Crushed.like a bug

I dropped the ball on spreading the word on my mom's dead phone.  My brother is angry and snappy about my "incessant Facebooking."

Well, guy, I guess you'll get to bitch about my blogging, but I doubt it's worth your notice.

I feel like I've been swatted across the nose like a dog that crapped in the corner.  I wanted to tell him, "I'm sorry!  I know I've been bad!"  This last post I asked if he knew why Mom's phone crapped out prompted him to respond, "I have no idea.  I don't have a rootkit."

Excuse me.  Just excuse the shit out of me, will you please?  And stay up on your throne, please, I do NOT wish to be judged.

Sunday Sunday SUNDAY!

Sunday was the visit to Henderson to see Sol.  It was a great visit.  We stuffed ourselves silly at the Dutch Kitchen on varenckas (I HOPE I got that one right).  Varenckas are "down home" German food, little packets of dough wrapping a cottage cheese, pepper, salt and onion filling, much like blintzes, raviolis, perogies.  These little lovelies are either boiled or fried - either way, they're tasty, and don't forget the cream gravy that goes with 'em.

We walked off that killer luncheon at the Mennonite site.  There was so much stuff I saw that I remember seeing in other museums (and at grandparents' homes) - amazing.

Sol was taking this all in very quietly.  I don't think I've ever seen him so quiet.  (It was ok for him to be quiet.)

Ragpicker

I work at Goodwill as a ragpicker.  Basically, I go through the donated clothes, keeping the clothes that are clean, have all their buttons and or working zippers, unstained, no pills, or holes.  I save shoes with mates and beautiful surfaces.

That's the theoretical description.  The reality is that the clothes are usually filthy, wrinkled, covered in animal hair, reeking of mouse piss (and decorated with mouse turds), pilly (we call it "bally"), and holier than thou.  The shoes stink, the insides are pilly/bally, and they're usually el cheapo singles.

According to the caste system, one of the jobs that untouchables do is ragpicking.  It's a gross job, sifting through someone's trash.  But - you learn.  What do people do?  How old are they?  Do they have kids, and how old are the kids?  Do they tapdance, play golf, or run track?  Do they have a mouse problem?  (And lordy, some do. even with kitty sleeping on their clothes.)

It's humbling.  It's weird.  I feel the life attached to some of the clothes, how sick and frail some of the people were, and seeing stains on their pajamas to reflect that.  Some days the mouse shit and the sadness slow me down.

I come home and take a shower, rinse the "ick" off my body, irrigate the mousiness out of my nose.