My house burned this morning

My house caught fire. My kids are safe, my dogs are safe. Two cats are safe, two cats are missing.
Two rats died, two rats were crushed and injured. My kitchen is destroyed. My house is smoke damaged.

My kids were home, and I was gone, working at the church nursery. My daughter woke up and smelled smoke. She opened the kitchen door and saw fire. A cat ran out of the kitchen into the house, we haven't seen him since. My daughter called 911, then she ran upstairs and woke up her brother, whose bedroom is right above the kitchen. They scrambled to get outside, grabbed a few dogs on the way, 2 dogs remained closed up in separate rooms.

The neighbors said flames were shooting up into the sky. My kids said there were explosions as windows buckled and burst. The weirdest thing, said my 15 year old son, was hearing the crash of dishes as shelves burned and collapsed.

The firefighters got my other two dogs out, and found 2 of my cats. They went into my stinky, dirty basement and heaved the rat cages up the stairs and out into the yard. The firefighters were amazing, kind and amazing. I keep picturing them pulling out those disgusting rat cages.
They were afraid we had a huge snake, because of all the rats, like we were breeding rats for snake food. I said, "no, we don't have a huge snake, we just made a huge mistake."

I am raw, and sad, and worried about money and feel so sorry for my poor old house.

But I am so grateful, and counting my blessings, and thanking God, my kids are alive. They came so close to death.

I called my mother and told her my houses caught on fire. She said, "well I hope you have fire insurance."
Not, "how are you?"
Not "did everybody get out okay?"
Not "oh, my God, I'm so sorry, tell me what happened."
My mother is probably kicking herself now. She does this all the time. A few days from now I'll get a very sympathetic letter from her.

Friends and neighbors have been incredibly generous, people keep bringing us food, and items we need like toilet paper and cat litter and paper plates and silverware and offering hugs, even though I'm covered with dirt and blood from where the kitten scratched me in his panic.

My mind is reeling - too much going on inside. If only, if only. If only I hadn't taken that nursery job, I would have been home, or maybe not, I might have been at church anyway...

It could have been so different. We might all have been gone, the house would have burned, and all our pets with it. Mary might not have awakened in time to notice the fire, and she and Davy might both be dead, or burned terribly.

No time for if only or what if. Just the facts ma'am: we are alive. And I am so thankful.

even in my dreams I'm incompetent

Afternoon naps produce the most bizarre dreams. Unpleasant dreams.

I dreamed I was letting my dog Beau in - every time I let him through the door I hurt him. I slammed the door on his neck, or punched him in the face - not on purpose, but I still hurt him.
He started growling at me - really snarling, snout wrinkled, lips curled back, big teeth bared. I couldn't believe it - Beau is a most loving dog. When I tried to talk to him, to apologize, he snarled. A couple of times he stood up on his hind legs (he's almost as tall as I am) and snarled right in my face, even mouthed the words "I'm sorry". It was hideous, like a horror movie, and I was terrified. My dog was talking to me, but I couldn't tell if he was truly sorry because he couldn't control his fear and contempt of me, or if he was being sarcastic and making fun of me. (dream logic) When I woke up and went downstairs, I was relieved to find that Beau still liked me.

I dreamed I got into a car to drive a short distance away - I couldn't see, I couldn't find the road.
I was afraid, my passengers (my daughters) were afraid. I couldn't turn the wheel properly. I was swaying in my seat, half asleep. Usually in dreams I'm wide awake - I may be doing weird stuff or in strange situations, but I'm not a freaking half-asleep zombie. But in afternoon dreams, it's like the character of "me" is played by my actual sleeping self. I can't drive when I'm asleep.

PS - I actually have recurring car & driving dreams, and I know what they mean - but that's for another post.

I put it right there!

I lose things. Important things. Like tax returns.

Then I throw tantrums, scream, yell at myself, slam doors, slam doors, slam doors, SLAM!
Feel stupid, stupid, stupid.

Why am I so disorganized? I think I put something away properly, where it can be located
easily when I need it. I'm sure I remember putting it away.

But then when I go to get it, it's not there, I can't find, I need it, right now, and, and, and...

Let the tantrums begin.

Tripping over the light fantastic shoe

I tripped over my shoes this morning. No, I hadn't left them tumbled in the middle of the floor - I was wearing them at the time, and one of them slipped off my foot. Damn clogs. How do other women walk in these things? I've never been able to master the art of walking in backless shoes. So why did I buy them? Because everyone else was wearing them! Because my friends say, "oh, they're so comfortable!"

Actually, I bought them because I'm extremely lazy. Who wants to have to bend over or squat down and tie or buckle anything? I once heard of a young woman who complained that her shoes were tripping her up. When her friends looked at her feet, they started laughing. She had her shoes on the wrong feet, with the buckles facing each other from her inner ankles. Everytime she took a step, the buckles clashed and caught on each other. I can relate to that. Do they still make buckle shoes? Or are they all fake buckles with velcro underneath? Never mind. I don't even like velcro - you still have to bend over and press it in place. Nope. I like slip on shoes. Slip on, slip off, slip on, slip off. (I'd also love to have a clapper - clap on, clap off, clap on, clap off.)

Unfortunately, I just may be clumsier than I am lazy. I walk into walls. I am forever bumping my head on the cupboard door I left open (does anything hurt more than that? A paper cut maybe). I slip down the stairs, I bang my hips against counters, my knees on coffee tables, my ankles knock together when I try to jog. I don't try to jog anymore.

Back to shoes. Clogs. So what do other women know about clogs that I don't? It can't possibly be just about grace or lack thereof. Can it? Do other women buy them a half size too small, so that one's feet are wedged so tightly into the shoe that it cannot possibly fall off and trip one? Is there a glue strip one wears on the sole of one's foot? I just don't get it. I was attending a conference with two of my coworkers, and we were all wearing clogs. Walking from the car to the entrance of the hotel, my 2 friends were striding masterfully, fifty yards or more ahead, while I was mincing across the parking lot like an 19th century Chinese woman with bound feet. Tell me! Tell me now!! How do you keep clogs on your feet??? I have to squinch up my toes and attempt to grip the slick insole with each step, and they still fall off, or fly ahead, or just dangle off my toes as I lift my foot to take a step. And wham! Whumpity, whumpity, there I am, arms windmilling, nose headed for a smashing, clogs tangled up under my feet.

Perhaps I could blame my lack of shoe grace on growing up in warm climates - I went barefoot an awful lot as a child. Shoes were for school and church, any other time, I was shoe-free. My toes just aren't used to being confined. Nearly the first thing I do when I get home for the night, is kick my shoes off.


But I do love shoes. Some years ago when I was still young and attempting to pass myself off as sexy, I wore high heels. I loved my shoes, my sexy, strappy little 3 inch pumps. I loved my gorgeous black leather spiky heeled boots. I dreamed about red f-me heels. But the truth was - I couldn't walk in these things, at least not far. I could get from the car door to the cocktail table or bar, but once I reached a chair or stool, I was in place, legs crossed prettily, dainty foot swinging. If asked to dance, I kicked the damn shoes off and hoped the guy thought it was sexy.

I once tried to walk four blocks in my beautiful, beloved boots. I had made it to my destination and was gamely attempting the walk back to my house. My feet were screaming at me as I staggered from tree to fence post to fire hydrant, hobbling, swaying, falling toward the next vertical object. People driving by stared as they passed me - if cell phones had existed then, I'm sure they would have been tapping out 9-1-1, "there's a disgraceful drunk woman falling down on respectable neighborhood lawns".

So what is this infatuation that women have with shoes? I've been reading a lot of chick lit lately, and half the books seem to be about shoes, designer shoes, designer shoes for babies, shoe cupboards and closets, credit cards maxed out on 1 pair of shoes, shoe sale frenzies. And the reason women find this entertaining and funny, is because we can relate to it!

When I was nine, I insisted that my mother buy me a certain pair of dark red shoes. I loved those shoes - they didn't fit right, they pinched and hurt my feet, but I wore them anyway. I didn't understand then why I had to have those shoes, and I don't understand now, why certain shoes just tickle something in our brain - it's erotic and primitive and undeniable. Is there a shoe lobe in the brain?

I have reached the age where all I really look for in a shoe is comfort, but I can be stopped dead in my tracks in front of a shoe shop window featuring a beautiful and usually high-heeled shoe. I will daydream in front of that window, and maybe even enter the store and try the shoe on (if my socks are clean and my toe nails clipped). What is it about shoes and women? What do shoes represent?
Why are shoes "sexy"? How can feet be considered sexy? I don't think feet are sexy, I think feet are damned funny looking. If you stare at a foot long enough, you just have to wonder. Except for baby feet, baby feet are excruciatingly adorable.
And feet can be really ugly and stinky too. Well, I guess that's true of other body parts, too. Clean is sexy. But then, why do we call something sexy, "dirty" ?
Now I'm confused. Feet should definitely be clean, though, I'm not confused about that.

But while I'm mulling over all this sexy feet/sexy shoe stuff, take a look at this really cool book - I love it, my kids love it (though I have to censor some pages for them!) Some of the shoes are real shoes, some are artifacts, some are designers' fanciful creations, and some are just art:

Shoes: A Celebration of Pumps, Sandals, Slippers & More by Linda O'Keeffe (Paperback - Jan 12, 1996)

Postscript: Years after I stopped going dancing and stopped wearing high heels (I almost typed high hells - ha ha Freudian slip!) - I still kept my high heels in my closet - through several moves, one half way across the country - I still kept those spiky little heels. Every once in a while I would take my strappy little pumps out of hiding and just look at them, remembering. They weren't comfortable, but I felt great wearing them, feminine, sexy, and even powerful. I will never feel that way about clogs.

See ya later, alligator! (and hey, those aren't alligator pumps you're wearing, are they?) Here's another fun book:

Alligator Shoes (Reading Rainbow) by Arthur Dorros (Paperback - April 1, 1992)

Urine trouble now!

It’s morning, I’m late, as usual, and hopping around trying to brush my shoes and tie my teeth and round up the books I need to return to the library (where I work) when I notice something. A noise. Something drumming softly in another room. It’s an odd noise, and out of place in my morning routine. It sounds like...water running, no, splattering.

I cock my head trying to place the location of the noise. I creep from doorway to doorway and follow the sound into the dining room. Liquid is splashing onto the dining room table. From the table it bounces up and flies in thousands of tiny droplets out into the room, spraying the floor, the walls, the piano, me. My eyes follow the stream of liquid up, up, up to the ceiling where it is pouring through the exposed lath. My brain is exceedingly slow to puzzle this out. Why is there liquid up there? Above this area of the dining room, there is only the hallway and my bedroom door. No plumbing. No pipes.

A dog brushes against my legs. A lightbulb goes off in my head – it’s one of those jarring, noisy warning bulbs that lights up and honks when nuclear power plant protocol has been breached. Wonk! Wonk! Wonk!

I race up the stairs, all six dogs scrambling up with me, bumping into me, nearly knocking me all the way down the stairs again. I turn the corner at the hallway and slide to a stop in front of my bedroom door. Where there is a rapidly disappearing pool of dog pee. Rapidly disappearing because it is draining through the cracks of the old wood floor and through the broken plaster and exposed lath of the dining room ceiling and onto the dining room table (did I mention that this is a dining room table – people eat food from this table!)

Cursing at the dogs, I slosh a mop through the mess and finish it off with a towel – a towel, I might add, that I had just laundered the night before. A clean towel that has been folded on the bathroom shelf for a mere 8 hours, before being used to wipe up dog piss.

Downstairs (where each dog is now cowering in its own corner, trying to look small and vulnerable and innocent), I rapidly clean up the table, chairs, floor, piano, then realize I need to change my clothes as well. I am late for work.

This is my morning. This is not an unusual morning.

I have six dogs, obviously untrained, and every morning when I wake up I have six dogs with full bladders. My own bladder is also full. I used to drag myself out of bed and to the back door to let dogs out to pee before I had used the bathroom myself. But since our yard is not fenced, and there is a leash law, I can only let one dog out at a time. Have you ever watched a dog choose a spot to pee? They can be interminably slow. Sniff the rock, hmm, no, maybe the garbage can, hmm, no, not there, oh, a stick of wood. Nope. “Just go potty, damn you!” I yell, startling some early morning joggers passing by the house. Times that by six, and you can see my problem. After I’d peed in my pajamas a few times, I made an executive decision: the one who buys the dog food gets to pee first.

But a dog whose bladder has been filling up all night long is a worried dog and an anxious dog. There are mornings I can hear the dogs milling about outside the bathroom door, almost hear their fretting, almost see them squeezing their furry legs together, pinching their doggy lips together in an attempt to tighten all bodily sphincter muscles. Some mornings, such as this one, somebody failed. Or, I suspect, somebody didn’t try hard enough.

My life is clearly out of control. I am not living up to my potential. And I am late to work again, thinking, how did I get here? Why do I have so many dogs? Why are there holes in my ceiling? How do I sanitize the dining room table? How do I get the odor of dog pee out of my unfinished wood floors? And how do I escape?? But then I arrive at work, and must think about other things, like earning enough money to feed my dogs, repair my ceiling, buy a new table, finish my floors and book a one way ticket to Tahiti.