TRANSFORMATION BEGINS

Mine, not the house's. Ellyn my father's Hospice nurse--also a qualified masseuse, how very convenient, who worked at Canyon Ranch for seven years--came by at 6 PM with her table and oils and went to work on me up in my sitting room. Bliss.  Refused to charge. Said I needed it. Wants to give me another before I leave. 

Today I went for full highlights and cut at Tina's, Peg's Italian hairdresser who told Peg to get the Italian Channel from Dish Satellite costing nine million dollars and a stupid dish sticking up like a lollipop on the front terrace. I have in fact had some other issues with her on earlier visits, when I left looking orange, but this time, possibly because I didn't give a fuck--just needed the bloody stuff hacked off and brightened--she did a bang-up job. And all for $75.

So let's see, on the WHAT'S LEFT IN THE HOUSE FRONT, have found a vintage place that wants Peg's party dresses, U of Oregon wants Peg's portrait, which I am thrilled about because I sure don't, I have an electrician lined up to re-wire the bar fridge, the only one we have working now, the other two having been cleaned and turned off. This is the "bar" fridge Outside Bob has wired to the generator, which is in fact a good thing, but (in fact at Bob's urging) I need the wiring to look like someone professional did it. I don't need the house catching fire. Especially since I've spent the afternoon on the phone talking to insurance companies re the homeowners policy here which strike me as outrageous at $400 per month. 

I feel the need to report that, as I write, Amazing Ken, over on the other side of the room, is cleaning the oven.  This is after spending the day suspended over a slate roof cleaning a hard-to-get-at window, cleaning the mildew from the trim and sill, and painting the sucker. It was actually Bonnie who started the oven cleaning, but then got the time wrong and realized she'd be gone by the time the self-lock unlocked itself. So Ken took over. Bonnie has also cleaned the big oven in the big kitchen. It occurred to me that with all this oven cleaning going on, with temperatures exceeding 500 degrees or something hot-sounding, I might have avoided all the Dery's Funeral Hone ashes confusion by doing it myself.

I am, in a word, two words, near collapse. So, really, the only thing I need to make transformation complete, besides manicure and pedicure, is to be whisked and whirled back to Kansas.

And now I believe an employee is trying on a scam involving $7500, which saddens me. Greatly. Tomorrow will be on the phone to lawyers and tax accountants. Just what I need. 

I'd cry myself to sleep if I didn't have to go watch a dumb movie with Ken.