The Genetics of Fixing Stuff

There are lots of different people in the world: good people and bad people, Democrats and Republicans, football fans and baseball fans. Almost more importantly, there also people who can fix stuff and those who can’t.

I fall squarely into the latter group. Sure, I can do the easy stuff: give me a light bulb to change, or a furnace filter to replace, and I’m a champ. No one can run up and down a kitchen ladder faster than me.

Bigger repairs are another story. Electricity scares me, and while plumbing may have been the family business, it’s a mystery to me. Instead, I have a terrific electrician and a wonderful plumber on speed dial.

I’m proof that the ability to fix stuff is not genetic.  My dad could repair things. He even enjoyed doing it.Mostly.

God knows, he tried to pass along his knowledge. When I was a kid, as he worked Dad would patiently explain what he was doing.  It didn’t stick. 

To this day I believe that yelling, “God damn it!” is crucial to any good home repair. When things are going particularly badly, you  simply add, “Sonofabitch!”  I’m proud to say I am now a Class A curser, but I can’t fix squat.

It’s not Dad’s fault.

When he’d visit, he’d constantly add to my tool collection. I have a large supply of different sizes and types of screw drivers, hammers and wrenches. He also organized my nails and screws. Each type and size was carefully sorted into labeled baby food containers.

But dad was only in Los Angeles two weeks a year. Though I saved up my problem tasks for him, eventually he always insisted on going home.

Dad passed away a few years ago and neither through osmosis, good genes or desperation, have I learned home repair. That was difficult when I lived in a little house in North Hollywood, but now home is a ranchette. Emphasis on the ‘ette.’

The place was in turnkey condition when I moved in. But four years, three horses and four dogs later, things are showing some wear and tear. Okay fine; stuff is breaking at an alarming rate.

Thank heavens for zip ties and duct tape. While I still have the stuff Dad gave me, including the well-labeled nails, my real tool kit consists of zips ties in six sizes and two colors and a case of duct tape.

When the horses' fan need replacing during the hottest weeks of the year, which somehow happens annually, it’s a cinch.  I scamper up a ladder, balance one foot on a feeder and simply fasten the new ones in place using the zip tie of my choice. Sometimes I go wild and use two.

The outgoing hose from my drier ripped earlier this year. Hot air and lint were filling my laundry. Luckily I had the ability to fix it. I broke out some duct tape and in mere moments, the thing was venting properly. It looks a tad tacky, but hey, it works.

A couple of days ago the dishwasher became stuck in the locked position. I pushed all of the buttons repeated and nothing helped. I even unplugged the machine to reset it. Still broken.

Finally I opened my laptop and Googled it. According to instructions given on the ‘my dishwasher is stuck in lock position’ page, there was a specific sequence of buttons to push. I did it and voila! Unlocked.

I was so proud of myself that you’d have thought I built an actual house out of Legos and superglue. Maybe I had finally transformed into someone who could fix shit!

My achievement was somewhat diminished, when I visited a friend. She’s one of those capable people. She not only hung her horses’ electric fencing by herself, (I had my barn man do it, and it took him three days), but regularly deals with a myriad of plumbing problems.

As I helped - okay, I watched -she scrambled onto the roof of her travel trailer, electric drill one hand, hammer in the other. In less than a half hour, she’d replaced the electric fan/sunlight.

Every so often while she was working,  I shouted encouraging words. It seemed to help.

Much as I would love to have her ‘can do’ gumption, it’s not in the cards.

On a recent Friday night, my air conditioning broke. In the days following it was well over 100 degrees. My dogs were melting in the heat. 

That night I dug out a spare horse fan from the barn, dusted it off and set it up across from the bed. The dogs all lined up directly in front of it. The only circulating air I felt was their panting.

First thing in the morning I did what I had to do. I went straight to Angie’s List and made a phone call.

The guy came out precisely on time. He replaced a few parts and threw in a lecture on proper A/C maintenance.

As I watched him change the part, I realized I could have fixed it myself. If only I knew which part to replace. But that wouldn’t happen in a million years. I wouldn’t even known where to look for the damaged part.

As I walked into the rapidly cooling house to get my checkbook, the dogs were lounging happily for the first time in three days.

I handed the guy his money, and added him number to my speed dial.

I may not be able to fix shit, but God damn it, sonofabitch, I sure know how to call someone who does.

Goodbye Really Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.

Goodbye Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.

Invisibility: Who Needs A Magic Cloak When You Can Just Get Old?

Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility looks like fun. Sneaking around, overhearing other people's secrets and  hanging out, what's not to like? But, Harry could become visible any time he wanted. It’s not so much fun when you don't have a choice. 

I know something about being invisible, it's kind of the story of my life.

When I was a kid, I was sick a lot.  Hospitals, transfusions, "procedures," the works. The thing is, when you’re a sick child you aren’t a person. You’re a disease. No one actually talks to you – they talk about you. Or over you. To your parents, to other doctors and  nurses. Not to you, because you’re a kid. And you’re sick.

I remained invisible as I got older because I was ordinary.  I wasn’t beautiful, brilliant or outgoing. I didn’t even act out in a particularly interesting way.  I was just… average.  

There’s almost nothing more invisible than a boring teenage girl. They’re everywhere. Really, you just have to look for them. They're there.

All of this invisibility led me to music. I love music. It spoke to me and helped me through being average, unexciting and unseen.

Later, when I worked in the business, it was an added bonus that I got to hang out with people who were extraordinary. Many were talented, dazzling and mesmerizing. I think I hoped a little, that by simply being in their orbit, some of that shine would rub off on me.

It didn’t. Though due to my invisibility, I have some great stories.  And I heard some spectacular music. So, it was a win-win.

I wore out my welcome in the music industry at the same time the whole business began to implode. So I returned to writing.  

Writing is almost by definition a career in invisibility. It’s our job to observe other people, unnoticed. I was made for this gig.

At the same time writers are our own harshest critics. A lot of what we create never sees daylight and goes directly to the recycle bin leaving no trace.

I used to actually look forward to receiving hate mail; it meant that not only was someone reading my writing; they were reacting to it. I wasn’t invisible after all!

Note: I’ve never gone so far as to resort to click-bait.  I’m not that desperate for affirmation of my existence.

Some writers are highly visible; celebrities in their own right. I’m not talking about the Kardasian types -  they can’t read, much less write. They hire ghostwriters, a breed of contractually defined invisible writers.

But occasionally scribes - through a combination of hard work, good publicists, desire and perfect timing – develop vibrant personas. I’m sure that Gloria Steinem, Stephen King and the late Maya Angelou were never invisible. 

Personally I wouldn’t know JK Rowling or RL Stine if they ran me over with a truck, but I bet they have presence. Lots of it.

'Course, none of the former fall into the most invisible category of all:  the single, middle-aged woman. We are the only creatures in the universe that leave no footprint. Think of us as the penguins of the human world. Interchangeable.

Since I’ve had a lifetime of hiding in the shadows, you’d think this would have made becoming old and unnoticed easier.  It did.

Invisibility should be freeing. You know, like Harry Potter’s cloak.  If I gain a few pounds, I may loathe myself, but since no one else notices, why should I care? Yet I still do. A lot.

And since clothing isn't designed for the middle-aged, while I’m rarely in fashion, it doesn’t matter. Right? It’s not like I go anywhere.

At least not very often. But the last time I did (in the company of a group of older, unseen broads like myself) I noticed that there were few other middle aged women. There were tons of young women, many of them with middle-aged men.  Who looked right through my friends and I.

The media doesn’t help. The only places that middle-aged women appear are in advertisements for incontinence, fibromyalgia (I don’t know what it is, but it looks tragic), and for a myriad of plastic surgeries.

When a TV show or movie portrays someone my age, it's as a character's grandmother. She's always depicted as feeble, clueless and with one foot in the grave.

 It wasn’t long ago that I realized that those ancient regulars  of reruns, “The Golden Girls” are supposed to be middle-aged. As was the Gloria Swanson character in “Sunset Boulevard.” Sigh. 

I don't recognize any of them in myself or my friends.

This doesn’t only hit me and my peers in the ego. That would be bad enough. But adding insult to injury, we’re practically unemployable.

Rarely will someone take a chance on hiring an older woman with experience and proven talent. Unskilled younger women are just so much cheaper. At least in the short term.

But our invisibility might just come in handy. I’m envisioning a sort of “Ocean’s Eleven” gang, except instead of handsome men, it will just be a bunch of my middle-aged female friends pulling off heists around the world.

It would solve our financial woes and no one would ever catch us. They’d never see us. Because we’re invisible.