Thursday, September 30, 2004
The House Mouse
There’s a mouse in our house
And I don’t mean to grouse
But he munches the dog food for Scrabble.
He scratches and steals
All the poor doggie’s meals
And runs off to feed all the rabble.
The mouse in our house
Well, he’s cute when he’s roused
And he skittles across the floor, addled.
Though he hardens like steel
When he hears the mouse squeal
He’s frightened, our poor little Scrabble.
There’s a mouse in our house
- thinks he lives here, the louse -
And it may sound like crazed psychobabble,
But he has an appeal
Though he stays mostly concealed
And the thought of him leaves me quite rattled.
Against the mouse in our house
I must espouse
I haven’t put up a real battle.
He has an appeal
This thief of dog meals
And I can’t call the landlord to tattle
And I don’t mean to grouse
But he munches the dog food for Scrabble.
He scratches and steals
All the poor doggie’s meals
And runs off to feed all the rabble.
The mouse in our house
Well, he’s cute when he’s roused
And he skittles across the floor, addled.
Though he hardens like steel
When he hears the mouse squeal
He’s frightened, our poor little Scrabble.
There’s a mouse in our house
- thinks he lives here, the louse -
And it may sound like crazed psychobabble,
But he has an appeal
Though he stays mostly concealed
And the thought of him leaves me quite rattled.
Against the mouse in our house
I must espouse
I haven’t put up a real battle.
He has an appeal
This thief of dog meals
And I can’t call the landlord to tattle
Monday, September 27, 2004
Trapped
So, we got this new cafe table/chair set to go in the kitchen, because the washer/dryer take up too much space for the big wooden bench and table. I’m sitting in one of the chairs, doing the crossword, when Scrabble bolts out the back door. I start to get up.
“I’ll get him!” Scott calls as he dashes out after him - and suddenly I find myself struggling to keep my balance.
I let out a yelp as I almost fall down. I try to get up again, only to realize that my belt loop had somehow gotten entangled in the scrollwork on the metal chairback. I tried to free myself, but I couldn’t see or feel how it was tangled. I was trapped in the chair, and it was too heavy to stand up.
I sat there, alone and feeling pretty goddamn retarded, until Scott came trotting back in with Scrabble.
“Here we are! Bad dog!” he said, and put the dog down on the linoleum floor. He smiled at me. I struggled to get up.
“Um, honey... I’m stuck,” I said. He burst into laughter, and untangled the belt loop as we both laughed.
“That’s going in my journal!” He crowed. “That’s too hysterical.”
“I was afraid you were going to hop in the car and go to the store,” I said. That made him laugh harder.
“I heard you yelp, but I thought you were just saying ‘thank you,’” he said.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“I’ll get him!” Scott calls as he dashes out after him - and suddenly I find myself struggling to keep my balance.
I let out a yelp as I almost fall down. I try to get up again, only to realize that my belt loop had somehow gotten entangled in the scrollwork on the metal chairback. I tried to free myself, but I couldn’t see or feel how it was tangled. I was trapped in the chair, and it was too heavy to stand up.
I sat there, alone and feeling pretty goddamn retarded, until Scott came trotting back in with Scrabble.
“Here we are! Bad dog!” he said, and put the dog down on the linoleum floor. He smiled at me. I struggled to get up.
“Um, honey... I’m stuck,” I said. He burst into laughter, and untangled the belt loop as we both laughed.
“That’s going in my journal!” He crowed. “That’s too hysterical.”
“I was afraid you were going to hop in the car and go to the store,” I said. That made him laugh harder.
“I heard you yelp, but I thought you were just saying ‘thank you,’” he said.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Showing my ass
I’m getting ready to go to work, running around quasi late. The dog, seeing me putting on my shoes and grabbing my purse and keys, endeavors to stop me from leaving. Daddy’s asleep, so he knows it will be hours before anyone plays with him. I step over him, around him, and try to lose him several times. He is undeterred.
Suddenly, I am on my face on the hardwood floor, stunned. I feel a breeze from the ceiling fans and realize my ass is exposed. I sit up, cautiously. The dog runs a quick figure-8 around me, into the nursery, and back. He takes hold of my skirt, and I get it. He pulled my skirt down with his teeth and tripped me. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to react. But here I am: on the floor, half naked, with a throbbing cheekbone. Incredible. I suppress the urge to use him as a football and partially shut him in the living room with Scott. It will take him just long enough to escape that I can make MY escape. I leave, rubbing my face and checking the position of my skirt.
It’s probably going to be a long day
Suddenly, I am on my face on the hardwood floor, stunned. I feel a breeze from the ceiling fans and realize my ass is exposed. I sit up, cautiously. The dog runs a quick figure-8 around me, into the nursery, and back. He takes hold of my skirt, and I get it. He pulled my skirt down with his teeth and tripped me. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to react. But here I am: on the floor, half naked, with a throbbing cheekbone. Incredible. I suppress the urge to use him as a football and partially shut him in the living room with Scott. It will take him just long enough to escape that I can make MY escape. I leave, rubbing my face and checking the position of my skirt.
It’s probably going to be a long day
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Shit
I’m sitting at the computer, replying to emails, when Scrabble waddles up to me, propelled by his rapidly wagging tail. He’s carrying something in his mouth he’s very excited about. I’m sure it’s yet another random piece of plastic he’s found on the floor.
“Hey, boy!”
He wags harder.
“Whatcha doin’ sweetie pie?”
He yelps a little, and waddles closer. I reach down and scratch behind his ears.
“What a good boy! Whatcha got there. Scrabble?”
He nudges my hand with his nose, and drops his prize into my hand.
“Oh, thank you!”
I scratch him again, and look at the object. It is a dark, hard, cylindrical-shaped object.
“What’s this, sweetie?”
And then I realize. Oh, crap. It’s crap. It’s a nasty, dried-out piece of dog poo. Aw. How loved I feel.
“Hey, boy!”
He wags harder.
“Whatcha doin’ sweetie pie?”
He yelps a little, and waddles closer. I reach down and scratch behind his ears.
“What a good boy! Whatcha got there. Scrabble?”
He nudges my hand with his nose, and drops his prize into my hand.
“Oh, thank you!”
I scratch him again, and look at the object. It is a dark, hard, cylindrical-shaped object.
“What’s this, sweetie?”
And then I realize. Oh, crap. It’s crap. It’s a nasty, dried-out piece of dog poo. Aw. How loved I feel.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Now We're Married. 'Bout Time
Patsy and Jim DID NOT send in our marriage license. Instead, they marched themselves down to the Augusta-Richmond County Courthouse and hand delivered it - but not before they demanded that the probate officer change (in the computer records; the document itself is already set) the city of origin for Scott's father. Does the phrase "None of your business" ever enter her mind?
Nevermind. I know it doesn't.
Nevermind. I know it doesn't.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Politics. Yay. Fun.
<>Joe: I still think the war was the right thing to do.
Me: I don’t think you should use the words “war” and “right” in the same sentence.
Joe: No, seriously, we have to take these guys out. We had to go to war. But I still love you guys, no matter who you vote for.
Scott: Well, my vote for Kerry is going to cancel your vote for Bush out, and Stacey’s voting for Kerry, so we win.
Me: Wait a minute, now, I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Scott: Really?!
Joe: She’s gonna vote for Nadar! Alllright! Then we really will win!
Me: No, I’m not voting for Nadar. But I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Joe: Well, since I’m here, let me convince you -
Me: I’m not voting for Bush. But I haven’t decided to vote for Kerry, either.
Joe: What other viable candidate is there?
Me: Well, the Libertarian Party’s candidate is viable. Their -
Joe: They want to legalize crack, heroin, and cocaine!
Me: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Scott: That was a very astute political observation.
Me: What?
Scott: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Me: Well, the problem with political discussion is that everyone depends on hyperbole. And it doesn’t accomplish anything. Anyway, I might vote for Kerry. I just haven’t decided.
Joe: Kerry got a scratch on the knee and three purple hearts! The bullet ricocheted off like three different things and scratched his knee and he got sent home!
Me: I don’t know anything about that, but what’s your point? I mean, he still has more experience in battle than Bush.
Joe: He can’t win this war.
Me: We’re not at war.
Joe: What? How can you say that?
Me: Oh, we went to war. We marched in, triumphant, and there was much rejoicing, and the statues came tumbling down. And then we sat back and waited. We fortify our positions while they find ways through ‘em. I don’t know much about tactics, but I do know that wars aren’t won from defensive positions.
Joe: But we got Saddam!
Me: So? Saddam isn’t Hitler. Baghdad isn’t Berlin. We’re still fighting as though this is World War II, and it’s not.
Joe (shaking his head): But we had to get Saddam! We have to take these guys out!
Me: Saddam was a dictator. Hitler was a charismatic leader. There’s a difference in how the effects the troops and government. There’s no centralized, top-down kind of structure in Baghdad. It’s a grassroots movement.
Joe: Still, we had to get these guys.
Me: Why did we have to do it?
Joe: Because - I mean, okay, like, the French were totally in bed with the Iraqis.
Me: No argument there.
Joe: So that’s why they didn’t support us. That’s why we didn’t go in with French troops.
Me: Yeah? We didn’t go in with a squadron of kazoo players, either. The French didn’t matter.
Joe: That’s true. That’s true. But Kerry still can’t win this war.
Lord. I’ll just drop it. I was hoping for a more two-way discussion on the war, but Joe was just too drunk already. Besides, he’s a die-hard Republican, and I don’t like any of the political parties. I don’t know if the war was justified. I just know that we didn’t go about it the right way.
Me: I don’t think you should use the words “war” and “right” in the same sentence.
Joe: No, seriously, we have to take these guys out. We had to go to war. But I still love you guys, no matter who you vote for.
Scott: Well, my vote for Kerry is going to cancel your vote for Bush out, and Stacey’s voting for Kerry, so we win.
Me: Wait a minute, now, I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Scott: Really?!
Joe: She’s gonna vote for Nadar! Alllright! Then we really will win!
Me: No, I’m not voting for Nadar. But I haven’t decided who I’m voting for.
Joe: Well, since I’m here, let me convince you -
Me: I’m not voting for Bush. But I haven’t decided to vote for Kerry, either.
Joe: What other viable candidate is there?
Me: Well, the Libertarian Party’s candidate is viable. Their -
Joe: They want to legalize crack, heroin, and cocaine!
Me: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Scott: That was a very astute political observation.
Me: What?
Scott: They want to decriminalize marijuana.
Me: Well, the problem with political discussion is that everyone depends on hyperbole. And it doesn’t accomplish anything. Anyway, I might vote for Kerry. I just haven’t decided.
Joe: Kerry got a scratch on the knee and three purple hearts! The bullet ricocheted off like three different things and scratched his knee and he got sent home!
Me: I don’t know anything about that, but what’s your point? I mean, he still has more experience in battle than Bush.
Joe: He can’t win this war.
Me: We’re not at war.
Joe: What? How can you say that?
Me: Oh, we went to war. We marched in, triumphant, and there was much rejoicing, and the statues came tumbling down. And then we sat back and waited. We fortify our positions while they find ways through ‘em. I don’t know much about tactics, but I do know that wars aren’t won from defensive positions.
Joe: But we got Saddam!
Me: So? Saddam isn’t Hitler. Baghdad isn’t Berlin. We’re still fighting as though this is World War II, and it’s not.
Joe (shaking his head): But we had to get Saddam! We have to take these guys out!
Me: Saddam was a dictator. Hitler was a charismatic leader. There’s a difference in how the effects the troops and government. There’s no centralized, top-down kind of structure in Baghdad. It’s a grassroots movement.
Joe: Still, we had to get these guys.
Me: Why did we have to do it?
Joe: Because - I mean, okay, like, the French were totally in bed with the Iraqis.
Me: No argument there.
Joe: So that’s why they didn’t support us. That’s why we didn’t go in with French troops.
Me: Yeah? We didn’t go in with a squadron of kazoo players, either. The French didn’t matter.
Joe: That’s true. That’s true. But Kerry still can’t win this war.
Lord. I’ll just drop it. I was hoping for a more two-way discussion on the war, but Joe was just too drunk already. Besides, he’s a die-hard Republican, and I don’t like any of the political parties. I don’t know if the war was justified. I just know that we didn’t go about it the right way.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Despite the wedding, we're still not married
Patsy and Jim have not yet mailed our marriage license (which means that we are not yet legally married). They did, however, OPEN THE ENVELOPE, read the contents,
and decide not to send it, based on the grounds that Scott gave the wrong city of birth for his father.
Hell, I probably gave the wrong city of birth for dad. I didn't know they were going to ask, and I blanked out, and the lady at the Probate Court said, "It's not important. Just guess." So I said "Well, it's either San Antonio or Tulsa. Maybe. I guess just put San Antonio, since he's a Texan at heart," at which she laughed.
Scott's father was adopted, and he didn't know where he was born, so he guessed Portland, where he had been raised. Apparently, he was born in Troy, Alabama. Well, who wants to be from Troy, Alabama, anyway?
So Patsy called yesterday and said she was going to photocopy the document, white out the incorrect information, write in the correct information, and then send it in. I was incredulous. It's a legal document, notorized and stamped. What is she thinking? Besides, it's none of her business what our legal documents say. But apparently Scott defiled the memory of his dead father, or something.
After about 15 minutes of Scott saying, "Mother, it doesn't matter. They just told us to guess. I didn't know where he was born, and I didn't know they were going to ask that... No, I couldn't call you, we were at the Probate Court... No, mother, we don't need a cell phone..." and so on. I finally said, "Tell Patsy that I'd like to be legally married before the end of the week, and if she can't put the damn thing in the mail, I'll be there in 15 minutes to get it." And Scott said, "Stacey said to tell you to stop being a butthead and send it in." Gee, thanks, Scott. That helped. Scott finally got Jim on the phone and made him promise to send it in today.
Hell, I probably gave the wrong city of birth for dad. I didn't know they were going to ask, and I blanked out, and the lady at the Probate Court said, "It's not important. Just guess." So I said "Well, it's either San Antonio or Tulsa. Maybe. I guess just put San Antonio, since he's a Texan at heart," at which she laughed.
Scott's father was adopted, and he didn't know where he was born, so he guessed Portland, where he had been raised. Apparently, he was born in Troy, Alabama. Well, who wants to be from Troy, Alabama, anyway?
So Patsy called yesterday and said she was going to photocopy the document, white out the incorrect information, write in the correct information, and then send it in. I was incredulous. It's a legal document, notorized and stamped. What is she thinking? Besides, it's none of her business what our legal documents say. But apparently Scott defiled the memory of his dead father, or something.
After about 15 minutes of Scott saying, "Mother, it doesn't matter. They just told us to guess. I didn't know where he was born, and I didn't know they were going to ask that... No, I couldn't call you, we were at the Probate Court... No, mother, we don't need a cell phone..." and so on. I finally said, "Tell Patsy that I'd like to be legally married before the end of the week, and if she can't put the damn thing in the mail, I'll be there in 15 minutes to get it." And Scott said, "Stacey said to tell you to stop being a butthead and send it in." Gee, thanks, Scott. That helped. Scott finally got Jim on the phone and made him promise to send it in today.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Granny's purse
I was having a hard day - “hormone intoxication,” I suppose, since nothing was really wrong - and I had to go to the mall. I don’t like the mall, but I had to go pick up wedding-related crap. It was raining like hell and when I got back to the front, it was raining even harder, if it’s possible, and I paused to marvel at the sky and open the umbrella.
I was fumbling with the snap when some little FUCKER - must have been all of 14 years old - ran up and tried to snatch it away from me! I mean, he didn’t go after my purse, which might have been worthwhile. No. He wanted my umbrella.
My finger was hooked in the handle or it would have slipped into his undeserving little claws. Instead, I yanked back, and he didn’t let go! He tried to yank it away from me, but I twisted it and managed to pull it from him. I was seeing red. I swung the umbrella at him, and hit him on the shoulder. He looked mildly surprised, and then contemptuous.
Oh, reeeeeally? Well, take that! I smacked him again. And THAT! I swung at his ribs, but he barely blocked it with his forearm. I wasn’t done. I swung again in the other direction, this time at his exposed back, striking home. I saw him flinch. I. Smelled. Blood. I swung again. And again. Then I realized I was shouting at him.
“I’m five - (smack!) - months - (thwack) - pregnant, you little fuck! What - (pow!) the fuck (kapow!) - is wrong with you?!”
He fended me off with his arms and hands, and for a split second it looked like he was thinking about taking a swing at me. I flipped the umbrella around and swung at his head with the handle. He ducked, stumbled once, and skitted back, mildly frightened. Then he loped off into the parking lot, looking chagrined, and a little confused.
I stopped, panting, clutching my stomach. I was furious, and slowly my vision cleared. I noticed, suddenly, that people were looking at me. They weren’t friendly. They were more like “someone call the police, there’s a crazy woman loose at the mall” kind of looks. I considered defending myself, but instead I mustered what was left of my dignity, smoothed my hair back from my Cro-Magnum forehead, snapped open my umbrella, and pranced off through the storm.
I was fumbling with the snap when some little FUCKER - must have been all of 14 years old - ran up and tried to snatch it away from me! I mean, he didn’t go after my purse, which might have been worthwhile. No. He wanted my umbrella.
My finger was hooked in the handle or it would have slipped into his undeserving little claws. Instead, I yanked back, and he didn’t let go! He tried to yank it away from me, but I twisted it and managed to pull it from him. I was seeing red. I swung the umbrella at him, and hit him on the shoulder. He looked mildly surprised, and then contemptuous.
Oh, reeeeeally? Well, take that! I smacked him again. And THAT! I swung at his ribs, but he barely blocked it with his forearm. I wasn’t done. I swung again in the other direction, this time at his exposed back, striking home. I saw him flinch. I. Smelled. Blood. I swung again. And again. Then I realized I was shouting at him.
“I’m five - (smack!) - months - (thwack) - pregnant, you little fuck! What - (pow!) the fuck (kapow!) - is wrong with you?!”
He fended me off with his arms and hands, and for a split second it looked like he was thinking about taking a swing at me. I flipped the umbrella around and swung at his head with the handle. He ducked, stumbled once, and skitted back, mildly frightened. Then he loped off into the parking lot, looking chagrined, and a little confused.
I stopped, panting, clutching my stomach. I was furious, and slowly my vision cleared. I noticed, suddenly, that people were looking at me. They weren’t friendly. They were more like “someone call the police, there’s a crazy woman loose at the mall” kind of looks. I considered defending myself, but instead I mustered what was left of my dignity, smoothed my hair back from my Cro-Magnum forehead, snapped open my umbrella, and pranced off through the storm.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Reluctant Grown-up
Scott: I just can’t believe all of the stuff you have for the nursery!
Me: Yeah?
Scott: Yeah! It’s like you’ve been just waiting to have a kid.
Me (confused): What stuff are you talking about?
Scott: You know, the Pez, the Powerpuff Girls stuff, the action figures...
I stare at him.
Scott: What?
Me: Um, honey, those are my toys.
Me: Yeah?
Scott: Yeah! It’s like you’ve been just waiting to have a kid.
Me (confused): What stuff are you talking about?
Scott: You know, the Pez, the Powerpuff Girls stuff, the action figures...
I stare at him.
Scott: What?
Me: Um, honey, those are my toys.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Wedding, schmedding
They say that even the most unusual woman becomes a traditionalist where her wedding is involved. I am not so unusual, and I’d have been perfectly happy to go along and live my life with Scott without a huge wedding. Without even a small wedding. WITHOUT A WEDDING AT ALL.
Every decision I make is second guessed by everyone but my sister, who would only second guess me if... Actually, I suppose I’d have to kill someone before she does.
Every decision I make is second guessed by everyone but my sister, who would only second guess me if... Actually, I suppose I’d have to kill someone before she does.
- I’m not having a garter taken off my upper thigh. It’s degrading. Scott is pissed off about this. I will forever thank Aubrey for agreeing with me in front of him. Of course, his mother thinks I’m insane. “I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense to me,” I told her. “But, it’s tradition!” she replied.
- I’m not throwing a bouquet. It’s stupid AND degrading. I’d just throw it to my sister, anyway, so it’s pretty useless. “But, honey, all the single girls will be disappointed,” my mother said. “Well, they can cry in the breakroom at the typing pool, mother - 30 YEARS AGO!” I replied.
- I’m not doing bride’s side/groom’s side. “But why?!” Scott’s mother said, and I made up something about it holding up the seating process. She let that go, thank god.
- “What are you going to do with your hair?” my mother asked. “I dunno. I figured I’d brush it. That’s more than I usually do,” I replied. If looks could kill...
- “What shoes are you going to wear?” my mother asked. “Shoes?” I replied. “Uh, I hadn’t planned on wearing any.” I tried to follow her response, but only dogs could hear her.
- Will everyone leave me alone about the food? You’re lucky we’re even having any, you bunch of moochers.
- Speaking of food, since when does the paster NOT get invited to the rehearsal dinner? What kind of lunacy is this? “But, they’re doing a job. I mean, you hire them for it, they’re not really IN the wedding,” his mother told me. “Um, no. They’re just running the wedding. I wouldn’t feel right about not inviting him.”
- I really really wanted my dog at the wedding. You don’t know how much I adore my dog. My mother went absolutely off on me. For days. About how I was ruining the wedding. Embarassing her. Four of the nastiest emails I have ever received. Fine. The dog is out. But I’ll be pissed about the whole thing for a while.
- No one seems to be able to just smile and say: “That sounds nice.” They wave their arms and holler about tradition, and “it won’t look right”, when they really mean: “That’s not the way I want it.”
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Jesus Christ
I’m in the nursery on the phone with Penny. Scrabble has followed me in, and all of the toys, etc., for the nursery are in boxes and piles. I hear a rustling sound and turn to see Scrabble’s teeth firmly embedded in Buttercup’s head. Thank God it’s just a pillow.
“No, Scrabble!”
The dog stops chewing and looks at me, tail wagging, teeth still gripping the pillow.
“No! Bad dog!”
He gives a little growl of frustration and lets go. I go back to my conversation. Seconds later, the sound comes again. I turn to see him dragging a coconut headed something, twice his size, out of a box.
“No, Scrabble! Scrabble!”
He turns to look at me.
“No! We don’t chew on toys!”
He bounces around the room for a minute, and stops, wagging his tail.
“Good boy!”
I go back to trying to find the file I want to send Penny. Shortly, I hear a crackling noise. This time, he has the head of my Jesus action figure in his mouth.
“Scrabble, no! We don’t chew on the son of god!”
“No, Scrabble!”
The dog stops chewing and looks at me, tail wagging, teeth still gripping the pillow.
“No! Bad dog!”
He gives a little growl of frustration and lets go. I go back to my conversation. Seconds later, the sound comes again. I turn to see him dragging a coconut headed something, twice his size, out of a box.
“No, Scrabble! Scrabble!”
He turns to look at me.
“No! We don’t chew on toys!”
He bounces around the room for a minute, and stops, wagging his tail.
“Good boy!”
I go back to trying to find the file I want to send Penny. Shortly, I hear a crackling noise. This time, he has the head of my Jesus action figure in his mouth.
“Scrabble, no! We don’t chew on the son of god!”
Chi Toy
Scrabble will chew anything. He chews socks, shoes, books, LOVES the telephone book, and has taken to chewing my hand when I let him. I try to distract him, but he also likes chewing my hair for example, when I do yoga. While I’m doing something that requires ALL of my attention, patience, breathing, and physical diligence, he’s doing everything he can to distract me by leaping up and down and yomping at my ponytail.
I’m doing this to release tension, to find some levity, to explore myself spiritually, and to get myself physically ready for childbirth. It doesn’t seem like I’m accomplishing much when you hear me hollering, “Stop it, Scrabble, I’m trying to center my chi!” and “Goddammit, I’m being zen, you little bastard!”
I’m doing this to release tension, to find some levity, to explore myself spiritually, and to get myself physically ready for childbirth. It doesn’t seem like I’m accomplishing much when you hear me hollering, “Stop it, Scrabble, I’m trying to center my chi!” and “Goddammit, I’m being zen, you little bastard!”
Sunday, August 08, 2004
The Reason He's Homeless
As I walk in the 15th Street Kroger, a highly aromatic older gentleman trots towards me.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am. You got a dollar? Ma’am?”
He’s clearly going to buy beer - no, seriously, you had to smell him - and, anyway, I don’t have a dollar. I go thruogh the store, decide on three bottles of wine, and start towards for the registers. As I pass through the deli, he reappears and leers at my boobs.
“Ooooh, I KNOW we ‘bout to have a good time.”
I half-yell at him. I’m so tired of this bullshit, and I seem to attract it where ever I go.
“Eh-heh! Heh! Heh!” He laughs, delightedly. I suppose I’m the only woman who’s spoken to him all day.
“Lawd, look at those titties,” he exclaims, staring at the front of my dress.
“Fuck off, jackass!” I begin to stomp away but he steps partially in front of me.
"Hey, uh, you got a dollar?"
"Fuck. Off." I enunciate clearly. I'm not giving someone this rude a single penny. Besides, the way it work is this: If you're looking at my boobs, you give ME the dollar.
I stomp to the registers, with his laugher trailing humiliatingly behind me. I show my ID to the cashier, and inform her - and the manager, who happens to be standing beside her - that a man is panhandling in the store, and that he verbally harrassed me.
“What? In here?!” The manager cries in surprise.
“Yep. He’s right there (in another line, beer in hand). Red plaid shirt, Green Bay Packers hat.”
They crane their necks to see, watch him for a minute as he checks out, shake their heads, and go back to their conversation.
Oh. Great. Thanks. ‘Preciate the support, ladies.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am. You got a dollar? Ma’am?”
He’s clearly going to buy beer - no, seriously, you had to smell him - and, anyway, I don’t have a dollar. I go thruogh the store, decide on three bottles of wine, and start towards for the registers. As I pass through the deli, he reappears and leers at my boobs.
“Ooooh, I KNOW we ‘bout to have a good time.”
I half-yell at him. I’m so tired of this bullshit, and I seem to attract it where ever I go.
“Eh-heh! Heh! Heh!” He laughs, delightedly. I suppose I’m the only woman who’s spoken to him all day.
“Lawd, look at those titties,” he exclaims, staring at the front of my dress.
“Fuck off, jackass!” I begin to stomp away but he steps partially in front of me.
"Hey, uh, you got a dollar?"
"Fuck. Off." I enunciate clearly. I'm not giving someone this rude a single penny. Besides, the way it work is this: If you're looking at my boobs, you give ME the dollar.
I stomp to the registers, with his laugher trailing humiliatingly behind me. I show my ID to the cashier, and inform her - and the manager, who happens to be standing beside her - that a man is panhandling in the store, and that he verbally harrassed me.
“What? In here?!” The manager cries in surprise.
“Yep. He’s right there (in another line, beer in hand). Red plaid shirt, Green Bay Packers hat.”
They crane their necks to see, watch him for a minute as he checks out, shake their heads, and go back to their conversation.
Oh. Great. Thanks. ‘Preciate the support, ladies.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
I need the ATF at the ATM
I hate going to the ATM at night, alone. But I owed Natalya $182 for my wedding dress, she needed it by tomorrow morning, and I had to take it to her. I got stuck on the phone with Scott’s mom for TWO AND A HALF HOURS, so it was 11:30 before I could get on my way. I loaded up the puppy and took off.
I blew right past the bank branch and had to cut over to another location. I always check out the surrounding area before I go to the ATM, and everything was fine. As the machine spit out my money, I heard the screech of tires on pavement. Headlights momentarily blinded me, but I could see the huge grill of an SUV bearing down on me. I gasped. The puppy cowered in my lap. The SUV stopped inches from the front of my car and four men jumped out of the side doors.
I did not think as they started in my direction. Faster than I ever thought I could move, I grabbed the money and the card, and slammed the car into reverse. The tires bounced over the lane separater. I felt the bottom of the car scrape against the concrete, but I’ll leave the muffler for these guys if they really want it.
I threw the car into drive, slammed the pedal to the floor, and took off for 10th Street, right up over the curb, through the grass, over the sidewalk, down the streetcurb, and fishtailing into the street. I ran two stop signs and a red light before I looked behind me. No one. I’ve been holding my breathe. Scrabble cowered in the passenger floorboard, whining softly.
I don't know if maybe they were just driving like idiots - young, reckless, unaware of their effect on others - or if I was in some kind of danger. But I wasn't waiting around to find out.
I blew right past the bank branch and had to cut over to another location. I always check out the surrounding area before I go to the ATM, and everything was fine. As the machine spit out my money, I heard the screech of tires on pavement. Headlights momentarily blinded me, but I could see the huge grill of an SUV bearing down on me. I gasped. The puppy cowered in my lap. The SUV stopped inches from the front of my car and four men jumped out of the side doors.
I did not think as they started in my direction. Faster than I ever thought I could move, I grabbed the money and the card, and slammed the car into reverse. The tires bounced over the lane separater. I felt the bottom of the car scrape against the concrete, but I’ll leave the muffler for these guys if they really want it.
I threw the car into drive, slammed the pedal to the floor, and took off for 10th Street, right up over the curb, through the grass, over the sidewalk, down the streetcurb, and fishtailing into the street. I ran two stop signs and a red light before I looked behind me. No one. I’ve been holding my breathe. Scrabble cowered in the passenger floorboard, whining softly.
I don't know if maybe they were just driving like idiots - young, reckless, unaware of their effect on others - or if I was in some kind of danger. But I wasn't waiting around to find out.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Puppy power!
Whatever possessed us to get a dog in the midst of an already chaotic time? Could it have been... Satan?
The good news: little Scrabble is almost completely housebroken after just two very tiring days. The bad news: I said “almost.” I didn’t think anything this small could pee more than a pregnant woman, but I’ll admit when I’m wrong.
I’m going to be a terrible mother, I can see from the way I treat the dog. Every time I he does something - anything - out of the ordinary, I think, “Oh, god! He’s going to die!” Or, when the more terrifying things happen: “Oh, god! He’s dead!” Just the first night we had Scrabble home, I thought he was dead. He’s kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Okay, I’M kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Anyway, he was snuggled up against me in the bed, fast asleep, when I woke up. I felt his little furry body next to me, and patted him. No response.
I patted him again and whispered, “Hey, buddy, are you asleep?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me.
I poked him. Nothing.
I patted Scrabble again. Nothing.
I scratched his belly. Nothing.
And then, I knew: In the middle of the night, I had rolled over on him and crushed the life out of him. I killed the best puppy in the world. I was a monster, and I was going to hell. With a strangled cry, I picked up his cold, limp puppy body. He raised his head and licked my face.
Oh. I’m an idiot.
I spent 10 minutes in the bathroom, sobbing, so that I wouldn’t wake Scott.
Is this normal for pregnancy? And when do I recover? I don’t think my mother ever has. Am I going to spend the rest of my life in perpetual recovery from the hourly heart attacks I give myself? No wonder I’m so tired! I’m on 10 all day long!
The good news: little Scrabble is almost completely housebroken after just two very tiring days. The bad news: I said “almost.” I didn’t think anything this small could pee more than a pregnant woman, but I’ll admit when I’m wrong.
I’m going to be a terrible mother, I can see from the way I treat the dog. Every time I he does something - anything - out of the ordinary, I think, “Oh, god! He’s going to die!” Or, when the more terrifying things happen: “Oh, god! He’s dead!” Just the first night we had Scrabble home, I thought he was dead. He’s kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Okay, I’M kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Anyway, he was snuggled up against me in the bed, fast asleep, when I woke up. I felt his little furry body next to me, and patted him. No response.
I patted him again and whispered, “Hey, buddy, are you asleep?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me.
I poked him. Nothing.
I patted Scrabble again. Nothing.
I scratched his belly. Nothing.
And then, I knew: In the middle of the night, I had rolled over on him and crushed the life out of him. I killed the best puppy in the world. I was a monster, and I was going to hell. With a strangled cry, I picked up his cold, limp puppy body. He raised his head and licked my face.
Oh. I’m an idiot.
I spent 10 minutes in the bathroom, sobbing, so that I wouldn’t wake Scott.
Is this normal for pregnancy? And when do I recover? I don’t think my mother ever has. Am I going to spend the rest of my life in perpetual recovery from the hourly heart attacks I give myself? No wonder I’m so tired! I’m on 10 all day long!
Monday, July 26, 2004
Movie recommendation
Natalya and I went to go see “King Arthur” last night. I was looking forward to a telling of the King Arthur legend that had better special effects and acting than “Excalibur,” and wasn’t a child’s fairy tale. I guess I was looking for something “Braveheart”-ish, an epic production with good characterization, great acting, a plot that is entertaining and that makes sense (I hold most movies to only symbolic accuracy requirements) and well-choreographed fight scenes.
What I got: a warrior princess (Guinevere), a pansy-ass and reluctant sidekick (Lancelot), and an enemy that changed halfway through the movie (Merlin and his “wards,” or some other name I couldn’t understand; then the entire Saxon race; and Rome the whole way through), and no magic, love triangle, or discernable plot consistency.
I’ll admit: Every time someone said "Arthur," my mind automatically inserted “King of the who? Who are the Britains?” from Monty Python’s “The Holy Grail." Well, it was better than this. Graham Chapman is a more memorable King Arthur. “Excalibur” has a better plot, and “First Knight” was more stylish.
I did like the fact that Guinevere was given a more substantial role than wife, adultress - though she’s still morally lacking with the lying, seduction, and killing. But the sword, “Excalibur” is only given a cursory mention, Merlin was relegated to the role of a 5-line Devil’s advocate, and Lancelot freaking dies. About the only thing that bore any similarity at all to the Arthurian legends were the names of the characters.
What I got: a warrior princess (Guinevere), a pansy-ass and reluctant sidekick (Lancelot), and an enemy that changed halfway through the movie (Merlin and his “wards,” or some other name I couldn’t understand; then the entire Saxon race; and Rome the whole way through), and no magic, love triangle, or discernable plot consistency.
I’ll admit: Every time someone said "Arthur," my mind automatically inserted “King of the who? Who are the Britains?” from Monty Python’s “The Holy Grail." Well, it was better than this. Graham Chapman is a more memorable King Arthur. “Excalibur” has a better plot, and “First Knight” was more stylish.
I did like the fact that Guinevere was given a more substantial role than wife, adultress - though she’s still morally lacking with the lying, seduction, and killing. But the sword, “Excalibur” is only given a cursory mention, Merlin was relegated to the role of a 5-line Devil’s advocate, and Lancelot freaking dies. About the only thing that bore any similarity at all to the Arthurian legends were the names of the characters.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Arrangements
We’re going to have a huge garage sale because it’s amazing how many of the same books we have. Of course we have duplicates of textbooks. But, between the two of us, we have four copies of the Baghavad Gita. That’s just silly.
Me: So this trunk is just falling apart now and, anyway, the things I store in it are largely silly. Old magazines. Portfolio pieces I was never show an employer because they’re so bad.
Scott: Uh-huh...
Me: So I’m thinking we get rid of the trunk, move the table to the foot of the bed, and move the other bookshelf from the nursery to there where the table is.
Scott: Um, okay, and no.
Me (laughing): What part?
Scott: I was going to put baby stuff on the top two shelves of the bookcase.
No. I hate that idea.
Me (walking into the nursery): Well, let me ask you a couple of questions.
Scott: Okay...
Me: Where will we put the crib?
Scott (pointing to the right): There.
Me: uh-huh. Where will we put the changing table?
He pauses briefly.
Scott (pointing to where the bookcase is): Well, there.
Me (laughing): No, I’m open to suggestions!
Scott (walking off): Yeah, yeah...
Me: So this trunk is just falling apart now and, anyway, the things I store in it are largely silly. Old magazines. Portfolio pieces I was never show an employer because they’re so bad.
Scott: Uh-huh...
Me: So I’m thinking we get rid of the trunk, move the table to the foot of the bed, and move the other bookshelf from the nursery to there where the table is.
Scott: Um, okay, and no.
Me (laughing): What part?
Scott: I was going to put baby stuff on the top two shelves of the bookcase.
No. I hate that idea.
Me (walking into the nursery): Well, let me ask you a couple of questions.
Scott: Okay...
Me: Where will we put the crib?
Scott (pointing to the right): There.
Me: uh-huh. Where will we put the changing table?
He pauses briefly.
Scott (pointing to where the bookcase is): Well, there.
Me (laughing): No, I’m open to suggestions!
Scott (walking off): Yeah, yeah...
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Eeyore's Wedding
I won’t bore anyone with the many details, but let me put it this way: Today, the day after the wedding, the gardens looked like a hurricane had blown through. The alarm was off, two of the gates were left unlocked, and the lights were all on inside the offices. There was trash, tables, sandbags, chairs, you name it, scattered around over the 8.5 acres. The golf cars in the maintenance shed looked like hell. They were locked together so that I couldn’t get them out, there were beer cans all over the place, and a long dented scratch down the right side of one of the cars. Plus, a key was missing, so we’re now down to just two cars. Finally, when I opened Janet’s office door to show two guests a photograph of the front of the Augusta National Clubhouse, we saw three tiers of wedding cake that had been thrown on the floor.
I’m glad I work days.
I’m glad I work days.
Optimism
Scott: I just can’t wait to meet our child!
Me (laughing): I can.
Scott: Why?!
Me: ‘Cause I’m not ready to have it yet. I’m happy to wait the six more months.
Scott: But, still. I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.
He’ll see. We joke that we’re having a demon child, but I’m telling you: with Scott’s demon seed and my deviled eggs, that’s just a recipe for hellmonkeys.
Me (laughing): I can.
Scott: Why?!
Me: ‘Cause I’m not ready to have it yet. I’m happy to wait the six more months.
Scott: But, still. I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.
He’ll see. We joke that we’re having a demon child, but I’m telling you: with Scott’s demon seed and my deviled eggs, that’s just a recipe for hellmonkeys.
Friday, July 16, 2004
The Inmate is Running The Asylum
I watched the movie “Big Fish” last night - or, rather, I tried to watch it. But the movie takes place during the fight by the father, played by Albert Finney, to live his life even though he has incurable cancer. There was a scene where he was comforting his wife. I thought, “Oh, how terrible it must be to have to watch the man you’ve loved for 30 years, the father or your children, die a slow and painful death.” And then I thought: “Soon, I’ll have a husband. Oh, god. One day he’ll die!” And the floodgates opened. I don’t want Scott to die. I realize that it won’t be anytime soon. Or, at least, one can only hope. I guess you never know for sure.
After about an hour, I got myself under control. I restarted the movie. Within five minutes, Albert Finney’s character had a stroke. I thought: “My father is about the same age as Albert Finney’s character. Oh, god. One day my father will die!” And then the floodgates reopened, and they wouldn’t stop. For three hours.
When Scott got home, he was... confused. And comforted me very poorly. I finally cried myself to sleep. Scott thinks I’ve gone insane. And, to be honest, I rarely cry like that. Not when I broke my ankle. Not when my grandfather died. Only once or twice in my life have I cried like that, and certainly never over something like a movie.
Scott called me when I was at work to inform me that I’d better enjoy the remaining seven months "because after the baby is born I’m getting my nuts chopped.”
After about an hour, I got myself under control. I restarted the movie. Within five minutes, Albert Finney’s character had a stroke. I thought: “My father is about the same age as Albert Finney’s character. Oh, god. One day my father will die!” And then the floodgates reopened, and they wouldn’t stop. For three hours.
When Scott got home, he was... confused. And comforted me very poorly. I finally cried myself to sleep. Scott thinks I’ve gone insane. And, to be honest, I rarely cry like that. Not when I broke my ankle. Not when my grandfather died. Only once or twice in my life have I cried like that, and certainly never over something like a movie.
Scott called me when I was at work to inform me that I’d better enjoy the remaining seven months "because after the baby is born I’m getting my nuts chopped.”
