There’s someone I read here, who is a fantastic writer, but sometimes I almost don’t believe the exploits she crafts about her weekends.  And it gave me the idea of creating a character, either male or female, and starting a new blog with fanciful posts where I could be, say, and do whatever came to me.

Probably I should go with the female.  But I could be really old.  I’ve been hanging out every Wed with my ex-mother-in-law, and we are similar enough that I think I could write that age.  In fact it might be really fun.  Because I don’t know why she doesn’t live it up a little more since her days are so numbered, and she’s loaded. 

I tried to loan her some money since she’d run out and was waiting for one of her boys (she had two) to go to the bank for her.  When she wouldn’t take it I said, “Well, what if you really want a milkshake?  You could take a cab and go through the drive-thru.”  She looked at me like I was crazy.  Now that she doesn’t leave the house she’s gotten used to getting by with whatever anyone thinks to bring her.  They order her groceries from Safeway.  She has someone come to the house to do her hair, her nails, her garden, her house and anything else that needs attention.

What if she decided to go on one last spree?

While you all have been over at Facebook, I have been online reading consumer reports.  I’m learning about appliances.  You can click on the picture and up comes a review, the specs; anything you’d ever want to know. 

After I found four dishwashers and four refrigerators with good reviews, the right measurements, and in my price range — That took three days — I tried to match up the different styles. 

I was going with black and stainless or just stainless.  I drew pictures next to the model numbers and called Sears to see if I could look at them on the floor.  I was worried that the sheens on the stainless would not match up. All but one refrigerator was in stock. 

A Russian woman named Marina was in charge of the refrigerators.  She spoke with a thick accent, saying “Stanley steel” for stainless steel.  It was funny the first couple times.  When I seemed to waver she launched into the most annoying prattle which I might have been able to ignore were it not for the accent.  I wasn’t wavering, I was trying to remember what the reviews said. 

About that time Roger appears. He sells dishwashers.  Marina doesn’t seem to want to relinquish me but I explain to them that I am trying to find a match for the refrigerator we are standing in front of.  In my picture this particular style of dishwasher looks like it will match but they are both “Stanley steel” and will be side-by-side in my kitchen. 

Roger takes me over to his section and shows me “this year’s best buy.”  The latch is broken.  Not one review mentioned the latch.  I hadn’t even considered comparing latches.  I show him my pictures and, pointing to the one with the rounded handle, I ask if he has it.  He only has it in black but he swears the stainless will match the refrigerator.  He, too, starts in with the sales pitch, and I assure him I know all about the pros and cons of the machines I’ve drawn.

The rest was painful and nervewracking but I bought what I needed and it was on sale and I have a year, interest-free, to pay for it.  Am I a grownup or what.

In the last 24 hours I have received close to 150 messages.  I looked at the name “hotkitty” and freaked because I thought somehow, because of that weird post I wrote about Derek and the dog, that I had been discovered by an insane, sexual blogring. 

Did you get those, too?  The ones about Obama?  And then these last ones were about some beta phone thing.  The reason there were so many was that they sent them twice.  Nice.  Like I don’t waste enough time on here as it is. 

I do everything I can to be anonymous.  Once I figured out if you title a post you run the risk of having it turn up on the front page I quit doing it.  Did I do something to get on this new list?  Is it my punishment for not switching over to the new home page they keep trying to trick me into? 

You’d think with everyone leaving for Facebook, or at least spending all their time there that Xanga would want to protect my little spot here.  I don’t want random salespeople reading me.  Leave me alone “Hotkitty,” and tell your friends I don’t care what a “mobile beta version” is.

I went to the library today to look at magazines, wanting to feed my newfound zeal for decor.  The last, few, paint picks have been so successful and have made such a difference in the feel of the room that I want to “take it to the next level” as they say. 

I was sorely disappointed.  Either the rooms were too busy or they were too plain; all or nothing.  As usual, I am forced to find my own way.  Fortunately, in my old age I gravitate quickly to what I like; it’s easy to spot. 

I am trying to figure out whether I should paint the cabinets.  I was shopping with my daughter when we came upon what she described as Tuscan.  It looked ancient and was part desk/part cabinet with all these cubbies and drawers.  What I liked was the weathered, whitewashed look.  It’s what I’m considering trying to do to my kitchen cabinets.  The only problem would be how to seal it so I could keep them clean.

I don’t like any of the countertops I see.  I’ve picked my floor, the walls are beautiful, but the rest is a mystery.  I’ll just have to wait to see what the floor does to the room. 

I need a new refrigerator and dishwasher but can’t afford stainless. I think I’m going to go against the crowd and get black.  It would be so much cheaper. The problem is it will make the room darker, and I hate dark. 

Maybe I can figure something out with a stainless backsplash.  That’s the one thing I saw that struck my fancy today.  And I could do a zany formica.  I don’t like those big slabs of cold, hard granite.  Nor do I like cleaning grout, so tile is out.  I’m always knocking glasses over so I want a more forgiving surface.  Really, there’s no hurry for anything but the floor and the appliances.  Thank goodness because the market is ghastly and my commodities broker is an idiot.

It’s too cold to air the house out but the paint fumes are getting to me.  Derek painted the ceiling in the great room, and I painted the walls in the kitchen.  I turned on the radio and he turned it up louder, each of us far enough away from the other that it was comfortable to sing along.  He sure has a good voice.  And he’s partial to oldies. 

That was the good part.  Actually, he arrived all hurt and sullen, which I ignored.  Normally, there would be much talk about the market and getting caught up with each other’s news.  We’d each make our own breakfast, and he’d play with the dog.  But we were all business today, and I paid no attention to him.  That’s when he started singing, changing the mood.  He knows I like it when he sings.  Or I used to.

But he was still bristling over my accusation, saying it made him mad just to be over here around the dog.  I came on strong saying, “If anyone should be apologizing it’s you.  Just hurry it up.”  I want him to be done.  Meanwhile the dog was dancing all around, trying to play with him.  Dogs have a short memory I guess. 

The minute I got done painting and started cooking he switched gears again.  I figured he must be hungry.  We made nice, and he even vacuumed for me. Then he suggested rearranging the furniture.  He’s been trying to talk me into moving the Stairmaster to the garage since I never use it.  It was unsightly.

I made a yummy, Creole, curried shrimp, and he complimented me on it, as well as my paint job, getting up close to inspect where I cut in at the edge of the ceiling.  I’ve really gotten quite good at it.

Then I brought up money for the first time since Christmas.  He’s going to remove the old linoleum from the kitchen, and I’m not going to pay him any more money.  Whew.  Then he’ll be done.

But still he wouldn’t leave.  I wanted to watch the first part of Cramer’s Mad Money and it was starting in five minutes.  I could tell the way he was lingering by the fire that if I turned the TV on he’d sit down on the couch.  I kind of wanted to sit in my chair in the new location to see if I liked it while he was still here to move everything back the way I had it. 

I got in my “Barcolounger,” as he calls it, and pulled the quilt on so Bridget could climb up.  He sat next to me at the new end of the couch, like nothing had ever happened.  Halfway into the show we all fell asleep.

A long time ago I went to a psychic.  I had just left my husband, only to find out I had cancer again.  I’d been to her before and everything she’d predicted had come true.  I was really at a loss for which direction to turn.  I didn’t know what kind of settlement to expect so I didn’t know where I could afford to live.  I didn’t know if the cancer had metastasized so I didn’t know how long I had to live.  I thought maybe she could shed some light on my future.

I’m a big notetaker.  I probably had my notebook with me.  There were notes from dance class.  There were notes from my doctor.  There were probably notes from the last Taoist retreat and whatever trip I’d taken.  When I asked if I were going to be doing something with bellydance she actually threw her head back and laughed at the idea.  I’d probably come from court reporting, and she had no idea I danced.

What she said, and this is a vague recollection, was that I was going to be involved with women and religion.  I saw her one more time after that, and I remember she thought I should write a workbook for breast cancer patients.  She said I should leave the right side blank for them to write in.  I saw this very thing in our library about a year later, and they’d done a better job than I would have.

Then she told me about this program where you talk to people who are in need.  It was in conjunction with some church.  You went through a two-year program, and she set up a meeting with the woman who was in charge of the training.  I think she was a nun.  Anyway, this woman didn’t think it would mix with court reporting and the work wouldn’t pay enough that I could not do the court reporting.  Basically, I don’t think she thought I was cut out for it. 

The psychic was pissed about it because she was in the process of completing her masters at Marylhurst, a Catholic college, and I’m sure she’d had just about enough of them and their biases against her line of work.

I figure the volunteer work I do is the part about women, but I am beginning to wonder about the religion.  I’ve always had a burning desire to know about people’s religions.  Like the other night at the party with all the ways you can be Jewish.  And it’s really starting to bother me that I don’t have a church that fits. 

My sister was telling me about the Catholic church today, and I liked the part about the angels and Mary and the departed; that it’s not just about God and Jesus. 

The married couple in the group I play recorder with hosted a “double-choir party” tonight.  That means that four of us sat on one side of the room and four sat on the other.  Each side had a soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, and we did sort of a call-and-response kind of thing where the sopranos, for example, would go back and forth with the melody. 

It was a potluck, and I swear everyone is allergic to something so the food was overly healthy.  I made broccoli and mushroom soup and just took the cheese separately.  The desert was a gluten-free, chocolate biscotti that didn’t taste like chocolate and didn’t feel like biscotti. 

The host and hostess play in other groups with the three people I don’t normally see.  I have been to parties where I’ve met them but tonight I got a better feel for how funny the one guy was and how obnoxious the woman was.  I’m the only single one in the group, come to think of it.

We played some, ate some, drank some and then tried to play again but the obnoxious woman must have had too much wine because she couldn’t keep up after dinner.  She is a Quaker and wanted to argue about religion.  I enjoyed it because I have been in a lot of churches by now, and I was able to talk about the born-agains, as well as the Unitarians.  I never could get a feel for what the Episcopalians believed.  Most of this group are Jewish, so that was interesting for me. 

When I first got there people were showing off, pulling out words I’ve never heard used.  I and the couple who didn’t remember me were late so we set up while the others played.  I noticed these new people had fancy stands which held all four of their recorders.  Most of them own two of each, one plastic and one wooden.  They switch to plastic when the wood gets too wet.  My tenor and soprano are plastic.  I was a little intimidated until we started playing.  The music was harder than what I’m used to on Mondays.  The host and hostess had been practicing, of course, but the rest of us had to sight-read.  I’m good at that so it was fun. 

Talk about going back to your roots.  My parents used to host this very type of evening, and I got to sit in when they needed an extra soprano.  Our Monday quintet is nice but I prefer playing with a bigger group.  Eight-part recorder music sounds so much richer.  I savored every minute, from the toast in the kitchen to the tuning in the living room.  It’s nice to fit in, even if it is a bit of a stretch.

The litigator was at his beach house and he invited me down to meet the new girlfriend.  He just turned 62 and she is 28.

I always meet his girlfriends and I always like them.  Just like he, they are smart, funny, savvy, and sexy.  This girl is not.    She grew up in a crime-ridden section of Sacramento, and when her family moved to Utah she dropped out of high school her freshman year to sell drugs on the street.  She was working at Wendy’s when he met her at a wedding.  It sounds like she hit on him.

As absurd as it seems, it works.  I’ve never seen him look happier or healthier.  I don’t think either one expects anything from the other in the way of a future.  Each is happy to supply what the other wants and they seem content, curled up on the couch together in their matching, white socks.  

He came from the same background and lots of his clients are of the same ilk.  I think he sees himself in her, the boy that dropped out of high school to join the Merchant Marines.  Maybe he’s comfortable enough in his success now that he can look back to his roots.

It wasn’t until the drive home that it started to bug me.  Why has he let himself get so close to her?  What could they possibly have to talk about?  Here he never could trust a woman and he picks someone I wouldn’t trust with my purse.  He was such a picky dater and she’s not even attractive.  I don’t know why it bothers me so much that he’s being cavalier about sleeping with her.  It’s not okay.

For some reason he thought Derek had been spending the night.  I told him “Heavens, no.”  He wanted to know why not and I said, “Because he’s nobody I could be a partner with.”  The first night Derek said it made more sense to sleep on the couch than to drive home just to turn around the next morning and drive straight back, I said “I don’t want you spending the night here, ever.” 

There were a couple times I was tempted but I knew it was wrong.  And if my friend had any sense at all he wouldn’t have that stupid grin on his face. 

Derek’s back.  He was very upbeat on the phone this morning, but when he came by this afternoon he seemed different.  He’s a pro at sniffing out the vibe.  Bridget was excited to see him and her tail was wagging a mile a minute, but it was down and she was real low to the ground.  When I opened the dog gate that keeps her from the rest of the house she scooted upstairs without hesitation. 

We talked about his trip.  We talked about the market.  And then I told him about my visit with the acupuncturist and what I’d learned.  He thought it was baloney until I mentioned he resonated at between 300-400.  I got online and looked it up so I could read it aloud.  I didn’t find the site I’d wanted but I found an even more interesting one.  He hates new age stuff but he reads a lot about health-related things, being obsessed with his body, so some of it must have sounded reasonable because he didn’t dispute it.

Then I talked to him about Bridget.  I said “brutal” was the word my acupuncturist used to describe his training methods.  We argued about hitting dogs and kids, and then I told him it didn’t matter what he thought; that he was a guest in my home and that I didn’t want him having any further interaction with my dog.  That hurt his feelings but I didn’t care.  We talked about that day it happened, and he told me he hit her with a stick when she didn’t mind; that the Bible says you’re not supposed to use your hand.  He totally stood by his behavior. 

I know he looks forward to seeing her.  I know he loves playing with her and I know she loves pleasing him, doing all the tricks he’s taught her.  When she came down to go pee she stuck around, feeling safe, now that he wasn’t engaging her in their usual games. 

Then I told him I’d actually thought he’d done something sexual with her.  He was appalled that I could even think such a thing.  I went back and cited some of the jokes he’d made.  He thought I was crazy.  He got really mad at first and said, “Prudy, you can’t say stuff like that to me if we’re going to be friends.”

We watched a little TV and he tried to get me to make cookies.  I gave him nothing to eat so he had to resort to his usual cheese melted on a tortilla.  Then he called the girl he rode with on the trip to see his sister’s new baby.  She had to work tonight, though.   

The next move is to tell him I don’t want him in the house when I’m gone.  And, finally, to cut him off from eating here.  I hope we will be able to wrap this up with our friendship in tact.  I think we’d both like to keep the lines of communication open.

I’ve been more places and done more fun things in the last three days than in the last three months.  Somehow I forgot what a big, wide, wonderful world it was.  Elizabeth called it “social phobias” when I asked why Derek never wanted to go anywhere.  He said it was because of the money.

Last night I went to a benefit for a local dance teacher.  My tango teacher emailed me about it.  I assumed it would be the cancer patient’s students, family, and friends but it was mostly ballroom dance teachers and performers from all over Portland.  I got there early to get a seat by the dance floor, and I was watching the lone couple show off. 

Pretty soon a guy Derek’s age asked me to dance.  I was a little apprehensive but I always say, “yes,” so as not to discourage others from asking.  I was nervous because the only other couple I’d seen dance were doing the cha-cha like you’d see on TV.   

The way he escorted me onto the dance floor, I knew he was a ballroom dancer.  I quickly made my disclaimer, asking for mercy. 

He said, “Can you swing?” 

“Yes,” I said, not remembering he could mean East coast. 

We were the only ones on the dance floor, and the music was pretty fast.  We fumbled in the beginning, maybe because I moved in the usual manner, which was not ballroom style.  I think I got in too close.  Once we were in step, he arranged my left arm the way he wanted it.  He began to sing along with a dreamy look on his face when he could see I knew what I was doing.  He clearly liked the song and loved to dance.  I noticed people were watching.

What I realized later was what a chance I took, because they all do the other kind of swing. Maybe that’s why people were watching.  

The next dance was a waltz.  Fortunately, one of the guys I dance with every summer at that blues festival taught me some Zydeco.  Of course, it was nothing like these people do with their formal arms and zig-zagging backwards.  I just about panicked.  Our knees bumped and I was lost. I closed my eyes and tried to focus.  He was very gracious about it and even asked me again.  I now know how to ballroom dance.