Theo's Christmas Spirit

I'm thinking that dogs and Christmas don't fit well together.  Which seems wrong on first blush since Theo was essentially a Christmas present for Kanha last year, arriving on January 7th, the adorable ball of multi-colored fluff he was.  But Christmas went a lot better when he lived with us via photo, not in the fur and blood.  

You see, Theo is a chewer, always has been, and God forbid, always will be?  At least during his puppy and adolescent years that he appears to be mired in.  He started on the Christmas tree, an 8 foot tall decoration that took a heroic effort by Kanha and I just to get into its stand -- me trying to maneuver the too-fat trunk, her trying to hold the tree stand still, both of us completely out of sync.  When the tree finally landed with a thud in the hole, with a millimeter to spare on each side, I plopped down on a chair and decided decorating could wait for a day or two.  

A disappointing decision for Theo, it turned out, because he had to wait those couple of days before he got to munch on his first ornament.  He started on the easy ones -- the green paper 3D Christmas tree Kanha had taped together as a seven year old, the shiny red ball that crunched into pieces on the bare wood floor after one Theo-sized bite.  I remained in denial after those disasters but when I heard the brand new oversized designer ornament I had gotten at this year's Christmas tea bounce to the floor, I realized that Theo had misunderstood when Kanha and I told him we were going to get him a toy for Christmas -- he obviously thought his present was the tree itself.

Soon after, our tree became pantless, a term coined by a friend with a bit more experience in puppy-filled Christmases:  all the ornaments within a foot of the floor got a ride up a few branches.  But that didn't deter our darling dog.  Not only did he see the tree and its accoutrements his gift, he figured every gift, brightly wrapped, tightly tied, lying so comfortably in place on the tree's blanket, was for him too.  So he started picking them up in his teeth (he can get a lot in that oh-so-cute, puppy-sized mouth), carrying them around the house, leaving them in various spots.  When I came down from the second floor a couple of days ago and one of Kanha's gifts appeared entirely destroyed -- wrapping paper in strips, the box akimbo, the padding torn apart -- I surrendered and the tree had to too.  Fortunately the gift in that box -- a beautiful pair of star earrings from my sister Lynn  -- had survived the attack but our tree had to give up its presents.  I rewrapped the earrings and added them to the oversize basket stacked full of all the presents formerly resting under the tree.  The basket now sits on a table next to the tree with no chairs nearby lest Theo attempt to climb up to find his prey once again.

Our pantless Christmas tree

Life's a little duller for Theo right now -- he no longer seems so much in the Christmas spirit with so much less to chew.  But on Christmas, once we've started to open our presents, I'm sure he'll be happy again -- wrapping paper, ribbons, cards, tape, a true feast to behold.  You may hear him howling, Joy to the World, as he happily munches away. 

Storm Trooper Extraordinaire

It's been just over a year since Kanha and I arrived at our old red house on the corner with the white picket fence and, this weekend, we finally actually truly moved in. With the upstairs renovation finally finished, providing three new rooms of space in the Margie-cave, miraculously including empty closets and shelves just longing for a reason to be, it was time to carefully dismantle the precarious pyramids of clothes and computer cables and old magazines sprawled throughout the house, not to mention hauling one bed out the front door, another across the hall, and the fold-down couch up the stairs. Clearly I couldn't do this all by myself so I asked my sister Nancy to come up from Boston for a couple of days -- not for a Maine get-away of walks on Cape Elizabeth rocky beaches or meals out in the Old Port but to do some work.

Are you as lucky as me, or as blessed?  Do you know someone, anyone, who you can ask to help you with something that really isn't fun -- in this particular case, lifting heavy pieces of furniture up and down stairs and back and forth across the room to find their just right spot, browsing endless pieces of 5th grade artwork and very short stories to decide what to save, sorting rubber bands and hair bands, vacuuming and dusting and just plain cleaning up  -- and she will say yes, without hesitation, not out of obligation but simply out of love?  Moreover, said person is not just willing but is eminently qualified for the job:  muscles rarely seen on a gal of her age (the specific number I am declining to mention...), a slight lack of sentimentality necessary to quickly reduce the overwhelming piles of junk, a linear focus on getting the task at hand crossed off the list, a shared sense of humor, and an endless stream of interesting pop culture commentary from high brow -- reviews of the latest best-seller she's read -- to low -- who is going to win The Amazing Race this year??  I'm not foolish enough to care if it's chance or grace that brought her into my life, I know to just be grateful.

Bedroom Become Family Room -- Hurray!

So starting at noon on Friday, together we storm-trooped the house, room by room, with Kanha and her friend LZ avoiding the rooms we were in and Theo finding them the most comfortable place to be.  Within less than 36 hours we had recreated the home I had imagined from the first day I saw this place, minus a few pictures on the walls and a coffee table or two.  When we were finished and I was racing Nancy to catch the 5 o'clock bus back to the big city, I felt a sense of relief and renewal unexpected -- seemingly unwarranted -- for the size of our two-day accomplishment.  All we had done, really, was reorganize a few hundred square feet of floor space and put a bunch of boxes away.  But with the help of my wonderful loving sister, we had essentially restructured my life and, in so doing, laid out a direction for me to move toward.  

A Fantastic Marriage

This afternoon my house husband, Nick, aka my contractor, left, and I couldn't have been happier.  Not that I'm going back on the vows we made when we first came together to fix my third floor.  We've stuck by each other in good times -- when the skylights opened and brightened up the rooms, and the blue glass tiles combined for a penthouse-looking shower - and bad -- when it turned out the glass shower doors didn't quite fit.  And I didn't run the other way when, as the hours went on, he, and the plumber, and the electrician, and the painter, got richer and I got poorer.  But it was always a contract marriage, good for the time it took to transform an attic to a haven -- or as a friend named it, "the Margie-Cave."

And transformed it has been.  Shiny white walls and painted floors, all angles and corners -- great for a game of hide-and-seek as Kanha has made sure I know, built-in dressers and file cabinets, a closet you can  walk into and a bedroom window you can jump out of (only to meet the fire code...), colorful pendant lights and sleek and sharp track lights, a bedroom and bath so functional yet so fabulous.  The timeline and the price tag have made me murmur under my breath but the results make me want to shout for joy out all three skylights at once.  I can only hope my next marriage works out as well.  Thanks Nick.

My Neighbors Took My Grass!

Someone stole my pot plant last night!  I went outside this morning and all that was left was a little short stubby stick of green and brown stuck out of the ground where my treasure had been.  In happier, more intoxicated times, it looked like this:

I had such dreams for my plant.  Just a couple of days ago, my house husbands and cannabis consultants. Nick and Dave, reported that my plant was a gal after all, bursting with little buds, high in the air, capable of, after a little drying and rolling, making me and a few others high ourselves.  According to Nick, my little bit of greenery could produce thirty to forty joints, which, I think (not that I know....), could produce quite a few dollars for my pocketbook.

Ahh, but that wasn't my idea -- I didn't want to get rich, I wanted to get stoned, preferably with a few select friends who would really appreciate this find -- you know who you are... -- and who would also, just as important, keep me from imagining myself as the lead character in Psycho, under the shower or not.  You see, my own personal history with marijuana has featured plenty of paranoia -- I was sort of a misfit with all the other "free spirits" on the 3rd floor of Brown at UMass in 1974.

But this was my grass, just about literally -- how could I not smoke it?  I had it all planned -- I'd sneak out in the middle of the night, cut the leaves down, bring them in to dry, and plan my pot party.  But that dream has gone up in flames, or more likely down a neighbor's lungs.  I guess I can hope they'll do the neighborly thing and invite me over to smoke MY grass.

Calm and Quiet

A quiet week in Portland.  Kanha is off at sleepover camp in western Maine, aptly named "Survivor Camp" -- I think she will! -- while Theo and I are home holding the fort.  We got back from vacation on Block Island, in Rhode Island, on Friday night.  I know, I've been told how crazy I am to go on an island vacation in another state when we live in Maine, the state of hundreds of craggy rocked, surf splashed, stunning islands.   But still BI, a home away from home for me, was beautiful, mostly because it was shared with old friends who make time stop, laughs flow and love abound over a bonfire and folk songs on a moonlit beach.  Plus the water was warm enough to swim in -- I went in three times in five days, which might be a record for me, Ms. Salt and Sand Hater.

The calm feels odd after a summer of running Kanha from camp to camp -- soccer, tennis, basketball, gymnastics, Fractured Fairy Tales, writing -- phew, I think I got them all -- and a July of a promising romance.  Now Kanha is out of my hair and the romance has gone ka-phoo-y, and Theo and I are sitting around licking our wounds.  Well, he's probably just licking his paws or one of our pairs of shoes.  Not all bad I suppose -- time for respite, recovery, and rejuvenation before the onslaught of school, my new business (more on that in a future post -- perhaps I will have a story about how Kanha and I are not going to starve to death...), a future romance or two -- maybe??, and cooler temps.  Here's to a lovely end to summer 2011.

House Husbands

Last week, Nick, my contractor, went on vacation, which was a bit of a shock.  After six weeks or so of his being here every day, we're kind of like an old married couple, the happy version -- he helps me with the groceries when I come home, I pick up the dog poop in the yard for both my and his dog, I ignore the dirt he tramps around the house, he ignores the junk I stack on the edge of the stairs that gets in his way as he carries lumber up the stairs.  I suppose we might move into the OMC, grumpy version, if this project goes into 2012 but for now I'm enjoying having a temporary "husband."

But every good couple needs time apart so once I had adjusted to Nick's upcoming absence, I was feeling pretty good about being a swinging single for a week.  But alas it was not to be -- Dave, the painter, showed up.  Short, smiling, and entirely paint speckled, Dave arrived with his adorable twenty-something son in tow.  My silence was broken but still I smiled widely in response:  if we're down to painting, I must be getting pretty close to move-in date!, I thought.  

Dave made a pretty good replacement husband from the start -- he was cheerful, communicative, puppy-friendly, and a hard worker.  I was happy to have him around for a week.  And the incredible thing about Dave was he took his responsibilities as a husband very seriously.  On Wednesday, while I was toweling off from a shower in front of the mirror in the second floor bathroom, which is accessible only through Kanha's room, I noticed the bathroom door -- which was at least three-quarters closed -- sliding slowly open.  I wheeled around and said something incredibly clear, concise, and comprehensible, like "yow!", only to see Dave standing in front of me.  His body faced the wall, but now his face faced me -- not that I saw it for long.  I was too busy winding my towel around me while he was racing out the door down the stairs.  We reconnoitered awhile later, after I was dressed and he was appropriately chagrined.  He said, "I'm really sorry," and seemed sincere -- so I decided not to quiz him on what he was doing in Kanha's bedroom staring at the wall.  Perhaps getting new painting technique ideas?  

We managed to remain adult about the situation for the rest of the week -- no more too-husbandly behavior on his part -- and he even came up with a new business idea for me before the week was out.  On Friday afternoon, before heading home for the weekend, he brought me outside to show me the pot plant I was inadvertently growing in my front yard.  He appeared to be quite the expert -- told me this plant probably wouldn't get me high because it's male, not female, gave me tips on drying the leaves if desired, suggested it started growing from a roach dropped along the edge of the garden.  At that point, I was happy for his expertise -- maybe I'll try baking it into brownies and taking over for Nancy on Weeds... -- but truly glad he was not my husband.  Hurray, it's next week and Nick is back.  

Heat

Finally it's hot in Portland -- in the 80s every day this week, and I will not be one of those complaining, even in a house with no air-conditioners, a menopausal mom, a dried out flower garden, and a daughter and dog who wither in the sun.  After this winter of snow, ice, shoveling, breath hanging in the air, slippery sidewalks, huge heating bills, and too many temperatures in the teens, all lasting far into April, I will enjoy every drop of sweat I endure.  

Not my two charges though.  Kanha, from the day she came home from Cambodia - a country where the average temperature year-round is around 90 degrees - would emerge from a half hour on the playground on a warm New England day with a head of hair so soaked it appeared she had been for a swim rather than a swing.  The wet head look has diminished over the years, as the pediatrician predicted, but she still tosses and turns in the warmth of her bedroom even with the fan on high.  It's hard to imagine how she would have managed if she hadn't left her original tropical home.

It turns out Theo has the same challenge.  With a body of thick, beautifully brindled hair that doesn't shed, I can't see him enjoying life in western Tennessee where he was born.  Last week, after watching him mope lethargically around our house for several days and discovering that the poor puppy, like all dogs apparently, can't sweat out his discomfort (must have missed that in 7th grade science...), I called every dog groomer within 20 miles until I found one who could cut his hair immediately.  I took him in the next morning and by noon he had emerged a new man.  

With all that hair gone, we could see his real body -- the spindly legs, the cylindrical torso, the big brown eyes unhidden by wisps of fur.  He looked fresh and innocent, and not one little bit like the dog we had taken in -- except for his bushy, oh-so-confident, erect tail that the groomer had left to its own devices.  He was a puppy with a bigger bounce in his step that day, relieved to be a few pounds lighter and a whole lot cooler.

As for me, I sweat on -- or I suppose, when I'm feeling feminine, I "glow."  It's a small price to pay for days that might include an intense workout running up and down the stairs in the park around the corner, a barefoot walk through the surf on a magical Maine beach, a hike through a fairy house building zone up to a view of terns and gulls flying above a tiny estuary that extends to the ocean, and a dinner created from farmer's market delectables at my beautiful mosaic table on our lawn.  So the flowers are drooping and I must dab my brow often.  I'm warm, in many ways.