"Low Maintenance"

            Believe me when I say, I don’t know if I should brag about my “low maintenance” lifestyle, or if I should pretend my nature demands indulgent splurges on superfluous items and activities, so that I can feel like I belong with the rest of my gender. My baffled looks always give me away when I don’t know the name of a designer purse, have never purchased haute couture clothing, and don’t know the difference between a Milano and a Converse. My entire wardrobe fits into an eight foot-by-four foot closet which I share with my husband. My lingerie bares the labels Fruit of the Loom and Hanes. Every nightgown or pajama set I own fits into one drawer, and I own one pair of blue jeans. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve had my hair cut by a professional. I went from cutting my bangs into a crooked zigzag at the age of four to mastering several different styles by the time I reached thirty. My first and only manicure and pedicure excursion occurred just two summers ago, and I’ve never had a massage or visited a spa. I barely registered jewelry on my radar, so I didn’t bother piercing my ears until seven years ago. When my son decided to pierce his ears, I went along and decided on a whim to discover the whimsical world of earrings. Every Christmas, I ask for a bottle of perfume which I carefully ration to last until the next holiday season. I broke down and joined the world by purchasing a cell phone, which I kept for six years before getting a new one last summer. (I changed carriers, so I had no choice!) The car I drive is currently only twelve-years-old, but I’m renowned for driving the same vehicle for twenty years. I haven’t up-dated the television and sound system in the family room, so they’re eighteen years old. I’ve forgotten the ages of the washer, dryer, refrigerator, and microwave. Our rule for appliances simply states: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Over the years, I’ve had female friends question my assertions that I’m happy, and I admit I went through a rough period in my thirties when I whined about my limited selection of clothing for work. At that time in my life, I fantasized about moving into a bigger house, taking a yearly vacation, and going out to eat whenever and wherever I wanted. When my father died so unexpectedly ten years ago, my perspective changed. I reassessed the things I valued—and discovered I really don’t value things at all. Instead, Time became a hot commodity for me. I treasure the moments spent with my family and friends. I understand the importance of piddling in the garden or strolling through the property. I love to linger over a delightful phrase in a book or craft my own perfect prose or poem. None of these activities require expensive clothing or fancy shoes, yet all of them bring great pleasure to my life.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

"Open House"

                                    

           

           My parents didn’t earn much money when I was young. Not long before Dad died, he found his final military paycheck stub sandwiched between old tax forms. Imagine his amazement when he viewed a monthly income of just over $500. Somehow, my parents never missed a mortgage payment, car payment, or utility bill. They managed to keep three children well fed and well dressed. Of course, my parents invented the stay at home vacation. We never travelled too far from home in order to avoid hotel or motel bills. All of us looked forward to Dad’s vacation time because we got to eat out three meals a day. We visited the missions, toured the zoo, explored Natural Bridge Caverns, and discovered nearby towns like Wimberley or Fredericksburg. My parents showed their creativity in other ways. One of my favorites? Open House Sundays! New home builders often showed homes and offered cookies and Kool-Aid. Sometimes, free hotdogs with all the trimmings lured us into new neighborhoods. I loved touring the model homes. In a way, I felt like I entered giant doll houses. We’d make up stories about the families that “lived” in these homes as we visited imaginary couples and their children. Through all of the “in town” vacations and Sunday Open Houses, I never realized these enabled my parents to give us nearly free outings. Instead, I saw these activities as fun and amusing. To this day, I still love taking day trips to small Texas towns. I don’t do Open Houses on Sunday afternoons, but I enjoy watching home improvement and decorating marathon shows. They are my pot roasts and mashed potatoes!

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Saturday Morning"

            Stretching lazily, I glance at the clock, relishing in the pleasure of the late hour. No alarm jars me awake--just my own internal timer deciding to begin the new day. Shifting my feet, I feel the weight of the dog as she lingers in bed with me. She raises her head, her eyes follow me as I leave the room, but she’s too lazy to follow. I amble into the kitchen, hold the kettle under the faucet for fresh water, and set it on the stove to boil. Dipping my hand into the cookie jar, I pull out a chocolate chip cookie. Smile upon my face, I punch ten seconds onto the microwave because I know it’ll heat the chips to just the right temperature. The cat head bumps my ankle, drawing my attention to the empty water bowl. I run my hand down her sleek body, tip-to-tail, and I do her bidding. By then, the microwave beeps. Warm cookie in hand, I munch as I wait for the water to boil. The Earl Grey and honey line up on the counter once the tea kettle hisses. It only takes a minute to brew the tea deep gold.

            Cup in hand, I meander to the back door and slide it open. The dogs push against my legs as they bound ahead of me, Koi tumbling into Bridget in a fake fight that quickly morphs into a manic chase around the yard and through the bushes. I ignore them as they zip in circles around me for my eyes see only my swing in the tree. I set my mug on the side table as I situate my rump into the seat, shift my weight backwards, and hook my feet through the footrest. The morning coolness lingers under the Live Oak, enticing finches and doves into the tree’s branches. I sit and sip, floating on the moment. Eventually, David saunters out the door and nestles into his own hammock-swing. Our conversation rambles aimlessly from topic to topic. We have the entire day free to do anything—or nothing.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Family's Spin"

Smiles—   

masks worn to hide empty souls   

Hugs—   

embraces feigning loving devotion   

Laughter—   

covers of shrill condemnation and lies   

Closeness—   

disguises of endless discord   

Piety—   

prayers smugly offered for self-adulation   

Family—   

actors preforming prescribed scripts   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Cut Your Losses”

     
        According to all of the DIY YouTube videos, my desire for nice, clean, and new grout for the kitchen and living room floors entailed buying a couple of inexpensive hand tools and scraping away the old grout.

Hours of work!

DIY equals a huge temporary mess

            Optimistically, my husband and I grabbed the little tools and proceeded to scrape and gouge for four hours without removing much more than a layer of dirt! My son’s suggestion that we needed to resort to Tim the Tool Man’s motto, “More power!” resulted in a quick run to The Home Depot to purchase a reciprocating saw with the special grout removing attachment. After two more hours of work, we’d managed to remove the grout from a single eighteen foot strip. Quickly counting up the remaining “strips” for both rooms resulted in predictions that the grout removal would end sometime in 2014.

            Not to be deterred, we decided another power tool would cut the work in half, and so my husband borrowed another saw, purchased an even heavier-duty blade, and joined me in determined unity as we again attacked the grout. Another couple of hours left us with two and a half strips finished, hands aching from the vibrating saws, and the beginning of backaches from hell.

  

          All of the videos we observed showed people how to replace small sections of grout. Patch and repair jobs. None depicted the hell of removing entire rooms. Ever wonder why these home make-over shows rip out perfectly good tiles? We now know. It’s easier to take a jackhammer and rip out entire floors than to remove grout, even grout that is over twenty years old.

            So. . . . We admitted our defeat. We critically evaluated the worst sections in the living room (mainly in the entry way) and the kitchen and decided that we could do patches and repairs in these areas if we could get the existing old grout clean enough to match the new patches.

            Back to The Home Depot to purchase goggles, rubber gloves, and a miracle cleanser that we saturated onto a bad patch of old grout to do a test spot. After fifteen minutes to marinade, and a little elbow  grease with a sturdy grout brush, the end result looked almost new. Good enough for me, at least.

 I know in another world (where things always go right), the grout would have flaked effortlessly out of the grove. I would have sucked up every speck of dust with the Shop Vac and spread a nice, bright, new grout into every little crevice. But I don’t live in that world.

And so we scrubbed and patched. We conceded to our reality. My parents didn’t raise a fool.  

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

 
 


Floors cleaned, patched, buffed

 

Padme enjoying the "new" floors