Yesterday, I stole flowers from the neighbor's yard. Her name is Linda, and she doesn't actually live there anymore, but lives in Alaska (where she moved to live with her something like 7th husband) and still owns the house. She was always really mean to me--maybe it's because she confused me with the woman who lived here before that wandered naked out the door on numerous occasions, yelling at her boyfriend every step of the way. Maybe Linda confused me with the Iranian man who assaulted the prostitute and who she had to call the cops on. At any rate, I feel no guilt at attempting to commandeer some of her roses for my desk.
I tried to steal some a few weeks ago, but my neighbor Vinnie, the skinny man who resembles Ichabod Crane, and who fancies himself the neighborhood-watch, strolled over for a chat. I hid the clippers in my back pocket and made as if I was only leaning over the fence to sniff the roses.
I clipped four roses, all varying colors of fuschia. I saw some aphids on them, so I took them over to the hose to wash them off before I took them inside. After drowning the aphids out, I almost took them inside, until lots of earwigs started to emerge. The clipped roses went straight into the compost. Lesson learned.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I Still Miss Someone
Today is the two year anniversary of the death of my best pet ever, Smokey. While I have other pets, now, and have had other pets in the past, he will always be the one--I'm sure you probably have a pet like that, too.
I was devastated when I had to take him to the vet that morning because I knew he wouldn't be coming home. I called my friend Megan, and all I said was "I need to go to the vet," and she was at my house within minutes. I was afraid to be alone as they shot him up with the pink juice, and so she stayed in the room with me. She left to make some phone calls, one to her husband, and one to Justin to bring cigarettes and beer to my house (it was early on a Sunday morning) to meet us after it was all over.
While Megan was out, they prepared Smokey with a little i.v., and when I was ready to let him go, I went looking for Megan so she would be in the room with me when I summoned the vet. I couldn't find her, so I waited. When she walked back in the room, I said, "I looked for you." And she looked at Smokey and started to tear up and say something about how she was sorry she missed it. "No. I said. He's not dead, yet. He just looks like it." And though it's macabre, I have always thought it was funny that she thought he was already dead--I think we laughed about it then, or maybe it was later.
The other funny part is that we looked like a lesbian couple. Megan was wearing short pants, flip flops, and a The Sword t-shirt. Her hair was disheveled as I had disturbed her from her sleep, and she didn't take the time to get dolled up (thank you, Megan). I was dressed in a blue v-neck shirt with jeans that were rolled up and flip-flops. My legs hadn't been shaved in days, my hair was a mess, but I had brushed my teeth and donned a bra (thank god). Megan was really quiet as I talked to the vet; yet, he kept looking in her direction, maybe for answers or because I was suffering from a reasoned hysteria and she seemed sane, almost pleading with Megan, "You can reason with her, right?" as I asked my millions of questions about death, and tumors, and morals. I think we joked that day about him assuming we were a couple, she the angry lesbian who didn't like animals, and me, the lesbian that she had met and fallen in love with who just happened to have a cat that was older than dirt, that just wouldn't fucking die already.
Nothing in this world can prepare anyone for death. You think you're prepared, and the moment comes, and you're not prepared. And though I was lucky enough to see it and be there, watching the life leave one of your best friend's eyes is indescribable, eerie and peaceful all at the same time--eerie because it's so quick and peaceful because you finally know they are at rest.
I have often thought of writing a cat version of Marley and Me. The only problem being, pet stories bother me, even as I am writing this one. The other problem being that there are cat people in this world and there are dog people (rarely do the two combine, but it happens), and I have this nagging assumption that people just think dogs are funnier.
I will share two of my most favorite Smokey moments (a disclaimer: Smokey was an indoor/outdoor cat. When I got him, we lived in a neighborhood that had a big field out back and not much traffic, and he was happy outdoors--he used to fish in the ditch behind our house and come home sopping wet from his swim with fish in his mouth which he would leave on the doorstep. However, I didn't know the perils of outdoor cat life--well I did, but he drove me crazy trying to get outside, so I gave in, but I know better now.) :
At the house I lived in previously to the one I live in now, I had a next-door neighbor, Janey. Janey was an older woman that lived in the basement of a huge two story house. Her mother (who had recently died) occupied the top floor with her brother Tom, a very large developmentally challenged man who used to sit on the porch in his whitey-tighties and smoke cigarettes in the middle of the night. Janey had a nasty gray cat, Peasley. One of my first encounters with Janey was at about 5:00am on a weekday. I was getting ready for work and opened the window in my bedroom because I heard someone outside. She was lifting the cat door on her apartment window, right across our adjoining yards, and had her face pressed up to, and partially out of the cat door, and was calling "Peasley! Peasley!" We were face-to-face, separated by only a few yards as we both lived in the basement. "Oh, hello!" she said. It was one of our only encounters until she knocked on my door one evening. I opened the door to see her standing there, carrying a yellow household broom, one hand bleeding, the blood dripping all the way down her arm. "Can you come get your cat?" she asked. "What happened?" "He came in the cat door, but he won't leave. I started smacking him with the broom to get out of my house, and when I bent over to pick him up, he attacked me!" I toed the line of being amused (what did she expect, she was smacking him with a fucking broom?) and worried that I would end up on Judge Judy. I arrived to find Smokey hiding under a chair, and when he saw me, he crawled out, and I picked him up. Janey said he snuck in through the cat door and was eating her cat's food (a problem that I had over the years with Smokey where he would sneak into different people's homes to eat--I once locked myself in the bathroom to eat a sandwich because he wouldn't leave me and the sandwich alone). I tried to explain to Janey that "it was just sort of his thing," but she was convinced that I didn't feed him, and she sent me home with an almost full bag of Science Diet food because "Peasley didn't like it."
When I moved into my current house from my old apartment next door to Janey, Smokey still had his collar reading the old residence's address. I was at home, and I may have slept late that day as I remember nursing a hangover and never getting ready, simply showering and putting my pajamas back on. Justin was at my house, and we were sitting out on the deck. I got a phone call. "Hello?" I said. "Yes. I am here with someone named Smokey. I was at the park and when I went to leave, he jumped in my car. So, I hope it's alright, but I took him home." Oh, shit. I thought to myself. His tag says the wrong address. "You took him to the address on the tag?" "Yes. That's his home, isn't it?" "No. I haven't gotten him a new tag, but it's okay." Justin and I drove the few blocks to my old house where the woman said she had left Smokey on the doorstep. He wasn't there. I called a few times, and he came running from the direction of one of the neighbor's houses. Crisis averted.
So today I celebrate my pet, my friend, my dearly missed companion, Smokey the cat who survived being run over by my step-father returning from his early morning paper route (Smokey had to relearn how to walk), Smokey the cat who survived raccoon attacks, Smokey the cat who got dive-bombed by a seagull once and was deathly afraid whenever he saw them coming. I miss you, friend.
I was devastated when I had to take him to the vet that morning because I knew he wouldn't be coming home. I called my friend Megan, and all I said was "I need to go to the vet," and she was at my house within minutes. I was afraid to be alone as they shot him up with the pink juice, and so she stayed in the room with me. She left to make some phone calls, one to her husband, and one to Justin to bring cigarettes and beer to my house (it was early on a Sunday morning) to meet us after it was all over.
While Megan was out, they prepared Smokey with a little i.v., and when I was ready to let him go, I went looking for Megan so she would be in the room with me when I summoned the vet. I couldn't find her, so I waited. When she walked back in the room, I said, "I looked for you." And she looked at Smokey and started to tear up and say something about how she was sorry she missed it. "No. I said. He's not dead, yet. He just looks like it." And though it's macabre, I have always thought it was funny that she thought he was already dead--I think we laughed about it then, or maybe it was later.
The other funny part is that we looked like a lesbian couple. Megan was wearing short pants, flip flops, and a The Sword t-shirt. Her hair was disheveled as I had disturbed her from her sleep, and she didn't take the time to get dolled up (thank you, Megan). I was dressed in a blue v-neck shirt with jeans that were rolled up and flip-flops. My legs hadn't been shaved in days, my hair was a mess, but I had brushed my teeth and donned a bra (thank god). Megan was really quiet as I talked to the vet; yet, he kept looking in her direction, maybe for answers or because I was suffering from a reasoned hysteria and she seemed sane, almost pleading with Megan, "You can reason with her, right?" as I asked my millions of questions about death, and tumors, and morals. I think we joked that day about him assuming we were a couple, she the angry lesbian who didn't like animals, and me, the lesbian that she had met and fallen in love with who just happened to have a cat that was older than dirt, that just wouldn't fucking die already.
Nothing in this world can prepare anyone for death. You think you're prepared, and the moment comes, and you're not prepared. And though I was lucky enough to see it and be there, watching the life leave one of your best friend's eyes is indescribable, eerie and peaceful all at the same time--eerie because it's so quick and peaceful because you finally know they are at rest.
I have often thought of writing a cat version of Marley and Me. The only problem being, pet stories bother me, even as I am writing this one. The other problem being that there are cat people in this world and there are dog people (rarely do the two combine, but it happens), and I have this nagging assumption that people just think dogs are funnier.
I will share two of my most favorite Smokey moments (a disclaimer: Smokey was an indoor/outdoor cat. When I got him, we lived in a neighborhood that had a big field out back and not much traffic, and he was happy outdoors--he used to fish in the ditch behind our house and come home sopping wet from his swim with fish in his mouth which he would leave on the doorstep. However, I didn't know the perils of outdoor cat life--well I did, but he drove me crazy trying to get outside, so I gave in, but I know better now.) :
At the house I lived in previously to the one I live in now, I had a next-door neighbor, Janey. Janey was an older woman that lived in the basement of a huge two story house. Her mother (who had recently died) occupied the top floor with her brother Tom, a very large developmentally challenged man who used to sit on the porch in his whitey-tighties and smoke cigarettes in the middle of the night. Janey had a nasty gray cat, Peasley. One of my first encounters with Janey was at about 5:00am on a weekday. I was getting ready for work and opened the window in my bedroom because I heard someone outside. She was lifting the cat door on her apartment window, right across our adjoining yards, and had her face pressed up to, and partially out of the cat door, and was calling "Peasley! Peasley!" We were face-to-face, separated by only a few yards as we both lived in the basement. "Oh, hello!" she said. It was one of our only encounters until she knocked on my door one evening. I opened the door to see her standing there, carrying a yellow household broom, one hand bleeding, the blood dripping all the way down her arm. "Can you come get your cat?" she asked. "What happened?" "He came in the cat door, but he won't leave. I started smacking him with the broom to get out of my house, and when I bent over to pick him up, he attacked me!" I toed the line of being amused (what did she expect, she was smacking him with a fucking broom?) and worried that I would end up on Judge Judy. I arrived to find Smokey hiding under a chair, and when he saw me, he crawled out, and I picked him up. Janey said he snuck in through the cat door and was eating her cat's food (a problem that I had over the years with Smokey where he would sneak into different people's homes to eat--I once locked myself in the bathroom to eat a sandwich because he wouldn't leave me and the sandwich alone). I tried to explain to Janey that "it was just sort of his thing," but she was convinced that I didn't feed him, and she sent me home with an almost full bag of Science Diet food because "Peasley didn't like it."
When I moved into my current house from my old apartment next door to Janey, Smokey still had his collar reading the old residence's address. I was at home, and I may have slept late that day as I remember nursing a hangover and never getting ready, simply showering and putting my pajamas back on. Justin was at my house, and we were sitting out on the deck. I got a phone call. "Hello?" I said. "Yes. I am here with someone named Smokey. I was at the park and when I went to leave, he jumped in my car. So, I hope it's alright, but I took him home." Oh, shit. I thought to myself. His tag says the wrong address. "You took him to the address on the tag?" "Yes. That's his home, isn't it?" "No. I haven't gotten him a new tag, but it's okay." Justin and I drove the few blocks to my old house where the woman said she had left Smokey on the doorstep. He wasn't there. I called a few times, and he came running from the direction of one of the neighbor's houses. Crisis averted.
So today I celebrate my pet, my friend, my dearly missed companion, Smokey the cat who survived being run over by my step-father returning from his early morning paper route (Smokey had to relearn how to walk), Smokey the cat who survived raccoon attacks, Smokey the cat who got dive-bombed by a seagull once and was deathly afraid whenever he saw them coming. I miss you, friend.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Arrest Photos
I see a lot of arrest photos everyday because of the nature of my work. This rates as the saddest one I have ever seen in my life:
Drunk people make bad decisions--I know because I have been a drunk person on occasion--but jumping off of the freeway into the dark was probably not the best idea, even for a drunk person.
Read the article here:
http://www.ktvb.com/news/Man-arrested-after-crashing-car-jumping-off-connector-97331839.html
Drunk people make bad decisions--I know because I have been a drunk person on occasion--but jumping off of the freeway into the dark was probably not the best idea, even for a drunk person.
Read the article here:
http://www.ktvb.com/news/Man-arrested-after-crashing-car-jumping-off-connector-97331839.html
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Gift
Today I arrived at work to find this right outside the front door to the building:
A television on top of the ashtray/trashcan.
I snapped this photo and wondered why someone would leave a TV there and more importantly I wonder about the television's journey and how it's new home came to be the ashtray. It's small enough that it could have been one man or one woman's solo-job.
I didn't have to wait long for my explanation. When my boss arrived at work today, and I pointed the television out, he said that yesterday he saw two men stumbling through the bushes with the TV (why they didn't use the sidewalk I don't know), and he didn't think they could see him, presumably because the windows are tinted. They plugged the TV in, discovered it didn't work, and left it on the ashtray. My boss thinks it came from the dumpster. I guess the men didn't feel like stumbling through the bushes just to put it back where it came from. Imagine if it would have worked.
A television on top of the ashtray/trashcan.
I snapped this photo and wondered why someone would leave a TV there and more importantly I wonder about the television's journey and how it's new home came to be the ashtray. It's small enough that it could have been one man or one woman's solo-job.
I didn't have to wait long for my explanation. When my boss arrived at work today, and I pointed the television out, he said that yesterday he saw two men stumbling through the bushes with the TV (why they didn't use the sidewalk I don't know), and he didn't think they could see him, presumably because the windows are tinted. They plugged the TV in, discovered it didn't work, and left it on the ashtray. My boss thinks it came from the dumpster. I guess the men didn't feel like stumbling through the bushes just to put it back where it came from. Imagine if it would have worked.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Fireworks: Day 1
The sheriff was at our fireworks tent when I arrived Friday morning. A woman had called to complain that there was a three-year-old boy standing on the street being exploited for advertisement purposes. I arrived just as the sheriff was leaving (an obvious good sign and good start to any venture), and the story is this: My nephew, a six-year-old boy donned his fourth of July top hat--you know, the hat that Uncle Sam wears--grabbed a sign in the shape of an arrow that reads "FIREWORKS!" and headed to the corner to fulfill his fantasy of being a business sign handler. You've seen them--they're the guys that dance around in an effort to convince you to buy a $5.00 foot-long. The top hat was not purchased for the express purposes of advertising at the fireworks stand but was purchased for my nephew to wear during "superhero day" at his daycare. I can't figure out who in my family thinks Uncle Sam is a superhero, but maybe it was my nephew as he is proving to be quite the entrepreneur.
A story about my six-year-old nephew that was relayed to me yesterday unrelated to the sheriff: Around the time of my older nephew's birthday, 6-year-old nephew checked the mail everyday for two weeks for birthday cards and money intended for his brother. My sister only discovered this after she found a ten dollar bill on 6-year-old nephew's bedroom floor and couldn't figure out where he had gotten it. He confessed (I think), and the birthday card intended for older nephew was found under the mattress.
Setting up the fireworks and labeling them was a slow process, but we had a few customers--most nice, and one not so much. The not-so-nice-family was the token "hails from the mountains and are only stopping in Boise because we are on our way back from a 9 day really expensive river excursion" family.
The day wrapped up (for me) with a windstorm that knocked over this rack which I picked up off the ground before the picture was taken because my sister was on her way, and I didn't want to get my ass chewed (notice some contents still on the ground):
And this photo of my mom (which she is obviously happy I am taking) exemplifies the feeling of sitting/walking around a dirt lot with weeds and millions of goatheads--her eyes are red because of allergies--and my nose at this point was full of black-lung dirt boogers. Also this photo is about 2 hours before the stool, which we had positioned in front of the register and that I predicted would break, crumpled and pitched my mom into the dirt, filling her knees and hands with goatheads, making her pee her pants. If you visit the stand and meet her and are reading this, don't tell her I told you.
And I love my mom. I'm not intending to make fun. I would say the same things about myself if they had happened to me.
A story about my six-year-old nephew that was relayed to me yesterday unrelated to the sheriff: Around the time of my older nephew's birthday, 6-year-old nephew checked the mail everyday for two weeks for birthday cards and money intended for his brother. My sister only discovered this after she found a ten dollar bill on 6-year-old nephew's bedroom floor and couldn't figure out where he had gotten it. He confessed (I think), and the birthday card intended for older nephew was found under the mattress.
Setting up the fireworks and labeling them was a slow process, but we had a few customers--most nice, and one not so much. The not-so-nice-family was the token "hails from the mountains and are only stopping in Boise because we are on our way back from a 9 day really expensive river excursion" family.
The day wrapped up (for me) with a windstorm that knocked over this rack which I picked up off the ground before the picture was taken because my sister was on her way, and I didn't want to get my ass chewed (notice some contents still on the ground):
And this photo of my mom (which she is obviously happy I am taking) exemplifies the feeling of sitting/walking around a dirt lot with weeds and millions of goatheads--her eyes are red because of allergies--and my nose at this point was full of black-lung dirt boogers. Also this photo is about 2 hours before the stool, which we had positioned in front of the register and that I predicted would break, crumpled and pitched my mom into the dirt, filling her knees and hands with goatheads, making her pee her pants. If you visit the stand and meet her and are reading this, don't tell her I told you.
And I love my mom. I'm not intending to make fun. I would say the same things about myself if they had happened to me.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Special K
I was out of tampons and coffee at the same time. I only wanted one stop, and you can't get tampons at all my favorite local coffee shops. Eight O'Clock coffee is the best whole bean coffee I have tasted available at the store--the problem being, you can only get it at one store--Walmart.
I got my coffee and tampons and headed for the checkout just in time to see a woman dip her hand into a box of Special K cereal and shovel a handful into her mouth.
As a child, if I got a drink out of one of the free standing coolers in the grocery store, my mom never let me open it until after we paid for it--even if I was DYING of thirst, I still had to wait. As an adult, if I am DYING of thirst and grab a bottle of water, I open it, and steal a few drinks before tightening the lid back down and putting it in my cart. Of course, I pay for it later. Every time I do this, I feel guilty, and I think of my mom's anger at the act.
Opening a box of Special K to eat dry cereal by the handful at the store seems to be pushing it. It's like opening a block of cheese to gnaw on the end, or buying a rotisserie chicken from the deli, ripping off the leg and having a meal of drumstick as you push the cart.
The only explanation comes from my friend: Walmart is like going to the state fair, all year long.
I got my coffee and tampons and headed for the checkout just in time to see a woman dip her hand into a box of Special K cereal and shovel a handful into her mouth.
As a child, if I got a drink out of one of the free standing coolers in the grocery store, my mom never let me open it until after we paid for it--even if I was DYING of thirst, I still had to wait. As an adult, if I am DYING of thirst and grab a bottle of water, I open it, and steal a few drinks before tightening the lid back down and putting it in my cart. Of course, I pay for it later. Every time I do this, I feel guilty, and I think of my mom's anger at the act.
Opening a box of Special K to eat dry cereal by the handful at the store seems to be pushing it. It's like opening a block of cheese to gnaw on the end, or buying a rotisserie chicken from the deli, ripping off the leg and having a meal of drumstick as you push the cart.
The only explanation comes from my friend: Walmart is like going to the state fair, all year long.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Sometimes water is just more palatable
Today a very close friend of mine ( I would quote him directly, but I don't know if he wants his name mentioned) said to me:
"Blood relationships are an accident of birth, so there's no reason you should have to maintain them and suffer emotionally just because you're kin."
I agree. Relationships take work, and mostly the work is worth it. But what about when it's not worth it? Today it occurred to me that a lot of times people don't hold their families to the standards that they hold their friends. Why? I also wonder why more people don't actively seek estrangement from their family members who they only complain about or who make them feel bad. Is it because we fear we will ultimately be alone in the end but blood ties bind? Blood relatives are obligated to be there until the end? I don't want people in my life because of obligation; I want them in my life because they care about my well being and want to be there--the same reason I want to be around for someone.
Human body weight is about 7% blood and 55-60% in water. Blood is the circulating fluid, it keeps the heart going, but it is made of about 50% water. Water is more abundant and easier to find and in most cases tastes better.
"Blood relationships are an accident of birth, so there's no reason you should have to maintain them and suffer emotionally just because you're kin."
I agree. Relationships take work, and mostly the work is worth it. But what about when it's not worth it? Today it occurred to me that a lot of times people don't hold their families to the standards that they hold their friends. Why? I also wonder why more people don't actively seek estrangement from their family members who they only complain about or who make them feel bad. Is it because we fear we will ultimately be alone in the end but blood ties bind? Blood relatives are obligated to be there until the end? I don't want people in my life because of obligation; I want them in my life because they care about my well being and want to be there--the same reason I want to be around for someone.
Human body weight is about 7% blood and 55-60% in water. Blood is the circulating fluid, it keeps the heart going, but it is made of about 50% water. Water is more abundant and easier to find and in most cases tastes better.
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