat receptacle of your choosing. Some require return to their habitat of origin along with a donation to ensure the continued reproduction of the species. Some cannot be properly handled without additional research, most typically the “Didn’t I already pay that?” or “Why the hell do they need the serial number from the refrigerator?” academic inquiries. And then, there’s my personal favorite, that particular species of mystery mail that if left alone, dies a quiet death. Also known as, ignoritandit goesawayicus. In this case, the proper course of action is to put the creature into a NEW pile, and forget about it for at least one mail life-cycle (about 30 days).
So despite not being filmed or featured on a nature program (although would that NOT be a killer episode?) Himself and I did manage to tame most of the wild mail-life in the house. Although there was a brief altercation over who was meant to take custody of certain specimens, no tranquilizer guns were fired, and the creatures were ultimately handled without injury.
But I’m still bummed that nothing got wrestled to the ground.
Much like that classic story of temptation, “The Lady or the Tiger,” there was a choice before me. My adorable, one-month-old nephew (who I’d not been able to meet yet owing to the rampant plague that kept swinging through our house), or Easter candy.
You know me. If there’s chocolate to be had, keep outta my damn way or decide that you are not emotionally attached to your fingers.
So here I was…torn…how would it go?