In Praise of Small Hardware Stores

Christopher's in Olney, MD.

I have always loved hardware stores, and there's something about a mom and pop establishment that brings out the handyman (uh, rather, handywoman) in me. Sure, the big stores are great for buying grills and outdoor furniture sets and circular saws, but give me a compact, family-run store every time for the small stuff.

I like walking in the door and smelling something earthy. (Peat moss? Do they still have peat moss?) I like the fact that the aisles are short, and you don't have to scan a mile's worth of five million kinds of doodads to get the one thing you need. I like knowing that at least some of the fresh-faced and very friendly workers are part of the family behind the name on the sign.

Even though all I needed today was a $5.00 flapper for my toilet, I was treated like a valued guest. Which made me buy two sets of chargers for my iPhone at the checkout. And some Dubble Bubble gum out of a big glass jar. And ensured that, like Arnold Schwarzenegger long before he got all creepy and we found out he had a secret kid, I'll be back.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Talk to the Hand

I'm having therapy. Not the kind you bare your soul over: this is all about the hand, man. Every Tuesday and Thursday since this month began, and for a couple more weeks, I visit a rehab center and spend an hour with Mike. I'm fine, really - just a numb ring finger and pinky on my left hand that isn't, as I first thought, CTS (Carpel Tunnel Syndrome). Nope. Mine is special. Luckily, it never interfered with this thing I'm doing now. (You know, writing.)

I have a whole series of exercises to do so my fingers will get with the program. Like throw a Kleenex up in the air and catch it between my thumb and my "problem fingers." (Don't try this at home - it's very important that you have a physical therapist observe you to make sure you're doing it right. And after you're done, if you have a cold, you don't have to return the Kleenex. Score! Free tissues!) Then there's the one where I have to stretch and mold putty in one hand without help from the other (it's harder than it sounds, and you don't get to take the putty home).

And there's more! There's a gripper thing - the Digiflex - with finger pads that feels like I'm an ice cream truck driver making change with it. And let's not forget the "arm bike," which is pretty much like a stationary bike, only ten times more boring, if that's possible. But my favorite, hands down (sorry about that), is the one where I get to shoot marbles. Yes, alleys and swirls and cat's eyes! Mike sets up a barrier with a towel and I fire those bad boys right down the center. I'm getting pretty good at it.

Today I noticed that the numbness is almost gone, but I didn't tell Mike yet, because I want another shot at those marbles next week.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I'm a Bad Mom, and I Must Be Punished

It's very risky to put a picture of a feline up anywhere on social media, lest one inadvertently be labeled a Cat Lady. I'm not. I happen to have one, but as a previous post (Cat Fight) has attested, mine is anything but warm and fuzzy. I take that back - she IS fuzzy. But she will never win Miss Congeniality, even if she's the only contender.

I'm a good provider. My cat—Peaches—gets fed well and sleeps 23.5 hours a day without disruption, has a nice home and clean "loo-box," and when she will condescend to let me pet her (which is practically never), she gets some sweet attention. I thought I was a good influence in her life. Until today, when I took her in for a dental cleaning and got a call from my vet. Who proceeded to tell me in a reproachful voice that he had to extract three molars and a canine tooth and that she had an abscess in her gums, and she must have been in a lot of pain from these bad teeth. And he guesses I just didn't see them? And then waited as I stammered through an answer, me feeling horribly guilty that I didn't pry open her mouth to check for suspicious-looking teeth (three of them in the way-way back) and faulty gums. And run an X-ray so that I could have figured out she had cavities. (Please don't tell me you all check your pets' mouths on a regular basis. I might have to bite you.) 

Of course I'm ready to be especially nice to my cat, because the vet thinks I'm a Bad Mom. I picked her up, paid the vet bill that was the price of a two-day-advance plane ticket to California, and brought her home. I haven't seen her for hours, so—full disclosure—the cat pictured here, though a virtual twin, is not mine. Mine, I'm sure, is busy looking for pliers, so I'm about to lock myself in my bedroom and I'm going to try not to doze off tonight. Just in case. Paybacks are hell, you know.



© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Heatis Envy: Don't Be a Hater

I just rolled in this morning after a red-eye back from California. I was there for a family issue (not vacation), but it didn't hurt that I inadvertently picked the one week where my home town had at least a cumulative 12 inches of snow, with temperatures so fah-rrrrreeeezing people were whimpering as they ran from their parked cars into the grocery store and back.

And as much as I've hated it when friends or family down south or to the west taunt me with their lazy, hazy, crazy summer-like temperatures during our coldest days, I must confess I fell right into the trap. I bragged. I was obnoxious with my superior heat. I reveled in the knowledge that I was wearing sandals and sunning on a terrace when I knew that my pals in the east were shivering, booted, padded, gloved and hatted. I liked knowing that we could - think of it! - jump in the car in the morning without defrosting the windows.

But know this: I got my comeuppance. While I was enjoying the warm kiss of San Francisco climes, a pipe burst in my house in Maryland. Yep. That's one of those things that offer perfect "gotcha" symmetry, and in my youth such a cosmic smack-down would have been met with my mother's standard phrase: "God is punishing you." I am chastened by the experience, and I swear I won't show anyone my tan lines this week, lest more pestilence rain down on me. But if you want to see my daily pictures of the 70+ temp on the outdoor thermometer, just let me know. What could possibly happen?

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Bless Me, Father... and Could Ya Hurry it Up?

I'm what I call a recovering Catholic. Don't ask. Just know that I fully appreciate the tradition with which my younger years were shaped, I'm glad I was initiated into the important early rites of the religion, and I sure benefited from all the memorized catechism and lengthy sermons when I became an English major and was able to find the Trinity symbolism in record time in all the major works of literature.

So because I'm a bit of a fallen-away type, please excuse me if I'm coming late to this ashes-to-go phenomenon. I'm amazed! Tomorrow's Ash Wednesday, and if I want to go Episcopalian (known as "Catholic Lite – same rituals, half the guilt!") I can find a drive-through where I can get ashes and free coffee (a bona fide ash-'n-dash) and still get to my destination without missing a beat! Does that mean that we can soon compress confession into a McDonald's-type lineup, where we speak our sins into a receiver and by the time we get up to the window, we are handed our penance and just drive on out? Will they have "value confessions" we can pick from posted as we weave through the line, so if we don't have our thoughts together, or we don't like the sins we came with, we can just pick a set that seem like a fit?

I'm going to give that some thought while I'm waiting for my hot coffee and ashes. (I sure hope that adjective is in the proper place, or I'll have to write another post from the emergency room.)

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I'll Take Natasha and Boris Any Day

Remember just about a week ago, when I was waxing poetic about my new office? Well, it's still perfect. I still love it. But something has come to my attention since taking up residence in my new space.

I was hearing, now and then, the pitter-patter of little feet above me, and since no small children made their way down to my office at noon to ask for tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches cut into strips, I had to investigate. My attic isn't one of those pull-down contraptions with rickety steps up to a jumble of forgotten treasures. It just has a little baby door at the top of a carpeted staircase. So innocent and homey and Alice-in-Wonderlandish. Until I saw the fluff of insulation peeking out from under the door.

I banged on the door like an impatient UPS driver to make sure there was no movement behind there, and then opened it a crack. That's all I needed to see the utter destruction of poor Alice's secret hidey-hole. I slammed it shut, called the trusty pest control company everyone I know uses, and confirmed what I thought (squirrels) with one exception: I have since learned that mine were FLYING squirrels. Like Rocket J. Squirrel, of Rocky and Bullwinkle, only I don't think mine were wearing that cute little aviator cap or the goofy smile. But I do think they have homes and clothes and wigs and probably cars and boats made out of the insulation from my rafters, because there sure isn't much of it left up there.

So say what you will about the evil Natasha and Boris - and for that matter, the perpetually magic-trick-challenged Bullwinkle - they are okay in my book, because they have very politely stayed out of my home. But to Rocky, that dastardly scoundrel, I offer his favorite oath, "Hokey smoke!" Not cool, brutha. You owe me some insulation, and some restored childhood faith in cartoon characters. But if I can only have one, I'll take the insulation.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

How I Found Feng Shui Quite By Accident

Author Christopher Hitchens said, "Everybody has a book in them, but in most cases that's where it should stay." What does he know? Mine's giving me contractions, and they're coming every month now. This baby wants to be born.

Early this year, I made a big pronouncement: I'm going to tackle my book in 2015. After all, I already have my author photo ready. Now I just need about 65,000 words, charmingly rendered and placed in the proper sequence, and I'm done.

But first, I needed to re-seat myself, home-office-wise. My traditional office is in a great loft space in my house; I have always been able to work there easily. But for some reason, it didn't feel like the best setting for a book project in addition to my business writing. So I picked a spare bedroom, one that has been the repository for all things without a resting place, that was quickly heading toward becoming an extra closet. I'm pretty sure Jimmy Hoffa was in there at some point.

One week and one new desk later, I am cheerfully ensconced in my fresh and sunny office. Seriously: the paint color is named "Sunny." (These things aren't coincidences, you know.) It's got great natural light, and good juju. It has even been blessed by Peaches, the walking definition of feline bitchiness who doesn't like anything, but who has joined me to sleep hours away every day on the big sage ottoman I almost gave away—but which, of course, fits perfectly in this new place. (These things aren't coincidences, you know.)

It feels incredible. I can't wait to be in here in the mornings, and I haven't been this kind of happy in a very long time. And then I realized: I feng shui-ed myself with my office and I didn't even try! I have created a harmony between myself and my environment that is completely organic. (Aha! I've been wanting to use "organic" in a sentence unrelated to spinach, and I have done it!) 

So now I have my author's picture, and the perfect place to write, and if I can find a way to work this blog content into my book, I only have about 64,600 words more to go. (These things aren't coincidences, you know.)

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie