Monday, January 15, 2024

 Monday, January 15, 2024

 

    Oh, my word; the stressors are mounting. First, there was the dog attack at 5:45 am last Wednesday. Elsa's bite and subsequent vet visit were only part of the trauma. I was terrified I would be knocked over. I have been told explicitly that my left arm can't afford any additional impact. I've had nightmares of falling ever since. 

   On Thursday, I found out where the owner of the dogs lived. On Saturday, I dropped a letter in her mailbox informing her that Elsa was bitten. I didn't expect her to pay the vet bill, but I did ask her to take precautions, so her dogs never got away from her again. When I told Judy what I had done, she said, "You know it's a federal offense to leave anything in a mailbox? It's federal property, and only the mailman is allowed to use it." No, I did not. Besides having nightmares about this woman blaming me for her dogs' attack, now I had to worry about her pressing charges against me for putting something in her mailbox. So far, nothing: no reply and no charges.

 Then there is my broken Rainbow vacuum cleaner that sucks up water like nobody's business. It's what I need to clean up Elsa's mess when she chooses the lanai rug over the doggy dog to the yard.

    Today was the start of the fourth week my car has been in the shop. When I brought it in on December 22, they told me the mechanic qualified to work on it would be away for two weeks for additional training. In week three, I started calling them. I left several voice mails and received no reply. Today, I called the showroom. I got the same woman who secured a loaner for me when the service manager refused me one. She said she would ask and get back to me. It's evening now, and there is no word from her. I hate to think what is going on.

    As to the loaner, I picked it up on Friday night. Sunday, I noticed a dent in the driver's side back door. I had forgotten to check for damage before it took the car. I took it to a body shop to get an estimate. I had to assume they would blame me. The body shop repairman estimated a $6,000 repair. The dent was low on the door, hitting a vital support. 

  Today was a special stressor. I confronted my gardener. A while ago, I started worrying about the Ficus trees he planted in our yard: five in a 100' by 20' space with a rock wall supporting the area and a cement driveway and foundation just behind that. These grow into monster trees, 50 to 60 feet high with large trunks. More importantly, they have monster root systems that destroy rock walls and cement. 

    When the gardener came today, I asked him why he planted those there. As a gardener, he had to know what the Ficus tree would do. He said he wasn't thinking. I told him that meant I couldn't trust him. He also said Mike had okayed his decision. Mike didn't know the difference between a tree and a shrub. He would have no idea what a Ficus could do. When I heard Ficus, I thought of those potted plants we got on the east coast. Hardly a threat to anyone's foundation. I fired him. Ask me if that wasn't stressful. I've never done anything like that in my life. He may have done me wrong, but he was cheap. Now I have to find another gardener to trim the trees and the bushes. Another decision hangs over my head. Mike made those kinds of decisions. I was scared of making them.

    Many years ago, I was the one who picked out and purchased a new dryer on my own. I didn't think much of it at the moment, but on the way home, I had a car accident. Yes, I was driving under five miles an hour. I made a left turn without checking to my right. The body shop tech was surprised the damage wasn't worse when he heard about the accident. It was Mike who recognized it was the first time I had to make a decision like that on my own.

   While Mike made decisions with apparent relative ease, it weighed on him. He was playing the role of the strong man. I knew of his vulnerability. I wonder how much of this male burden is the cause of early death among men. The need to be strong and secure eats at the flesh as well as the soul.

    Oh, yes. There's one more. I got roped into a thousand dollars worth of posture lessons with a Gokhale teacher. I had a private evaluation with Esther, the founder. That was worth it. I wanted direct contact with her. She also gave me some pointers that already made a difference. The sticker price is not just impressive to be shocking; it is a bitter reminder of how undervalued academic teachers are. This woman is charging $240 an hour. The teachers in Hawaii make less money than the waiters. A friend's daughter is a certified teacher and prefers to wait on tables. She says she earns more money than a teacher and has no homework. If someone is rude or demanding, she calls over the manager, and they throw the people out. If you look online for tutoring jobs, the pay generally runs from $18 to $35. I have a master's degree and enough additional credits for a Ph.D. plus. I have sixty years of experience and an excellent track record of successful outcomes. A massage therapist, a waiter, or someone who gives facials earns as much as four times what a teacher makes per hour. Something is wrong with this picture.