merry merry

every single day...

... finds me amazed all over again, when I walk into my kitchen, turn on the light and discover hordes of ants still roaming around on the walls. Possibly just as many deceased on the floor in need of the broom as there are wandering on vertical surfaces, which creates even more amazement. How can there be this many dead and still have dozens or hundreds or thousands on a walk-about in my house? Where can they possibly be coming from? As I was preparing more of my 'recipe' for destruction, I began to consider googling to see how quickly they can reproduce. But almost immediately concluded: I don't want to know. The idea of knowing, being able to document that these little insects can raise another generation faster than the actively moving adults can take bait back to their home is not what I need to hear.

Even though I have not written about this bizarre activity in a week, you should not assume that resolution has occurred. When there were no multitudes industriously walking across the molding up near the ceiling in the kitchen I thought: Yay! Success! Wrong! I had not seen dozens galloping along the top edge of the wall in several days and mistakenly began to think that I had won the battle. Ha! I did not even come out on top of a small skirmish, to say nothing of having the upper hand in an all out conflict.

There is a small workshop/storage room on the north side of the house, entry from the carport. Not much useful in there other than an auxiliary refrigerator/freezer and hand washing sink. But the ants must think they have reached the pinnacle of success. When I went out to get something from the fridge, I notice a steady stream of ants coming out of the hole where the piping for hot water heater goes into the sheet rock/wall. Upon discovery, I began putting out my little squares with bait around the hole and along their path to the sink. All I know to do is to keep trying, even though it looks like I am fighting a loosing battle. This morning, I find them back in the kitchen, trying a different approach, attacking from a new vantage point. Forcing me to get the step-stool out and tuck my little paper squares with drops of bait in different locations, easing the (hopefully) deadly concoction into their stream of workers as they head out from a new angle of attack.

Every single morning, I ask myself: Where? How? What is going on? Why me? What should I be doing to really resolve this bizarre-ness? Is the bait working? Why are there still so many? Is it time to think about moving all the furniture out and fumigate the house? Do the pest control people still do that: wrap an entire residence in plastic and pump in something deadly to put an end to the ongoing invasion?

cannot say...

... who the author of the quote is, but I thought it was worth sharing.

"Never attribute to malice that which can be explained by incompetence."

Which, I suppose, means we should be willing to give others the benefit of the doubt if we would like to receive such grace in equal proportions. Basically, the Golden Rule.

if confession is good...

... for the soul, mine should be ready for the pearly gates. I did something really stupid recently and have had to recruit help to make it right. Meaning I was forced to confess to being inept, and get other people to jump in and resolve the problem. It was most certainly an educational experience: things that hit you in the checkbook tend to really get your attention. Plus  I expect to be pure as the driven snow when approaching St. Peter with his open book, pen in hand, just like in the cartoons.

I had my oil changed in my car last week. In recent years, I have been adding a little bottle of stuff to gas that is supposed to help clean your engine when you fill up the tank after an oil change. So I went to the store to get that little bottle with the long neck that would pour down into the tank when it got low and it was time to buy gas. I got the wrong thing. You see where this is leading, right? Down the path of destruction, where the little Toyota is doomed, headed straight for the scrap heap/recycling.

The stuff I purchased and forced down the tube that leads to the gas tank was meant to go in the engine, rather than fuel supply. It was verrrrry thick, viscous and reluctant to simply pour into the tank as the bottles purchased in the past have easily done. That should have been an obvious indicator that I was making a serious mistake. It was a different brand from the ones used in the past that would have a popular, commonly recognized label like STP. But I thought that the difference was just in the particular brand I had purchased. Really slow going down the gullet leading into the tank.

Then I tried to pump gas in there, which was the actual reason for the stop. But that thick, nearly solid liquid was so glutinous it did not flow on down into the quarter of a tank of gas that was there. When I put the nozzle from the pump into the outlet for fuel, gas was not flowing downhill. It splashed back out of the opening. My next thought was: Oh, S#!t. I got the little bottle of 'conditioner' and read the label that indicated the thick, honey-like material should be added to the motor when the oil is changed, rather than trying to put in gas tank.

I debated with myself about driving on home, only about three miles from that Murphy Gas near Wally world. I had to get home, so drove on to the house, and parked it. Sharing my dilemma with people who are mechanically minded, and would have sound advice. The general consensus being that it would 'probably' not be a problem, as it was petroleum based, with the most likely problem being lots of carbon in the exhaust. But still concerned that driving pell-mell in my usual fashion would cause permanent damage I did  not want to contend with.

I fretted and regretted and fretted some more throughout the day on Tuesday, when I could not actually do anything to resolve the problem other than have it occupy every alternate thought during waking hours. Had to go to work early on Wednesday, and knew I would have to start the process of resolution.  I finally decided I did not need to devote any more of my time to worrying this particular bone. Called a family friend, told him my tale of woe, and said I would like to turn it over to you.

I knew I should call a tow truck rather than drive it another inch, but could not do that until I knew the final destination. The friend was willing to let me dump my foolish behavior into his lap, and was able to find a business that would remove the tank, empty, clean and replace. It seems to be running OK, and a relief to drive after spending time in that huge pick up truck that I need a ladder to access.
I had a friend take me downtown to pick it up, and return home, without incident.

I am hopeful there will not be any long term effects, and the problem is 100% solved.I failed to ask if the repair guy checked fuel pump or filters, and will give a call to confirm it has been given a clean bill of health. I am nearly $200 lighter after that ill-fated $3 bottle of gunk went into my tank. Expensive lesson I will certainly not forget.

Plus I do so hate to admit to doing something stupid.

book reveiw: "The Forgotten Road"...

... written by that teller of sweet, sappy, happy-endings stories, Richard Paul Evans.  Printed by Simon Schuster in 2018 so it is quite recently printed. He has written dozens, including a number of stories for children and young adults. This one is a small book, just over 250 pages, and an easy read. Something that could be finished in a day if you did not have to go to work, do laundry, prepare meals, care for a house full of needy children.

I was at the library over the weekend, looking for entertainment, something that would not be so intense it would keep me from drowsy when I go to read  myself to sleep at night. Several have been so  alarming lately, anxiety inducing, I would be hesitant to turn out the light for fear those creepers in the dark would be able to sneak up on me. This was definitely not the case with the story of Charles James, a successful business man who accidentally found himself reading his own obituary.

He missed a flight he was supposed to be on that crashed soon after takeoff, with no survivors. Actually showed up at the memorial service, sitting on the back row of a large rented space, and surprised there were so few attendees. He decided to reconsider his life, disappear and re-evaluate. Though wealthy and well-known, success-driven, Charles was lonely with an ex-wife and child living in California, while his base was Chicago. He packs a few belongings, and a wad of cash, starts walking Route 66, planning to go to Santa Monica, to plead his case, and ask his ex to take him back.

It is a sweet story, with enough detail about the trip, stops along the way, scenic detours as he tried to stick closely to the original route. There are places it has been replaced by interstate highways, areas where it no longer exists, but with maps and a willingness to travel the by-ways, venture off the busy thoroughfares the trip proceeded. He meets a number of interesting people who impact his life, and help to change his perspective/thinking. I was surprised when the book ended with him only half way to his goal... but maybe there is another at the publisher? Possibly a little fluffy, as opposed to serious literature, but an interesting story. The details included to make it believable were so precise, I had to wonder if Evans had acutaly done the trek, or possibly made the trip by auto, to be able to provide such specific details about people, cafes, museum, stops Charles made along the way

season's greetings...

... from my house to yours. I never intended to do any holiday decorating, had no plans to put up a tree, or trim the house with lots frou-frou. There is a lighted wreath I could have hung out by the front door, and plugged in to make the tiny lights in the greenery twinkle and glow in the night. But I did not get it out to let passers-by know we were under the influence of the Christmas Spirit.

There is a little box that sits on the closet shelf with small Wise men made years ago when helping children do art projects with copious amounts of construction paper, Elmer's glue and cardboard tubes. I could have taken the box down off the shelf and had six Wise men (and possibly a Santa) trooping across the mantle above the fireplace heading to visit the stable. But I did not get them out, so they will have to be content to sleep, nestled cozily together for another year, with the hope of fresh air next December.

The 'tree' with the little twinkle lights has been sitting in the dining room since I bought the strings of sparkling lights and twined them on the bare branches last Dec., trying to add a festive touch to an other wise plain, ordinary, every day room. I just relocated it for the day, and switched on the lights to give the appearance of Christmas Joy. So in reality there were holiday decorations: the same little branches that have been in the clear vase since last year, just turned on the lights to look festive for one day.

Back to the grind tomorrow, when I will go to work and throw away all the left over poinsettias, glittery mums, holiday centerpieces with winter greenery and red candles. Dispose of anything that even remotely gives the slightest hint of Christmas, and move on to the next seasonal selling event. All the dozens of roses and mixed bouquets, hundreds of heart shaped balloons and assorted trim was ordered to fill customers' wants last summer, so we will soon be getting prepared for Valentine's Day... where did the time go!?!?

confessing ...

... to being a hopeless reprobate, with very few redeeming features. I never touched a drop of alcohol until I left home at seventeen and went off to college: a gullible, naive, ignorant, blissfully unaware, sheltered young soul. I had to go that first summer a couple of weeks after finishing high school due to the lack of math credits on my transcript. The administration accepted my application with the understanding I would go to summer school and take a non-credit (!!!) math course in order to get up on par with other freshmen. Ha! Guess I showed them: I never, ever,  not even today got up to par!

Still hopelessly inept with math skills, and aggravated each month when my bank statement comes and I have to add and subtract over and over and over and over to try to have my numbers come out even with what the bank thinks. It is a never ending struggle. I will always be thankful to my dad for sending me off to college, and the time he invested to teach me how to reconcile the register with the statement. But he never took into account that my brain is not wired the way his was: Mr. Business Administration major loved to juggle numbers and finagle figures, even when his vision got so bad  he had to do it with a magnifying glass.

I discovered beer when I was sent away to college. I still like it, when it is sort of sissy-fied and not so strong it is bitter and foul tasting. My favorite used to be Miller Lite, until I discovered a strange brand I found in Florida many years ago. We were vacationing, I went in a drug store and saw Pearl Light. I don't know what made me buy and try. It is very mild tasting, not actually beer-y at all, probably similar in flavor to those non-alcoholic beers like O'Douls that are refreshing when cold with no alcohol content.

It is produced by the Pearl Brewing Company in Ft. Worth Texas. So scarce on this side of the Big Muddy, you have to know some one who is going to TX to get it. I was recently surprised with two 24 packs  imported from the far side of the Mississippi for me to enjoy. Amusing that I had one lone little can in the fridge, saved for the dire-est of emergencies, so I could  console myself with the knowledge that I was not completely out! Now that I have restocked, I can drink that last lonesome 12 ounces without fear that it is the last one on the planet.

I am not really a serious beer drinker: the two cases that have found their way to GA will probably last me a couple of years. When you are confronted with the questionnaire about your bad habits, where you must admit to substance consumption/abuse: I don't really go in for risky behavior. My worst addiction is those sugary, fatty cappuccinos from the curb store. I say no to tobacco use, and no to drugs and nearly no to alcohol, might drink once a week, usually less. So if there are degrees of sin, and it is not so black and white as the preacher says, I am nearly, almost, semi-spotless. As my grandmother would say: "Just a wee bit."