Lights

Don't you hate it when you have something in storage that you'd really rather have on display? I do. In this particular case, it was a set of lights that have been boxed up for several years. Angela had designed them nearly forty years ago in her David-days. So, I recently decided now was the time we needed those treasures in our living room. Angela was game. We opened the box with great anticipation only to be confronted with smoke-covered, nicotine-stained lights. There were also a few cracks in the plexiglass.

"This will never do," said Angela and promptly took them to the garage. Now, you've all come to know Angela by now, so the fact that she designed her own way to remove all the fishing line that twined around the bulbs. She invented ways to restring them too. Plexiglass was not available, so we had to use an acrilyic sheet for the broken piece. Of course, that meant not only cutting it to match, but also snipping in all the many grooves for the fishline. She did it though, of course. Next was stringing them.

Next came hanging them in them from our very high ceiling. Yep, you guessed it, Madame Inventor to the rescue. She found the bars for the wiring, strengthened them, and balanced them perfectly. That required the use of a very tall ladder--one she is not allowed to use without supervision by me. My job is to laugh, take a picture, or call 911. It's also to officially say things like, "A little more to the right," "Down a little," or "Here's that tool, Dear." You see, she's fallen twice now, and broken she's her wrist each time.

The lights were repaired and hung, but there was one hang-up: The bulbs we used back in those days no longer were being made. They  had to provide enough illlumination, look perfect, and fit in the small opening available. It took two dedicated employees from a neighbor's light store to find something that worked.

We hope you think the lights are as special we do. Of course, it was Angela who made the "Voila" moment possible, so I think she's pretty special too. Ah yes, it's another one of the Best Things About Being Married to a Transsexual.

Stumped

"That tree  has to come down, it's a mess," I said.
"No problem," my TS, Angela, answers, and off she went to cut it down.

I usually help with this sort of job as she has a penchant for falling off ladders.But, iIn this case, she managed without one. Besides, I was watching the grandkids, at least that was my excuse for getting out the worst of the work.

We have hardpan, so we seldom need worry about tap roots, and so, expecting no problems, the stump was roped and attached to the car. One quik "Varooom" later, and said stump and root ball was on its side. The difficulty was the darn thing was too large to manhandle, or in our case, womanhandle, to the dumpster. So, Angela pulled it over there with the car.

"How are we going to get this heavy thing in there?" I asked.
"I'm thinking about a pully system," she said.
"I'm a ramp would be easier," I suggest.
"Good idea," she replied and off she went to bang one together.

Five minutes later, she was back with a 6 foot board with a 2x4 nailed at one end. She promptly hooked the 2x4 over the lip of the dumpster and pulled the stump to within inches of the ramp's base. When the rope was taut, she gunned the car. The roots caught the ramp and the whole kit-&-caboodle went sailing over the dumpster. I think the "Thump" it made, as it landed, was easily heard a block away.

"Plan B," she said as she sawed off the offending root, repositioned everything, and stepped on the gas.
"STOP," I yelled and signaled as I watched the stump travel half way up the ramp, tilt it, and stick solid. The next thing I knew, the dumpster, ramp and stump were all heading down the roadway at 50+ mph.

"I think a slower approach might be better," I suggest when she pulled up next to me with the afore mentioned three ring circus still behind her. She agreed.

You know what they say, the third times the charm. All went well, and we were happy to shove that bundle into the dumpster, take a shower, and head out to Outback for a nice dinner.

It was a very small window.

Angela is getting into breaking and entering these days.

A couple of our RVing friends have managed to become locked out of their fifth wheels. Each have called on Angela to help. Despite being nearly 70, she's lost none of her agility. In the first case, I didn't get a picture, but I did on the second. She used a picnic table for the launch pad for the first window, for the second, it was my back. There was a bit of a hop, then only her legs were sticking out. When I was able to straighten up, all I could see was her feet disappearing inside. A few minutes later, the door was open and my T was on her way to get our toolbox. It never takes her long to do a repair, or if, as in the second case, a part was needed, she can jury rig something that will work until our free wheeling friends can move on down the highway.

It was only a curve

RVing has its moments. First of all there is the beauty of the USA and the companionship of other RVers, both of which makes any problems seem small. Of course there is the cost of gas and repairs, but that pales with the advantages of taking your grandkids and doggies along for the trip, having your own kitchen, and a comfy bed without the fear of bedbugs. However, we have a large coach, and there are just some roads that leave a lot to be desired. One could say the same for many highways, of course. When one is driving an RV, there is decidedly a Rattle-Bang senerio that makes one wonder if the whole thing is just going to come apart in the middle of the roadway. No manner of packing can make all the noises go away when traveling many of our by-ways. This particular outting required that we drive through a short area of mountainous roadway. We knew it would be full of turns, but we have easily maneuvered those  in the past, and had no worries. However, Angela had recently had rotorcuff surgery, and her arm was still healing. Up the hills we went, managing each switchback without pain or difficulty for her, the coach, or the car we were towing. And then came THE CURVE. It wasn't just a sharp curve, it was a downright scary curve. This little devil had no curbing or rail, and the stinker had a dropoff that would give anyone with a fear of heights the willies. Angela motored into it slowly, using all the caution she could. She cranked the wheel and was careful to stay in her own lane, even though she had to maneuver as close to the line as possible, to give our tow vehicle the room required to follow safely. The coach was safe, so too the dolly, but one wheel of the car slipped off the road. Of course, when that happens,the object in trouble wants to drag the whole kit-and-kaboodle down the incline. Angela swiftly got on the gas and dragged the car along the curve, fighting the dangerous pull and forcing the car to follow us. Let me just say that there was no vegetation left along that 10 foot portion of the curve from where the wheel left the asphalt until it returned to its correct follow-the-big-coach position.  Both of us let out a long breath and wiped a bit of sweat from our brows. "That was fun," Angela said. All I could manage was a smile and a head nod. The remainder of the curvatious route was MUCH easier. When we reached the bottom, we found a pull-out that was a tad too small for us, but offered a bit of refuge none the less. Both of us piled out to see how much damage there was. None. None, I say. We could hardly believe it. We figured the frame would be bent on the tow dolly, and that we might have an axle problem with the car, but all was well. You see, it was all because of my Talented T and all of her experience on the grand prix and cross country tracks she had experienced back in her David days. Of course the fact that she is an excellent driver in general also helped. She is just a marvel, and I am glad to know that this was just another Best Thing About Being Married to a Transsexual.

Oh Brother

Let me tell you that I was SORE. I was sore ALL OVER in fact. Worse, I was in that state for several days. Why? We decided to put down a new floor.

In my earlier post I noted that Angela recently had rotor cuff surgery. This all happened a few weeks before that.

Angela's arm was beginning to give her some pain, but you already know that she can't be without a project for long, and I greatly appreciate that fact. So, since we'd been talking about replacing our aging linoleum floor for months, we decided to go ahead.

First, one must take up the old before putting down our new tile. I won't even go into the joy of trying to find that bit of ceramic bliss. Trust me when I say the choices for anything with any hint of gray in it was quite limited. Anyway, cutting through the layer of linoleum was easy, lifting it off the floor was less so, but still no strain for either of us. Then came the reason for my sore arms, body, and psyche: taking up the glue.
Lots of adhesive remained on the floor. Angela quickly discovered scraping away at it was too painful. Oh yes, we spent money on miracle removers, all guaranteed to turn the glue into liquid. Don't believe the hype. They all fall into the category of Buyer Beware. Save your money and just put down copious amounts of water, let it soak, and develope some muscle as you scrape away the gunk. Even so, Angela just couldn't do it. I quickly volunteered and made her go work on "something else." I had no idea four days of scraping that impossibly difficult to remove stuff from our cement foundation would leave me hardly able to lift my arms, much less anything else. Arnold the Swartz would have been sore; Hercules would have been sore; and I was beyond sore. Angela was most complimentary, or course, but I saw the twinkle in her eyes and the quiet chuckle that followed her "nice job, atta girl, and nice bicepts."

When I finished, she patiently set about cutting and laying the tile. It was my turn to say the same phrases along with the twinkle and chuckle. The tile wasn't so heavy that it hurt her arm, but she did have to get into a few awkward positions, so she had her share of Ouch moments.

Now we sit back and enjoy the new look of our pantry, laundry room, and third bathroom. A little shared pain never hurt any marriage.

Nurse Jonni again

Angela recently had day surgery. We arrived at 6 a.m. and returned home around 2 p.m. I've already confessed to not being the best nurse in the world. So, it's a good thing that Angela is not the type who requires anyone hovering over her. I'm great at checking in on her every hour, especially when she's sleeping. How easy is that. Unlike me, she doesn't get sick from anesthesia, so while I left a bucket close by just-in-case, there was no need for it. She doesn't want a drink brought to her, she prefers to get one after every trip to the potty. So, after surgery, in this case for some rotor cuff repair, she just slept from the moment we got home until dinner time. I expected her to be ravenous. Nope, she just wanted soup. Easy again. Oh, I tucked her in a couple of times as she slept, but I don't get any stars for being a good nurse or even a Nurse Ratchet. Oh well.

She's recovered now and doing her physical therapy. She's busy creating websites since she can't do any major projects for a few weeks. Believe me though, she has plenty lined up all ready. I'll keep you posted as they go along. I'm sure you can see that all this is just another case of The Best Thing About Being Married To A Transsexual.

Trouble right here in River City

Okay, okay, I've been gone a LONNNNNNG time. Here's the deal: I changed my email address and blogspot wouldn't let me in. Their sign-in had the new email address, but my account said it wasn't changed, so I couldn't get in with either email address. So, I'm sorry, but I am still trying to fix that. I finally got in using the old email address that I had changed because THEIR system didn't automatically put in the new address FINALLY after weeks of attempts!

Otherwise, the trouble is we seem to have a beastie or water under the kitchen floor. Whatever it is, we have a little hillock that rises between our kitchen and dining area from time to time. The tiles sound hollow, which means they're no longer attached. It's probably water, but I'd rather it be a gopher, rabbit, or mole (we have all three living on all sides of the house, so why not under?). Whatever it is, we're going to have to fix it. Dast-Oh-Dear, as the heroine might say.

Now, we just finished putting new tile down in the pantry, utility room, and small bathroom (that'll be another blog). THAT was a BIG job. Now, we can only hope we can salvage the tile from this area or we'll have to get new tile for the whole kitchen and dining area. Of course we won't be able to match this fifteen-year-old tile, we all ready know that. Dang. I like this tile. We don't want to do that because one, it'll be expensive, and two, we will soon be starting the cooler rainy season. Okay, Fresno isn't known for lots of rain, but we know that if we start a long project now, we'll end up with an unusually wet fall - so says Murphey's Law - right?

The good news is, I have a reliable tile person in Angela, the bad news is she tour her rotator cuff and is facing surgery. What now? We'll delay this must-do for awhile. My T does know how to take a day off now and then, so I'll just have to stretch that into a month of recovery time. I'll keep you posted on how that goes IF I can can in.