Two new toilets have been installed and a new faucet has been ordered, the former by a professional and the latter by moi. I can get it much, much cheaper than he can from his supplier. This is so embarrassing, but I really can’t give a critique of the toilets because I, uh, well, haven’t had any reason to use one of them yet.

So I would just talk about the faucet, but what can you say about a faucet, other than that to me, it has nice lines, is sturdy and looks a lot better than the ones I have with the little round plastic handles that get all blurry looking with soap scum. Maybe I could learn how to install faucets, or at least figure out some way to modify the handles. And maybe I could just shut up?

Yes, that’s not a bad idea, but it’s not advice I’m going to take. Typing on these keys is, in a way, liberating, and no one has to read the words. It is not as if I am standing in the middle of the mall making noise.

If I type big,

there is still

silence in the woods.

I realize that my grasp on conventional sanity is shaky, but I like it that way.

So, you trash collection company, first of all I want to tell you that when I write “you trash collection company” I am leaving out an adjective my father would not approve of my using. That is understandable; I am 65 and his generation, and perhaps rightly so, saw no reason for anyone, especially women to use really foul language.

So, you trash collection company, you must have read my post that I was predisposed to bitch (Sorry, Daddy) today and maybe you felt I might not have enough fuel. I, at age 65, had called and arranged for a third trashcan to be allotted for my pickup – at extra expense to me. The lady had verified that this would be my new account information and a third bin was delivered.

There’s been a lot of snow and I valiantly drug out three trash cans last night; I had to move them a bit this morning to get out to take Alison to work. When I returned, two trash cans had been emptied, but not the third. So, you trash collection company, I called but heard from a recording that  you, you trash collection company, were not open until 8 a.m.

Right at that time I called you, you trash collection company, and explained the situation. I told the person that the route right around the corner had not been picked up and could someone get the third can I had  officially arranged to have.

Oh, my, the very well spoken lady said my area was allotted only two bins and six bags. I explained my agreement; I told her a third bin had been delivered. I’m sorry, but . . .she said.

Now had I turned the third bin upside down and left the bags on the ground, they would have been taken. Note: these trash bins are engineered so that the truck can lift them and empty them way up high for emptying.

I’m not going to fight it; I’m going to change trash companies. I don’t care if it costs a little more or if it cost a little less. I contracted for a service and you trash collection company did not honor it.

I may be treading on thin ice here, because who knows what retribution may come – oh, trash accidentally falling off of a Serv-all truck on my drive and parkway? Well, it’s February; the ice should be thick and if not, the cold will negate the smell.

Now I must go start working on my super secret Anti-Serv-all Ray Gun . . . because I’m 65 and I’m really pissed off. (Yeah, Daddy, I know; that wasn’t necessary.)

The plumber did not come yesterday; this is understandable – emergencies happen. But as I finally got word in the afternoon, I growled at people and slunk off to be by myself. So today we are doing Plumber Day again. Yesterday, I wore a stained shirt so if I had to step in for anything to help with anything unsavory, I would be prepared. I have to get another one for today – not that that is a difficult task given my wardrobe.

Let’s see – something in the crockpot so people can be fed; that portends the question that will be presented more than once today: crockpot stuff or peanut butter?

The driveway being a one lane snow ravine with a spur, I am going to park the car elsewhere and with all this snow the only possibility is  the old IGA lot about a block away. Yesterday, I was able to take advantage of a doctor’s office that was closed on Wednesday.

I see the truth of this post is simple: SOME DAYS YOU JUST REALLY WANT TO BITCH. This seems to be one of my days. You know, I may just skip the crockpot food and choose the question: Peanut butter or nothing?

I’d say I’m on quite a roll today.

Louise turned away when she read “Harold” on the cop’s lips. She wasn’t curious enough about anything to do with Chablis the Dog to chance being made aware of anything more of Harold. Already the night of his accident was renewing itself in her conscious mind.

She turned and leaned against the door and her eyes fell on her nightmare, only lately she had begun to realize it was no nightmare. It was real; it was not going to change. The past was not going to change. Chablis the Dog pitied her; others blamed her and that was all there was to it. And she thought, “How did this happen?” She had thought that a lot in her life. And she knew the answer. She had made a mistake. And the mistake was her being her.

For some reason she herself did not understand, she had felt for so long deep inside that it could not be real. If she railed against this nightmare long enough, it would end. She would gulp in the fresh air of the time before. That would not assure anything would be different, however, but, oh, how she wanted that moment.

The one in front of her was not the beginning of it; she knew this, just as she knew the one before was not the beginning. Neither one could be assigned blame. She figured that if that were the case, she herself, the one before the one before wasn’t really to blame. It had just happened – those things that came together to make her her.

It was fascinating in truth, but the cards are only dealt once. There is no throwing in of a hand, no light-hearted laughter at her momentary bad luck, no luxury of being fascinated.

Harold had realized it a long, long time ago.

She remembered when had bought the boots; she had never thought about them being a danger, of getting caught on something. They had just looked uncomfortable. He made a habit of wearing them; he kept them polished. Once when she was just staring ahead at nothing in a waiting room, she realized she had focused on the heel on one boot; it had distinct markings on it, as if it had been wedged in something, then pulled loose. And then she was seeing the lamp on the table and the rack of magazines and who knows what she thought of next.

But she thought of those boots – of that particular boot, with its particular marking – within an instant of learning of his accident on the tracks. The heel caught; the train was coming. And, then, for Harold it was over.

It was quite a to-do and all the time she really knew. And she never once blamed him. She understood.

How could anyone stand to open the door each day and see a rug woven to look like cockroaches crawling at you? Before that it has been mambas hanging from vines. It was that damn fake guru in college who had started it – told her the was to overcome her fears was to face them. To create them in her mind and embrace them and overcome them.

Only it had all gone wrong; she couldn’t visualize and keep it in her mind, so she hired rug makers to sit at their looms and bring her fears to her. But she couldn’t overcome them, nor could she overcome the need to try.

Then suddenly she noticed something on the cockroaches: it was another broken heel, only this one was from a woman’s shoe. But how? She had no shoes with spike heels this high. It was odd – the only woman she knew who wore bright green very high heels was Chablis. The dog whined in front of her, begging for its newly found plaything back.