Yesterday evening S and I went running together. This was a first, as normally S prefers going to the gym over taking a run around the neighborhood; plus, he's naturally a faster runner than me, so we hadn't ever explored the idea of becoming running partners. On a whim yesterday evening, though, I called S from work and asked if he might want to join me on my usual three-mile loop, and he agreed!
So we took off around 7:30, and to my surprise, S was able to jog at a very slow pace in order to stay alongside me. Because I tend to pant heavily when I run (insert lewd joke here), I told S as soon as we started that this might be his first chance ever in the history of our relationship to talk freely and at length without my interjecting comments and opinions the whole time. Hee. He actually grinned at the idea of rambling on uninterrupted, so off he went, regaling me with stories about work for the first 15 minutes or so of our run.
Once we turned off the main road and entered our friend JP's neighborhood, we passed many cute cats. Cute cats that seem to understand that hanging out beneath cars or in the center of the road is not advantageous to their health, unlike our local scrappy outdoor feline, Hip-Hop, who disregards all personal-safety concerns whatsoever. The cats we passed were all hanging out on front lawns or on the edge of the sidewalk, watching us as we ran by.
On the way out of JP's neighborhood, we ran beneath a huge, circling, shrieking cloud of crows, which was freaky. Crows (or ravens, or starlings---I'm not sure which) do this, as I learned in my first apartment in Maryland a few years back. There, we had a problem whereupon several hundred crows (or some other similar-looking, scary black birds) would circle two large trees by our parking lot, shrieking and crapping all the while. They would fly around and shriek and be generally creepy for a few hours, then they'd finally settle in the branches of those two trees and quiet down a bit. Those trees, with all the black birds on them, looked like something out of a nightmare. The problems with this situation were many: For starters, the birds would circle and shriek early in the morning, beginning at 5:00 a.m. or so. The sound was deafening and very disconcerting. Secondly, a few hundred birds crapping in our parking lot was bad news. You should've seen the cars. They were COATED. So was the ground. You had to watch your step the entire way. Plus, that much crap smells bad. Kind of musty. It was a problem, and unsanitary. Finally, the city sent someone over to attempt to scare the birds away for good. He started by using various loud devices: whistles and clapping things. That didn't really work. He then graduated to mini-explosives. That worked, a bit. Finally, he used a rifle to shoot blanks into the air, over and over, thereby rendering the birds too terrified to stick around. Eureka! Problem solved.
Anyway, we passed beneath the birds last night, and one peed on me. Not as much as when I got peed on by a bird on Melrose one time, but still. There was a guy in his front yard waving a newspaper at the birds (totally ineffective) and generally cursing them, and I shouted, "One peed on me!" I'm not sure why I yelled that. But he was sympathetic and shook his head with what looked like bitterness, as if to say, "These damn birds are a nuisance!"
It's interesting how some birds are frightening and loud and ugly (pigeons, crows, vultures, the more-aggressive seagulls), while others are adorable and pretty and lovely singers (finches, cardinals, nightingales).
When we finally got back home, I iced my calf with that same bag of Peruvian scallops and popped some Advil, which is now becoming my usual routine. We then settled in for a night of "Amazing Race" viewing and Jonathan Ames reading.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Toonces, the Cat Who Could Drive...Her Owners Crazy
I am so tired. I am so tired. I am so tired. I am so tired.
Last night Toonces was especially active. When used in reference to Toony, "active" is a cute little euphemism S and I have adopted to mean "defined by sprinting and leaping and battle-crying, resulting in little to no sleep for the two of us." Last night, I think the toy mice were to blame for Toonces's "activity."
Chilling on the couch (i.e., rickety futon) yesterday evening, S and I discussed---for the millionth time in the two years since we first adopted T. Kitty (like P. Diddy. Get it?)---how we don't play with her enough. She's rambunctious and super-playful, and she likes very much to engage in mock fisticuffs with all manner of erratically-moving string-like or mouse-like objects. In fact, she seems to thrive on this type of exercise. S and I, on the other hand, can think of other, more-enjoyable things to do after a long day at work than shake the Cat Dancer cat wand in the middle of the living room, for several minutes on end, while Toonces stalks it from various points around the room's perimeter. I mean, it's fun for the first ten minutes or so. But as time wears on, Toony's set-ups and choosing of vantage points and hiding places from which to stalk the wand become more and more elaborate. She'll spend five full minutes wriggling around beneath the bookcase to find the perfect little lookout point, then she'll sit there and follow the wand with her eyes for another eight. Meanwhile, there one of us is, standing in the center of the living room, bored, shaking the Cat Dancer halfheartedly while waiting for Toonces to finally make her move. Sometimes when I'm doing this, I repeat the words, "Look Toony! Come get it! Come get it!" so many times that I kind of work myself into a trance, and my mind sort of floats out of my head and goes somewhere else.
OK, anyway. After comparing levels of guilt about the piddling amount of playtime we
each make for Toony, I wondered aloud if her several hundred toy mice had all ended up in the usual place, beneath the television stand, since I hadn't seen them littering our hardwood floors in the last few months or so. S guessed the mice were indeed beneath the TV stand, and he set out to retrieve them with the handle-end of a Swiffer mop.
Bad idea. Well, good at first. Then bad.
Toony freaked when she saw her long-lost toy-mice prey come bursting forth from the
TV stand in one forceful swoosh of the Swiffer. She gave an excited little chirp and set about batting at the mice with her paws and scurrying after them as they sailed across the floor. "Oh, how cute! She's so excited!" we idiot pet owners cooed. We spent the next several minutes watching Toony fling her mice down the long hallway, then chase frantically after them, then bat them around for a bit, then start the whole shebang over again. Our "We're too lazy to play with the cat" guilt was eradicated for the time being.
Unfortunately, the fun and games didn't end when S and I climbed into bed at 11:30. No no; Toony was only getting started. She spent the next several hours whipping herself into a toy mouse–induced frenzy, which manifested itself as lap after lap of hallway sprints, nails clicking and clacking every step of the way; little victory mews and cries of attack when a mouse was successfully conquered; and what sounded to me like a whole lot of crashing into walls. I barely slept. S, who sleeps like he's dead, slept just a bit more than I did. It was bedlam! I wondered if the neighbors were kept up by the clamor as well.
This morning, when I "woke up," (as if I'd been asleep!), I felt more tired than when I'd gone to bed. Today I'm having trouble reading and concentrating. It's pathetic! And what irked me more than anything was that as I was leaving the apartment this morning to go to work, I caught a glimpse of Toonces lounging luxuriously on my side of the bed, yawning and snuggling up against a fold of the comforter, preparing for a nice long nap.
Last night Toonces was especially active. When used in reference to Toony, "active" is a cute little euphemism S and I have adopted to mean "defined by sprinting and leaping and battle-crying, resulting in little to no sleep for the two of us." Last night, I think the toy mice were to blame for Toonces's "activity."
Chilling on the couch (i.e., rickety futon) yesterday evening, S and I discussed---for the millionth time in the two years since we first adopted T. Kitty (like P. Diddy. Get it?)---how we don't play with her enough. She's rambunctious and super-playful, and she likes very much to engage in mock fisticuffs with all manner of erratically-moving string-like or mouse-like objects. In fact, she seems to thrive on this type of exercise. S and I, on the other hand, can think of other, more-enjoyable things to do after a long day at work than shake the Cat Dancer cat wand in the middle of the living room, for several minutes on end, while Toonces stalks it from various points around the room's perimeter. I mean, it's fun for the first ten minutes or so. But as time wears on, Toony's set-ups and choosing of vantage points and hiding places from which to stalk the wand become more and more elaborate. She'll spend five full minutes wriggling around beneath the bookcase to find the perfect little lookout point, then she'll sit there and follow the wand with her eyes for another eight. Meanwhile, there one of us is, standing in the center of the living room, bored, shaking the Cat Dancer halfheartedly while waiting for Toonces to finally make her move. Sometimes when I'm doing this, I repeat the words, "Look Toony! Come get it! Come get it!" so many times that I kind of work myself into a trance, and my mind sort of floats out of my head and goes somewhere else.
OK, anyway. After comparing levels of guilt about the piddling amount of playtime we
each make for Toony, I wondered aloud if her several hundred toy mice had all ended up in the usual place, beneath the television stand, since I hadn't seen them littering our hardwood floors in the last few months or so. S guessed the mice were indeed beneath the TV stand, and he set out to retrieve them with the handle-end of a Swiffer mop.
Bad idea. Well, good at first. Then bad.
Toony freaked when she saw her long-lost toy-mice prey come bursting forth from the
TV stand in one forceful swoosh of the Swiffer. She gave an excited little chirp and set about batting at the mice with her paws and scurrying after them as they sailed across the floor. "Oh, how cute! She's so excited!" we idiot pet owners cooed. We spent the next several minutes watching Toony fling her mice down the long hallway, then chase frantically after them, then bat them around for a bit, then start the whole shebang over again. Our "We're too lazy to play with the cat" guilt was eradicated for the time being.
Unfortunately, the fun and games didn't end when S and I climbed into bed at 11:30. No no; Toony was only getting started. She spent the next several hours whipping herself into a toy mouse–induced frenzy, which manifested itself as lap after lap of hallway sprints, nails clicking and clacking every step of the way; little victory mews and cries of attack when a mouse was successfully conquered; and what sounded to me like a whole lot of crashing into walls. I barely slept. S, who sleeps like he's dead, slept just a bit more than I did. It was bedlam! I wondered if the neighbors were kept up by the clamor as well.
This morning, when I "woke up," (as if I'd been asleep!), I felt more tired than when I'd gone to bed. Today I'm having trouble reading and concentrating. It's pathetic! And what irked me more than anything was that as I was leaving the apartment this morning to go to work, I caught a glimpse of Toonces lounging luxuriously on my side of the bed, yawning and snuggling up against a fold of the comforter, preparing for a nice long nap.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
The Bedroom of Stifling Nostalgia
It's Day 9 of 10 that I'm spending Chez Parents in good old G-land on the opposite coast. Upstate NY really is beautiful in the summer. The warm breeze stirring the pine boughs and rustling the lush, green grass is almost enough to make one forget the dismal Northeastern winters, which stretch from November all the way to April. More than anything else this past week, I've been enjoying my parents' big, quiet backyard, especially the shade of the maple tree, which was "my" tree through childhood and which now is large and full enough to provide a pleasant spot for reading.
The expansive shade of the maple tree is far, far more soothing than the comparatively oppressive space contained within the four walls of my childhood bedroom on the second floor of the house. This room, with its faded orange carpeting and very nineteen-seventies collage-style wallpaper, has changed little since I left it for good in the spring of 1997. The canopy bed is gone, the posters honoring the band INXS and various NY and VT ski resorts have vanished, and the stuffed animals have relocated to the attic, but there still sits a full bookcase on one wall and a bulletin board replete with high-school relics on another. The closet, though thoroughly (and courageously) sifted through and organized a few years back by my mom, still contains boxes of papers, notebooks, letters, and diaries from what were evidently my emotionally turbulent middle- and high-school years. It was these boxes I approached today, at the gentle urging of my parents, in an attempt to weed out those items that could be discarded once and for all.
The thought of opening these boxes and coming face-to-face with my younger self filled me with dread. Last time I did this, I think a full year ago, I came across a paper I wrote about how, when I grew up, I wanted to do work that focused on helping women with eating disorders, or something similarly counseling-related. (Reading that made me feel a bit guilty about having recently joined the ranks of Corporate America.) I cracked open my massive junior-year English project titled "The Physique Mystique," a study of contemporary literature with women's body image as its focus. I read a journal entry from the same time that explored my choices as a young woman on the brink of adulthood. I was surprised by what seemed like an intelligent, idealistic, thoughtful young me. The surprise quickly dissolved into panic, though. I wondered if anyone would describe the current me as intelligent, idealistic, or thoughtful. I wondered if I'd squandered any sort of potential I displayed in high school. I felt sick and anxious trying to determine if high-school me would be proud of adult me. In the fretful aftermath of that closet clean-out, I decided it was time to make a few changes in my respectable but unremarkable adult life. I started writing again, and a few months later, began volunteering on Saturdays. Small steps, certainly. But taking initiative and action, however minor, has helped a bit in keeping the "What am I doing with my life?" anxiety at bay.
So. Anyway. Today I was again faced with the daunting task of reliving bits and pieces of my adolescence and judging how my thoughts and ideas from back then measure up against the life I'm living today. Daunting, indeed. These situations are always greatly exacerbated by my lifelong propensity for writing everything down. I've kept a handful of diaries over the years, and I tend not to throw out letters, notes, and drawings that seem meaningful at the time. Everything's documented. It's all there on paper, and it often makes me cringe.
Today I found quite a bit of incriminating personal writing from my adolescent and late-teen years. Among the yellowed papers was a word-processed self-improvement plan that I vaguely remember typing up in a fervor one college summer. It included everything from "Apply skin medication EVERY DAY!" to "Reduce number of bingeing incidents to zero." I also found, presumably from high school, a scribbled diary entry titled "People Who Never Fail at Anything," with a list of 20 or so names listed beneath. Some of the names are repeated. Many of them are kids I went to high school with who got better grades than me, were involved in twice the activities I was, and were accepted to Ivy-League schools. Some of them were good friends of mine. Even one of my grandmothers made the list. On the next page, in the same ink and feverish scrawl, is a paragraph about how talentless, stupid, and ugly I believed I was in comparison to those on the list. Ugh. Painful! I threw that out and made a mental note to Google a few of the people on the list of whom I'd lost track.
Among the other, less emotionally wrenching artifacts were a few fairly embarrassing diary entries in which I'd listed in numerous ways how much I loved or was bored by my boyfriends; there was one particularly silly entry detailing how elated I was to be asked to D's junior prom. It was incredibly goofy, yet also kind of sweet. I mean, I really don't get excited like that anymore about most things. I also found some drawings that a long-ago coworker from an old summer job had covertly delivered to me in the office whenever he wanted to have lunch, as well as writing authored by myself and my classmates from the overnight, week-long field trips to Nature's Classroom taken in fifth and seventh grade.
So I guess what I'm saying here is that each time I enter my childhood bedroom and begin sorting through my old things, I'm reminded of the person I once was. Sometimes I get a kick and a laugh out of it; other times I'm disturbed by what I find. In both cases, though, I'm prompted to reflect on my life as it stands now and to compare it to what I imagined my adult life would be.
So, how do I measure up this go-round? Not bad, actually. It seems I've evolved a bit from the self-absorbed person I was ten or twelve years ago, and I now rarely compare my accomplishments, or lack thereof, to others'. I don't think I'm talentless, or stupid, or ugly...just lazy and a bit unorganized, with too many interests and not enough "stick-to-itiveness," to borrow a word from one of the Nature's Classroom writings. When faced with the opportunity to daydream under a shady maple tree or force the contents of a closet into some kind of order, I'll always choose the maple tree.
The expansive shade of the maple tree is far, far more soothing than the comparatively oppressive space contained within the four walls of my childhood bedroom on the second floor of the house. This room, with its faded orange carpeting and very nineteen-seventies collage-style wallpaper, has changed little since I left it for good in the spring of 1997. The canopy bed is gone, the posters honoring the band INXS and various NY and VT ski resorts have vanished, and the stuffed animals have relocated to the attic, but there still sits a full bookcase on one wall and a bulletin board replete with high-school relics on another. The closet, though thoroughly (and courageously) sifted through and organized a few years back by my mom, still contains boxes of papers, notebooks, letters, and diaries from what were evidently my emotionally turbulent middle- and high-school years. It was these boxes I approached today, at the gentle urging of my parents, in an attempt to weed out those items that could be discarded once and for all.
The thought of opening these boxes and coming face-to-face with my younger self filled me with dread. Last time I did this, I think a full year ago, I came across a paper I wrote about how, when I grew up, I wanted to do work that focused on helping women with eating disorders, or something similarly counseling-related. (Reading that made me feel a bit guilty about having recently joined the ranks of Corporate America.) I cracked open my massive junior-year English project titled "The Physique Mystique," a study of contemporary literature with women's body image as its focus. I read a journal entry from the same time that explored my choices as a young woman on the brink of adulthood. I was surprised by what seemed like an intelligent, idealistic, thoughtful young me. The surprise quickly dissolved into panic, though. I wondered if anyone would describe the current me as intelligent, idealistic, or thoughtful. I wondered if I'd squandered any sort of potential I displayed in high school. I felt sick and anxious trying to determine if high-school me would be proud of adult me. In the fretful aftermath of that closet clean-out, I decided it was time to make a few changes in my respectable but unremarkable adult life. I started writing again, and a few months later, began volunteering on Saturdays. Small steps, certainly. But taking initiative and action, however minor, has helped a bit in keeping the "What am I doing with my life?" anxiety at bay.
So. Anyway. Today I was again faced with the daunting task of reliving bits and pieces of my adolescence and judging how my thoughts and ideas from back then measure up against the life I'm living today. Daunting, indeed. These situations are always greatly exacerbated by my lifelong propensity for writing everything down. I've kept a handful of diaries over the years, and I tend not to throw out letters, notes, and drawings that seem meaningful at the time. Everything's documented. It's all there on paper, and it often makes me cringe.
Today I found quite a bit of incriminating personal writing from my adolescent and late-teen years. Among the yellowed papers was a word-processed self-improvement plan that I vaguely remember typing up in a fervor one college summer. It included everything from "Apply skin medication EVERY DAY!" to "Reduce number of bingeing incidents to zero." I also found, presumably from high school, a scribbled diary entry titled "People Who Never Fail at Anything," with a list of 20 or so names listed beneath. Some of the names are repeated. Many of them are kids I went to high school with who got better grades than me, were involved in twice the activities I was, and were accepted to Ivy-League schools. Some of them were good friends of mine. Even one of my grandmothers made the list. On the next page, in the same ink and feverish scrawl, is a paragraph about how talentless, stupid, and ugly I believed I was in comparison to those on the list. Ugh. Painful! I threw that out and made a mental note to Google a few of the people on the list of whom I'd lost track.
Among the other, less emotionally wrenching artifacts were a few fairly embarrassing diary entries in which I'd listed in numerous ways how much I loved or was bored by my boyfriends; there was one particularly silly entry detailing how elated I was to be asked to D's junior prom. It was incredibly goofy, yet also kind of sweet. I mean, I really don't get excited like that anymore about most things. I also found some drawings that a long-ago coworker from an old summer job had covertly delivered to me in the office whenever he wanted to have lunch, as well as writing authored by myself and my classmates from the overnight, week-long field trips to Nature's Classroom taken in fifth and seventh grade.
So I guess what I'm saying here is that each time I enter my childhood bedroom and begin sorting through my old things, I'm reminded of the person I once was. Sometimes I get a kick and a laugh out of it; other times I'm disturbed by what I find. In both cases, though, I'm prompted to reflect on my life as it stands now and to compare it to what I imagined my adult life would be.
So, how do I measure up this go-round? Not bad, actually. It seems I've evolved a bit from the self-absorbed person I was ten or twelve years ago, and I now rarely compare my accomplishments, or lack thereof, to others'. I don't think I'm talentless, or stupid, or ugly...just lazy and a bit unorganized, with too many interests and not enough "stick-to-itiveness," to borrow a word from one of the Nature's Classroom writings. When faced with the opportunity to daydream under a shady maple tree or force the contents of a closet into some kind of order, I'll always choose the maple tree.
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Updates to Prior Posts
I am thrilled to announce that technology no longer bytes. Captain K, fearless defender of and hero to vulnerable, corrupted PCs everywhere (or at least in the greater Los Angeles area), successfully diagnosed our ailing computer and fixed it! To make a long, complicated diagnosis short and somewhat understandable, we did NOT have a virus; we had corrupted Windows.
Ironically, Captain K believes the Microsoft Security Update CD I'd installed last Friday was somehow responsible for Windows' demise. Maybe the CD was defective. So, the good captain backed up our important files, then uninstalled and reinstalled Windows on our machine. He also "reassociated" the *.doc extension with Word, since part of the trouble had been that Word was no longer interpreting *.doc files as Word documents.
Furthermore, Cap'n K updated our Internet Explorer to 6, refreshed our anti-virus software, and downloaded Mozilla for us to use as an alternative, less-vulnerable Web browser.
Woo-hoo!
In other news, the mighty combination of Flex-all, frozen Peruvian scallops (gotta love Trader Joe's), and rest seems to have restored my right calf back to its relatively healthy state. I'll find out for sure when I attempt a run around the neighborhood tomorrow. The Montrose Independence Day 5K is fast approaching!
Hi to brother M, if he's reading this. Brother M, when told of this blog, replied, "What's a blog?" Hee. Anyway, hello to brother M in San Antonio.
Oh! Here's something: We saw Fahrenheit 9/11 Friday night. I think it's imperative that every American watch this film. I know not everybody loves Michael Moore or the methods he uses for making his points, but the man does his research and presents indisputable facts. He does an extraordinary job of laying out the Bush family's numerous connections (primarily business-based) with Saudi Arabia, which explains, in part, why the Bush administration is using Iraq as a scapegoat for the so-called War on Terror and tiptoeing around the Saudis.
The film was also peppered with actual footage of various Bush speeches and soundbites, all of which were either shameful or mortifying. One of the most telling quotes from a speech made by Bush at some sort of black-tie affair went like this: "Well, here we are: the Have's and the Have More's. [laughter] Many think of you as our nation's elite; I think of you as my base."
And another, spoken by Bush on a golf course somewhere: "Yeah, we're going to get those terrorists. We're going to smoke 'em out. Now check out my golf swing."
Ironically, Captain K believes the Microsoft Security Update CD I'd installed last Friday was somehow responsible for Windows' demise. Maybe the CD was defective. So, the good captain backed up our important files, then uninstalled and reinstalled Windows on our machine. He also "reassociated" the *.doc extension with Word, since part of the trouble had been that Word was no longer interpreting *.doc files as Word documents.
Furthermore, Cap'n K updated our Internet Explorer to 6, refreshed our anti-virus software, and downloaded Mozilla for us to use as an alternative, less-vulnerable Web browser.
Woo-hoo!
In other news, the mighty combination of Flex-all, frozen Peruvian scallops (gotta love Trader Joe's), and rest seems to have restored my right calf back to its relatively healthy state. I'll find out for sure when I attempt a run around the neighborhood tomorrow. The Montrose Independence Day 5K is fast approaching!
Hi to brother M, if he's reading this. Brother M, when told of this blog, replied, "What's a blog?" Hee. Anyway, hello to brother M in San Antonio.
Oh! Here's something: We saw Fahrenheit 9/11 Friday night. I think it's imperative that every American watch this film. I know not everybody loves Michael Moore or the methods he uses for making his points, but the man does his research and presents indisputable facts. He does an extraordinary job of laying out the Bush family's numerous connections (primarily business-based) with Saudi Arabia, which explains, in part, why the Bush administration is using Iraq as a scapegoat for the so-called War on Terror and tiptoeing around the Saudis.
The film was also peppered with actual footage of various Bush speeches and soundbites, all of which were either shameful or mortifying. One of the most telling quotes from a speech made by Bush at some sort of black-tie affair went like this: "Well, here we are: the Have's and the Have More's. [laughter] Many think of you as our nation's elite; I think of you as my base."
And another, spoken by Bush on a golf course somewhere: "Yeah, we're going to get those terrorists. We're going to smoke 'em out. Now check out my golf swing."
Friday, June 25, 2004
The World Outside My Office Window
Yesterday was the strangest day at work. Sometime shortly after my workday began at 8:30, a female pedestrian at the bus depot across the street was struck by a city bus, dragged a bit, then trapped beneath the vehicle for some time before finally dying at the scene. A brief account of the accident appears here:
http://abclocal.go.com/kabc/news/062404_nw_bus_ax.html
None of us here at work saw the accident happen, but we had a clear view of the woman's body, covered in a yellow tarp and resting on the ground directly behind the bus, for most of the day. The harrowing scene included the woman's belongings, strewn on the pavement just behind where she lay. It looked like a black totebag and maybe a purse, each with its contents spilled out. It was as if time froze the moment the accident happened, with the bus, the woman, and her personal items all remaining in place for several hours after the accident occurred, while the police and various other adults milled about and, presumably, investigated the crime scene.
What made this incident not only tragic and terrifying but also surreal was my proximity to the office window that perfectly frames the bus depot. It's impossible for me to look toward the window without seeing the sprawling grounds of the bus terminal; I even see the window when I'm not facing it, as it is reflected in my computer monitor. So, all day yesterday, when I wasn't purposely staring out the window at the crime scene with the rest of my officemates, I kept catching inadvertent glances of the dead woman's body. Any time I turned away from my computer or got up from my chair to visit the kitchen, the restroom, or the printer, I saw her; or rather, the form of her body beneath the yellow tarp.
I found the experience very unsettling and distressing, and I kept wondering about the woman, her family, and the destination she never reached that morning. I also thought about how no one should have to die in such an undignified, horrific manner; that is, being hit by a bus. To be running for the bus one minute and dead the next? It seems absurd and unfair.
On another, less-emotional level, the whole experience was educational. I'd never seen a real-life fatal-crime scene before yesterday, and it was interesting for my coworkers and I to witness the course of events unfold throughout the day. First, the police taped off the crime scene with that yellow "Caution" tape. Then there were many men milling about, and crouching down by the body, and standing up again, and what appeared to be their taking of photographs. We also noticed a large group of plain-clothed people queued up on the sidewalk by the depot for at least a couple of hours, and we wondered if they were witnesses to the accident. Perhaps they'd been on the bus that struck the woman, or maybe they'd been waiting at the depot for that bus, or another, to arrive.
We saw no ambulance, just nine police cars and a few official-looking city vehicles. No crowd was gathered, perhaps because the area is right outside the airport and a bit isolated from the surrounding communities. I think if a similar accident occurred in the heart of, say, Hollywood or Santa Monica or some other heavily residential part of the city, swarms of onlookers would be present, and the whole scene would be rather chaotic.
Finally, in the afternoon, the coroner arrived. He or she set up some sort of tent over the woman's body, which remained for an hour or so. Later, the body was removed. That was a relief. I think if the victim were a loved one of mine, I would want her body removed from the scene as quickly as possible.
Afterward, maybe around 3:00 or so, a white van with the business name "Clean Scene" arrived at the depot. Dressed in white biohazard suits, the Clean Scene staff got to work scrubbing the place on the pavement where the body had been. That was creepy, but interesting. None of us realized that accident clean-up is, at least in some cases, performed by a private business instead of by the city.
By about 4:30, the depot was back to its original state: The bus that had struck the woman was gone, the woman's body and personal items had been removed, the pavement was clean, and the yellow crime-scene tape was gone. All in a day's work for the LAPD, I guess.
A few of us in the office kept gazing out the window at the bus depot after all traces of the accident were gone. I kept thinking about the people driving and walking by who had no idea what had occurred there earlier in the day.
http://abclocal.go.com/kabc/news/062404_nw_bus_ax.html
None of us here at work saw the accident happen, but we had a clear view of the woman's body, covered in a yellow tarp and resting on the ground directly behind the bus, for most of the day. The harrowing scene included the woman's belongings, strewn on the pavement just behind where she lay. It looked like a black totebag and maybe a purse, each with its contents spilled out. It was as if time froze the moment the accident happened, with the bus, the woman, and her personal items all remaining in place for several hours after the accident occurred, while the police and various other adults milled about and, presumably, investigated the crime scene.
What made this incident not only tragic and terrifying but also surreal was my proximity to the office window that perfectly frames the bus depot. It's impossible for me to look toward the window without seeing the sprawling grounds of the bus terminal; I even see the window when I'm not facing it, as it is reflected in my computer monitor. So, all day yesterday, when I wasn't purposely staring out the window at the crime scene with the rest of my officemates, I kept catching inadvertent glances of the dead woman's body. Any time I turned away from my computer or got up from my chair to visit the kitchen, the restroom, or the printer, I saw her; or rather, the form of her body beneath the yellow tarp.
I found the experience very unsettling and distressing, and I kept wondering about the woman, her family, and the destination she never reached that morning. I also thought about how no one should have to die in such an undignified, horrific manner; that is, being hit by a bus. To be running for the bus one minute and dead the next? It seems absurd and unfair.
On another, less-emotional level, the whole experience was educational. I'd never seen a real-life fatal-crime scene before yesterday, and it was interesting for my coworkers and I to witness the course of events unfold throughout the day. First, the police taped off the crime scene with that yellow "Caution" tape. Then there were many men milling about, and crouching down by the body, and standing up again, and what appeared to be their taking of photographs. We also noticed a large group of plain-clothed people queued up on the sidewalk by the depot for at least a couple of hours, and we wondered if they were witnesses to the accident. Perhaps they'd been on the bus that struck the woman, or maybe they'd been waiting at the depot for that bus, or another, to arrive.
We saw no ambulance, just nine police cars and a few official-looking city vehicles. No crowd was gathered, perhaps because the area is right outside the airport and a bit isolated from the surrounding communities. I think if a similar accident occurred in the heart of, say, Hollywood or Santa Monica or some other heavily residential part of the city, swarms of onlookers would be present, and the whole scene would be rather chaotic.
Finally, in the afternoon, the coroner arrived. He or she set up some sort of tent over the woman's body, which remained for an hour or so. Later, the body was removed. That was a relief. I think if the victim were a loved one of mine, I would want her body removed from the scene as quickly as possible.
Afterward, maybe around 3:00 or so, a white van with the business name "Clean Scene" arrived at the depot. Dressed in white biohazard suits, the Clean Scene staff got to work scrubbing the place on the pavement where the body had been. That was creepy, but interesting. None of us realized that accident clean-up is, at least in some cases, performed by a private business instead of by the city.
By about 4:30, the depot was back to its original state: The bus that had struck the woman was gone, the woman's body and personal items had been removed, the pavement was clean, and the yellow crime-scene tape was gone. All in a day's work for the LAPD, I guess.
A few of us in the office kept gazing out the window at the bus depot after all traces of the accident were gone. I kept thinking about the people driving and walking by who had no idea what had occurred there earlier in the day.
Defeat of Da Feet: A Rant (or, I Can’t Believe I Injured My Calf Muscle Again)
Sigh.
Not long after finishing yesterday's Beverly Hills run toward the front of the 11-minute three-miler pack, I felt a familiar, loathesome twinge in my right calf. Alarmed, I launched into several minutes of obsessive stretching, but my efforts proved futile: By the time I was standing in line for the free Whole Foods sandwich halves, both calves were clenched and emitting bursts of intense pain from that point where the muscle links up with the tendons of the ankle. (If I remember correctly from my 11th-grade anatomy and physiology class, the muscle in question is called the "gastrocnemius." But man, that spelling looks really, really wrong.) And, like the last time this whole injury situation began, the pain in my right calf is much more intense than the pain in my left.
Honestly, I can't believe it! Injured again! What the...? I was so careful this time to avoid jogging in place on the balls of my feet at the stoplights! Granted, we hit many more red lights than the last time I ran this course, so maybe the stopping and starting---even sans stationary jogging---did me in. I don't know! CL suggested I run on the road, not the concrete, next time around. The pavement is more forgiving and offers some "give," so maybe that's it. Also, this Beverly Hills course is the only one of the three that involves sidewalk running. The Santa Monica course is great in that we run along that dirt path above the beach, which is easy on muscles and joints. The Ladera course is all neighborhoods, so there's no stopping at intersections or traffic forcing us onto the sidewalk.
So now what? Last night I stretched and slathered on Flex-all, which is like Kryptonite to S and Toonces. Neither of them can tolerate the strong menthol odor. (Toonces kept attacking me, as if I were a big, menacing menthol monster.) I then iced my right calf with the bag of frozen "Peruvian Scallops" I've had in the freezer for approximately four months now. But today I'm hobbling around. It seems I won't be able to do Saturday's Ladera run (the one with the free Starbucks afterward), and that makes me very, very angry.
Honestly, I might just cut out these Beverly Hills runs altogether. It takes me an hour to drive to the starting point (Niketown at Wilshire and Rodeo) from work anyway, and by the time I arrive, I'm all amped up and twitchy from the treacherous drive. Plus, I always get there just in the nick of time. Barely time to pee and say hi to J and CL before hitting the sidewalk.
Hello, treadmill. It's been so long. I haven't missed you, but it seems the time is right for a forced reunion.
Grrr.
Not long after finishing yesterday's Beverly Hills run toward the front of the 11-minute three-miler pack, I felt a familiar, loathesome twinge in my right calf. Alarmed, I launched into several minutes of obsessive stretching, but my efforts proved futile: By the time I was standing in line for the free Whole Foods sandwich halves, both calves were clenched and emitting bursts of intense pain from that point where the muscle links up with the tendons of the ankle. (If I remember correctly from my 11th-grade anatomy and physiology class, the muscle in question is called the "gastrocnemius." But man, that spelling looks really, really wrong.) And, like the last time this whole injury situation began, the pain in my right calf is much more intense than the pain in my left.
Honestly, I can't believe it! Injured again! What the...? I was so careful this time to avoid jogging in place on the balls of my feet at the stoplights! Granted, we hit many more red lights than the last time I ran this course, so maybe the stopping and starting---even sans stationary jogging---did me in. I don't know! CL suggested I run on the road, not the concrete, next time around. The pavement is more forgiving and offers some "give," so maybe that's it. Also, this Beverly Hills course is the only one of the three that involves sidewalk running. The Santa Monica course is great in that we run along that dirt path above the beach, which is easy on muscles and joints. The Ladera course is all neighborhoods, so there's no stopping at intersections or traffic forcing us onto the sidewalk.
So now what? Last night I stretched and slathered on Flex-all, which is like Kryptonite to S and Toonces. Neither of them can tolerate the strong menthol odor. (Toonces kept attacking me, as if I were a big, menacing menthol monster.) I then iced my right calf with the bag of frozen "Peruvian Scallops" I've had in the freezer for approximately four months now. But today I'm hobbling around. It seems I won't be able to do Saturday's Ladera run (the one with the free Starbucks afterward), and that makes me very, very angry.
Honestly, I might just cut out these Beverly Hills runs altogether. It takes me an hour to drive to the starting point (Niketown at Wilshire and Rodeo) from work anyway, and by the time I arrive, I'm all amped up and twitchy from the treacherous drive. Plus, I always get there just in the nick of time. Barely time to pee and say hi to J and CL before hitting the sidewalk.
Hello, treadmill. It's been so long. I haven't missed you, but it seems the time is right for a forced reunion.
Grrr.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Well We’re Movin’ On Up! (Movin’ on up!): A brief celebratory post
Finally, S has been promoted to full-time staff writer, and has earned a healthy, satisfying raise as part of the deal. I say "finally" because the huge media corporation for which S toils in his 6 X 7–ft cubicle had been dragging its cheap-ass feet about bumping S up to staff writer ever since B, one of the staff, left to work for another show several months ago.
But, to our great surprise and delight, S got official word of his long-overdue upgrade last week. In a fashion typical of S's employer, the promotion was announced on S’s first day of vacation. Apparently S's boss made the announcement Thursday morning, then kept asking everyone where S was, because he wanted to meet with S to discuss the details. To which everyone answered, "Uh, he's on vacation. Remember?" Well no, the big boss hadn't remembered that, it turned out. So one of S's coworkers called S later that morning to let S in on the news. We didn't learn what the new salary would be until yesterday. We're pleased with it.
So, three cheers for S!
To quote George and Weezy Jefferson, "We've finally got a piece of the pie!"
Interesting side note: The head writer of S's staff, who, I might add, is brilliant and funny and incredibly generous, was also head writer for The Jeffersons, back in the day. This same individual wrote for Golden Girls, too. (One of my personal faves. Laugh if you want.) He's got some great stories from the 1980's...I tell him he should write his memoirs, but he just chuckles in reply.
But, to our great surprise and delight, S got official word of his long-overdue upgrade last week. In a fashion typical of S's employer, the promotion was announced on S’s first day of vacation. Apparently S's boss made the announcement Thursday morning, then kept asking everyone where S was, because he wanted to meet with S to discuss the details. To which everyone answered, "Uh, he's on vacation. Remember?" Well no, the big boss hadn't remembered that, it turned out. So one of S's coworkers called S later that morning to let S in on the news. We didn't learn what the new salary would be until yesterday. We're pleased with it.
So, three cheers for S!
To quote George and Weezy Jefferson, "We've finally got a piece of the pie!"
Interesting side note: The head writer of S's staff, who, I might add, is brilliant and funny and incredibly generous, was also head writer for The Jeffersons, back in the day. This same individual wrote for Golden Girls, too. (One of my personal faves. Laugh if you want.) He's got some great stories from the 1980's...I tell him he should write his memoirs, but he just chuckles in reply.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Technology Bytes
My computer has a virus. Or a worm. Or a Trojan Horse. Or corrupted Windows. Whatever. There's something horribly, horribly wrong with it, and that makes me very sad. It also makes me hysterical and angry. On Sunday, I watched helplessly as all of my personal-writing Word documents turned into Notepad files full of gibberish and asterisks. I wanted to hurl my big, clunky, corrupted Gateway machine out the window, then hurl myself onto my bed and weep while punching my pillow and kicking the mattress.
I didn't quite do all of that, but I did cry. I also stomped around my apartment wailing "Why now? What the f-ck? This is such bullsh-t!" and trying to talk myself through the trauma. The most upsetting part is that the disk I had my writing backed up on is corrupted also...I mean, really f-cked up...so I fear all the writing I've done in the last two years is irretrievable.
Enter Captain K, the computer-genius husband of coworker A, who has graciously swooped in to offer his expertise free of charge. My hero! He has volunteered himself (or, more accurately, his enormous brain) to try to determine what, exactly, is ailing my computer, and possibly to fix it. He may even be able to recover some files. Whee! Even if he can't do much, it's a start, and I'm grateful. The IT guys here at work, who make my head spin with all their techno-jargon, are also trying to help. They've e-mailed me some instructions for virus-scanning in DOS mode, which is very kind of them, but I don't understand the instructions whatsoever. Perhaps Captain K will. They've also given me an updated, all-powerful virus-scanning CD to run on my machine, to determine if a virus is indeed the problem.
In the meantime, I'm attempting to come to terms with losing my writing. It's not like it was fantastic (or even good) stuff, but many of the pieces had been through dozens of rewrites and had been steadily improving over the course of the last several months or so. I dug up some hard copies of some things, but they're my first drafts from a year or two ago. I guess that's better than nothing.
Perhaps I should view this loss as a new beginning. (Cue violins.) Perhaps I should also avoid clichés. But what I mean is, I've been considering a couple of memories I'd like to write about, so maybe it's time to put pen to paper (not fingers to keyboard, yet, until this damn virus---or whatever---is fixed) and actually get to work. I've never written about being hit by the car, and I think that's a story worth telling. I think it's safe to assume that the average person has not been hit by a car while jogging and might be curious to know what that's like. Also, it's a story with a happy ending, now that I'm running again.
That reminds me: My last post, which never made it on-line as a result of the computer debacle, was about the joy of last Saturday's three-mile run. Also, it was about the joy of drinking a big, free Starbucks iced coffee afterward. I discovered my computer horror shortly after saving the post to disk. How quickly joy can turn to despair. And rage. And dark, violent thoughts about Bill Gates and his crappy Internet Explorer, which is maddeningly vulnerable to attacks from hackers and other virus-making evil geniuses.
P.S. I'd like to give a shout-out to coworker and talented blogstress, J, also known as Gintastic, who writes a blog that's much more interesting, clever, and funny than this one. Also, I think she's only the second person to ever read my blogs. Maybe she's reading right now! Hi J!
I didn't quite do all of that, but I did cry. I also stomped around my apartment wailing "Why now? What the f-ck? This is such bullsh-t!" and trying to talk myself through the trauma. The most upsetting part is that the disk I had my writing backed up on is corrupted also...I mean, really f-cked up...so I fear all the writing I've done in the last two years is irretrievable.
Enter Captain K, the computer-genius husband of coworker A, who has graciously swooped in to offer his expertise free of charge. My hero! He has volunteered himself (or, more accurately, his enormous brain) to try to determine what, exactly, is ailing my computer, and possibly to fix it. He may even be able to recover some files. Whee! Even if he can't do much, it's a start, and I'm grateful. The IT guys here at work, who make my head spin with all their techno-jargon, are also trying to help. They've e-mailed me some instructions for virus-scanning in DOS mode, which is very kind of them, but I don't understand the instructions whatsoever. Perhaps Captain K will. They've also given me an updated, all-powerful virus-scanning CD to run on my machine, to determine if a virus is indeed the problem.
In the meantime, I'm attempting to come to terms with losing my writing. It's not like it was fantastic (or even good) stuff, but many of the pieces had been through dozens of rewrites and had been steadily improving over the course of the last several months or so. I dug up some hard copies of some things, but they're my first drafts from a year or two ago. I guess that's better than nothing.
Perhaps I should view this loss as a new beginning. (Cue violins.) Perhaps I should also avoid clichés. But what I mean is, I've been considering a couple of memories I'd like to write about, so maybe it's time to put pen to paper (not fingers to keyboard, yet, until this damn virus---or whatever---is fixed) and actually get to work. I've never written about being hit by the car, and I think that's a story worth telling. I think it's safe to assume that the average person has not been hit by a car while jogging and might be curious to know what that's like. Also, it's a story with a happy ending, now that I'm running again.
That reminds me: My last post, which never made it on-line as a result of the computer debacle, was about the joy of last Saturday's three-mile run. Also, it was about the joy of drinking a big, free Starbucks iced coffee afterward. I discovered my computer horror shortly after saving the post to disk. How quickly joy can turn to despair. And rage. And dark, violent thoughts about Bill Gates and his crappy Internet Explorer, which is maddeningly vulnerable to attacks from hackers and other virus-making evil geniuses.
P.S. I'd like to give a shout-out to coworker and talented blogstress, J, also known as Gintastic, who writes a blog that's much more interesting, clever, and funny than this one. Also, I think she's only the second person to ever read my blogs. Maybe she's reading right now! Hi J!
Monday, June 21, 2004
Run, Forest! Run!
I am thrilled to report that, after injuring myself two weeks into joining Nike Run Club L.A. with J and CL, I’ve resumed running with the club. Whee! I'm so relieved. I wasn’t sure how long a strained muscle would take to heal, and after a week had come and gone with little improvement in my right calf, I'd become despondent and downright pissy. Joining these runs had turned out to be more fun than I'd guessed it would, and I was so frustrated and disappointed to have to temporarily drop out after doing only three of them.
I'm quite sure the problem stemmed from my jogging in place on the balls of my feet at stoplights during both the Santa Monica and Beverly Hills runs. As I was doing it, in fact, my calves were uncomfortable and felt as if they were "balling up," so to speak, but I was under the impression that coming to a dead stop at intersections would cause my muscles to tighten, which in turn might lead to injury. So, I jogged in place, and found myself barely able to walk in the days following my third run. Grrr. It couldn't have helped that I continued wearing shoes with high heels to work, which didn't allow my calves to stretch and relax during the workday.
What's especially funny is that when I mentioned to CL that I believed the jogging in place was responsible for my injury, she was like, "Yeah, I think people who jog in place while waiting to cross intersections look really dorky, actually. So I don’t do it." Hee. Well, considering I am indeed a big dork (in an endearing way, I hope), it didn’t surprise me that I'd been doing something that wasn't just a strain on my muscles, but a silly-looking maneuver to boot.
My reintroduction to the club runs took place this past Saturday morning, at the obscenely early hour of 8 a.m. In the few days prior, I'd felt that my calves were finally healing, so I was eager to get back out on the pavement. While J and CL joined the 11-minute-mile five-milers, I humbly took my place among the 12-minute-mile three-milers. Fine with me; I was just happy to be out there.
The run was great! Leisurely, relaxed, mildly hilly, and quiet, save the one guy in my group who yapped at an inordinately high volume to another runner throughout the duration of the run. Did you know this particular gentleman plans to have one million dollars in the bank by his forty-fourth birthday? I do, and so does the entire Ladera neighborhood around which we ran, because this guy’s pie hole was going at maximum volume for the full 36 minutes of our run. Honestly, there’s one in every pack of runners, you know? The guy who talks about himself through the whole thing, really loudly?
Afterward, the Starbucks with which Nike contracts for this particular run gave out free coffee drinks (any kind we wanted!), bagels, croissants (my high-carb baked good of choice), and assorted fruit breads. Mmm.
It's been 36 hours since that run, and my calves feel pretty good! So I think I'm back in the game and on-track to run the Montrose, PA 5K on July 5. Yeah!
I'm quite sure the problem stemmed from my jogging in place on the balls of my feet at stoplights during both the Santa Monica and Beverly Hills runs. As I was doing it, in fact, my calves were uncomfortable and felt as if they were "balling up," so to speak, but I was under the impression that coming to a dead stop at intersections would cause my muscles to tighten, which in turn might lead to injury. So, I jogged in place, and found myself barely able to walk in the days following my third run. Grrr. It couldn't have helped that I continued wearing shoes with high heels to work, which didn't allow my calves to stretch and relax during the workday.
What's especially funny is that when I mentioned to CL that I believed the jogging in place was responsible for my injury, she was like, "Yeah, I think people who jog in place while waiting to cross intersections look really dorky, actually. So I don’t do it." Hee. Well, considering I am indeed a big dork (in an endearing way, I hope), it didn’t surprise me that I'd been doing something that wasn't just a strain on my muscles, but a silly-looking maneuver to boot.
My reintroduction to the club runs took place this past Saturday morning, at the obscenely early hour of 8 a.m. In the few days prior, I'd felt that my calves were finally healing, so I was eager to get back out on the pavement. While J and CL joined the 11-minute-mile five-milers, I humbly took my place among the 12-minute-mile three-milers. Fine with me; I was just happy to be out there.
The run was great! Leisurely, relaxed, mildly hilly, and quiet, save the one guy in my group who yapped at an inordinately high volume to another runner throughout the duration of the run. Did you know this particular gentleman plans to have one million dollars in the bank by his forty-fourth birthday? I do, and so does the entire Ladera neighborhood around which we ran, because this guy’s pie hole was going at maximum volume for the full 36 minutes of our run. Honestly, there’s one in every pack of runners, you know? The guy who talks about himself through the whole thing, really loudly?
Afterward, the Starbucks with which Nike contracts for this particular run gave out free coffee drinks (any kind we wanted!), bagels, croissants (my high-carb baked good of choice), and assorted fruit breads. Mmm.
It's been 36 hours since that run, and my calves feel pretty good! So I think I'm back in the game and on-track to run the Montrose, PA 5K on July 5. Yeah!
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Two’s a Crowd
One day into single-parenthood and already I’m tired of it.
S flew back East last night for a six-day stay with his family in the F.C., so it’s just Toonces and me till next Tuesday. Good god, it’s a challenge parenting this cat on my own. She’s so needy! I got approximately three hours of sleep last night, no thanks to Toonces and her noisy forays into the closet and onto the computer desk. That damn closet door won’t stay closed, and as soon as it pops open, Toonces dives in and immediately begins chewing on and ripping up the newspaper that’s in there. It’s a sound that woke me up three times last night. The sound of her scaling the computer monitor is loud as well. A lot of rattling around. And, she’s a bed hog. Without S snoozing next to me and taking up half of the mattress’s surface area, Toonces felt perfectly free to plop down on the bed’s dead center, then s-t-r-e-t-c-h herself out. Thanks so much, Toonces. I’ll be over here in the far right corner, curled into the fetal position so that you might be more comfortable.
Sigh.
Suffice it to say I’ve got some rather unbecoming bags underneath my eyes today.
On top of her nighttime hijinks, she followed me around all morning and kept mewing at me, as if to say, “Where’s that other human of mine? I like him better. You’re a poor substitute, Lady.” She sat on the bathroom sink and stared at me as I showered. She kept rubbing up against my legs as I sat on the toilet to pee (sorry, but it’s a pertinent detail). I’m the only person she can hang out with for the next several days, and already it’s an exhausting role.
Oh! And I nearly forgot to mention that she swiped at me with her scythe-like claws this morning when I tried to pet her before leaving for work. Nice! She drew blood.
My morning concluded with a bang as I arrived at work 17 minutes late and had to beeline for the crappy first-aid kit in the office kitchen (why the kitchen?) to grab an alcohol-wipe to dab on my bleeding cat-wound.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
S flew back East last night for a six-day stay with his family in the F.C., so it’s just Toonces and me till next Tuesday. Good god, it’s a challenge parenting this cat on my own. She’s so needy! I got approximately three hours of sleep last night, no thanks to Toonces and her noisy forays into the closet and onto the computer desk. That damn closet door won’t stay closed, and as soon as it pops open, Toonces dives in and immediately begins chewing on and ripping up the newspaper that’s in there. It’s a sound that woke me up three times last night. The sound of her scaling the computer monitor is loud as well. A lot of rattling around. And, she’s a bed hog. Without S snoozing next to me and taking up half of the mattress’s surface area, Toonces felt perfectly free to plop down on the bed’s dead center, then s-t-r-e-t-c-h herself out. Thanks so much, Toonces. I’ll be over here in the far right corner, curled into the fetal position so that you might be more comfortable.
Sigh.
Suffice it to say I’ve got some rather unbecoming bags underneath my eyes today.
On top of her nighttime hijinks, she followed me around all morning and kept mewing at me, as if to say, “Where’s that other human of mine? I like him better. You’re a poor substitute, Lady.” She sat on the bathroom sink and stared at me as I showered. She kept rubbing up against my legs as I sat on the toilet to pee (sorry, but it’s a pertinent detail). I’m the only person she can hang out with for the next several days, and already it’s an exhausting role.
Oh! And I nearly forgot to mention that she swiped at me with her scythe-like claws this morning when I tried to pet her before leaving for work. Nice! She drew blood.
My morning concluded with a bang as I arrived at work 17 minutes late and had to beeline for the crappy first-aid kit in the office kitchen (why the kitchen?) to grab an alcohol-wipe to dab on my bleeding cat-wound.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Hip-Hop, You Don’t Stop
Let me tell you the story of Hip-Hop, the affectionate-kitten-turned-wild-street-cat that roams my neighborhood.
I first met Hip-Hop one Saturday evening while I was doing laundry. (Oops, I just revealed how boring my life is. Let’s get past that and move on, shall we?) So anyway, I was taking my sopping wet clothes out of the washer and chucking them into the dryer when I heard a sudden, persistent mewing coming from outside. My first panicky thought, of course, was that it was our adorable Toonces, and I briefly wondered where she was and if she’d somehow gotten outside. A few moments of concentrated listening, however, revealed that the cries were not hers, and that they sounded like those of a very young kitten. I popped my head outside and found the cutest, fuzziest little kitten stuck atop the fence that separates our duplex from the one next door. He’d climbed up and was unable to get back down.
Being too short to reach up and help the poor little guy myself, I called S to come to the rescue. S, animal lover and general softie that he is, was happy to oblige. He reached up and effortlessly plucked the cat from his perch, and the kitty immediately got comfortable in S’s arms and began purring. What a snuggly little creature! He seemed perfectly content to stay in S’s arms and let the two of us rub his head and chin. It reminded us of Toonces’s youth, when she’d purr for anybody at anytime and seemed to enjoy cuddling. (She’s since reached her surly, rebellious adolescent stage. Sigh.)
The kitten’s tag revealed his name was “Hip-Hop” and that he lived a block east of us. S called the owner, whose pleasant British accent I could hear through his cell phone, and the owner asked some general questions about Hip-Hop’s wellbeing and how far he’d strayed. She then said it was too late for her to come by and pick the kitten up, but that she’d swing by in the morning to get him. We thought that was sort of weird, but OK. (Once we set Hip-Hop back down on the ground, he’d likely go scampering off and end up who knows where, right?) The owner also casually threw in, at the end of the conversation, “I guess I should get him neutered at some point.”
!
Um, yeah, lady. You should. It’s a little irresponsible to let your young male cat roam the neighborhood, free to impregnate any willing female cat who happens to cross his path. (We didn’t say that to her, though.)
So, that was that.
Since then, we’ve seen Hip-Hop a million and one times. I doubt his owner ever drove by to “pick him up.” Hip-Hop is always in our neighborhood stalking birds or making eyes at Toonces from the other side of Toonces’s favorite window. At first we’d see him outside and be like, “Oh! Hip-Hop, you cutie!” and pet him and fuss over him. But as more time goes by and he spends more and more time on the street and in other people’s yards, he grows dirtier and wilder and less affectionate. His formerly bright gold, fluffy coat is now dingy and grayish. And he’s forever pouncing on birds and eating them. He’s become very predatory. He also does crazy maneuvers like running up the sides of houses, which is of course quite dangerous.
The last time we saw him, he was scratching himself with fervor. He seemed totally incapable of stopping the scratching; I’m sure he’s got fleas. A couple of neighborhood kids and I were standing above Hip-Hop on the sidewalk watching him, and the one girl said, “I think his owners let him out for good,” which seemed like an astute prediction to me. If it’s true, I’m pissed. You don’t just bring home a kitten and then neglect him. That same afternoon, I tried to pet Hip-Hop, and he didn’t let me. He swiped at me with his paw and resumed scratching. He seems undomesticated at this point. It’s a shame.
I’m guessing Hip-Hop will ultimately meet his end in this very neighborhood. I’m guessing he’ll either be squished by a car or attacked by the large raccoons that come out after dark. (I’ve seen them twice now, on my evening walks. They scare the sh-t out of me.) I hope neither of these things happen, but I fear they’re likely. I wish Hip-Hop’s owner would take him back in, get him a bath and a flea dip, and have him neutered. I’m not the kind of person, however, who would tell a stranger what I think she should do.
But maybe I'm just being a coward?
I first met Hip-Hop one Saturday evening while I was doing laundry. (Oops, I just revealed how boring my life is. Let’s get past that and move on, shall we?) So anyway, I was taking my sopping wet clothes out of the washer and chucking them into the dryer when I heard a sudden, persistent mewing coming from outside. My first panicky thought, of course, was that it was our adorable Toonces, and I briefly wondered where she was and if she’d somehow gotten outside. A few moments of concentrated listening, however, revealed that the cries were not hers, and that they sounded like those of a very young kitten. I popped my head outside and found the cutest, fuzziest little kitten stuck atop the fence that separates our duplex from the one next door. He’d climbed up and was unable to get back down.
Being too short to reach up and help the poor little guy myself, I called S to come to the rescue. S, animal lover and general softie that he is, was happy to oblige. He reached up and effortlessly plucked the cat from his perch, and the kitty immediately got comfortable in S’s arms and began purring. What a snuggly little creature! He seemed perfectly content to stay in S’s arms and let the two of us rub his head and chin. It reminded us of Toonces’s youth, when she’d purr for anybody at anytime and seemed to enjoy cuddling. (She’s since reached her surly, rebellious adolescent stage. Sigh.)
The kitten’s tag revealed his name was “Hip-Hop” and that he lived a block east of us. S called the owner, whose pleasant British accent I could hear through his cell phone, and the owner asked some general questions about Hip-Hop’s wellbeing and how far he’d strayed. She then said it was too late for her to come by and pick the kitten up, but that she’d swing by in the morning to get him. We thought that was sort of weird, but OK. (Once we set Hip-Hop back down on the ground, he’d likely go scampering off and end up who knows where, right?) The owner also casually threw in, at the end of the conversation, “I guess I should get him neutered at some point.”
!
Um, yeah, lady. You should. It’s a little irresponsible to let your young male cat roam the neighborhood, free to impregnate any willing female cat who happens to cross his path. (We didn’t say that to her, though.)
So, that was that.
Since then, we’ve seen Hip-Hop a million and one times. I doubt his owner ever drove by to “pick him up.” Hip-Hop is always in our neighborhood stalking birds or making eyes at Toonces from the other side of Toonces’s favorite window. At first we’d see him outside and be like, “Oh! Hip-Hop, you cutie!” and pet him and fuss over him. But as more time goes by and he spends more and more time on the street and in other people’s yards, he grows dirtier and wilder and less affectionate. His formerly bright gold, fluffy coat is now dingy and grayish. And he’s forever pouncing on birds and eating them. He’s become very predatory. He also does crazy maneuvers like running up the sides of houses, which is of course quite dangerous.
The last time we saw him, he was scratching himself with fervor. He seemed totally incapable of stopping the scratching; I’m sure he’s got fleas. A couple of neighborhood kids and I were standing above Hip-Hop on the sidewalk watching him, and the one girl said, “I think his owners let him out for good,” which seemed like an astute prediction to me. If it’s true, I’m pissed. You don’t just bring home a kitten and then neglect him. That same afternoon, I tried to pet Hip-Hop, and he didn’t let me. He swiped at me with his paw and resumed scratching. He seems undomesticated at this point. It’s a shame.
I’m guessing Hip-Hop will ultimately meet his end in this very neighborhood. I’m guessing he’ll either be squished by a car or attacked by the large raccoons that come out after dark. (I’ve seen them twice now, on my evening walks. They scare the sh-t out of me.) I hope neither of these things happen, but I fear they’re likely. I wish Hip-Hop’s owner would take him back in, get him a bath and a flea dip, and have him neutered. I’m not the kind of person, however, who would tell a stranger what I think she should do.
But maybe I'm just being a coward?
Dying Butterfly
Last night at the Farmers' Market I watched a beautiful butterfly limp around the pavement and make several unsuccessful attempts to take wing and flutter off. It was disturbing to watch, this injured creature with wide, smooth wings of yellow and black trying to just get the hell off the ground and away from there, and failing.
I was bothered and sad watching this little tragedy, but when I pointed it out to my friend, who was sitting next to me on the bench, she said, "Eew! I don't like butterflies."
Huh?
"Why?" I asked her.
"I'm afraid they're going to wind up caught in my hair or something," she said.
I thought that was weird and actually very silly, but I kept quiet about it, considering I love this particular friend of mine, and she does have many, many good qualities---despite her dislike of harmless, pretty little insects.
The thing is, how do you help an injured butterfly? In the middle of a bustling Farmers' Market? At the time, I decided there was nothing I could do, so I sort of angled my body away from it and pretended it wasn't there. I focused on eating my quesadilla and making conversation with my friend and husband.
In retrospect, now that I relive the moment in my head, I think I could have tried moving the butterfly to safety, maybe lifting him off the pavement and placing him out of the path of all those feet and the occasional pick-up truck. I should have done that. Now I feel like an ass. This is a recurring pattern for me: good intentions, followed by complete inertia.
I wonder if the butterfly died later on that night? Maybe he was squished by a hapless shoe or a truck tire shortly after we left the market? Perhaps he has miraculously survived and is still struggling to take flight.
Either way, I hope he's not suffering.
I was bothered and sad watching this little tragedy, but when I pointed it out to my friend, who was sitting next to me on the bench, she said, "Eew! I don't like butterflies."
Huh?
"Why?" I asked her.
"I'm afraid they're going to wind up caught in my hair or something," she said.
I thought that was weird and actually very silly, but I kept quiet about it, considering I love this particular friend of mine, and she does have many, many good qualities---despite her dislike of harmless, pretty little insects.
The thing is, how do you help an injured butterfly? In the middle of a bustling Farmers' Market? At the time, I decided there was nothing I could do, so I sort of angled my body away from it and pretended it wasn't there. I focused on eating my quesadilla and making conversation with my friend and husband.
In retrospect, now that I relive the moment in my head, I think I could have tried moving the butterfly to safety, maybe lifting him off the pavement and placing him out of the path of all those feet and the occasional pick-up truck. I should have done that. Now I feel like an ass. This is a recurring pattern for me: good intentions, followed by complete inertia.
I wonder if the butterfly died later on that night? Maybe he was squished by a hapless shoe or a truck tire shortly after we left the market? Perhaps he has miraculously survived and is still struggling to take flight.
Either way, I hope he's not suffering.
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