Everything Is Easier in the County

I was kind of proud to live in the city.  Not proud in a "Look at our great and thriving metropolis!" way, but in a "Yeah, I'm a bad-ass motherfucker because I know how to live here and not die" way.  That being said, my Unit and I will be hard-pressed to move back now that Disaster Destruction Displacement 2016 has happened.  Everything is simply easier in the county.

It is no longer a pain in the ass to take out the trash.  I no longer have to lug the trash to the back door, down steps to the patio, through the yard, unlock the the six-foot-tall wooden privacy fence, and then trek down the back alley to the dumpster.  My Unit no longer has to insist on watching me do all of the above from the window to make sure that I am not accosted or assaulted (even in broad daylight) during said trash-schelpping.

Now we step outside to the backyard, plop the bags into the trash bin (either over the chain link fence or walking through the [unlocked] gate).  Once a week, my Unit wheels the bin to the end of the driveway.  Easy peasy.

Speaking of driveways:  holy shit, we have a driveway!  And a garage!  We no longer have to wonder and worry:  will we have a parking spot when we come home?  Will "our" spots be available (not really; it was public parking)?  Will we even be able to park near our home or on our same block?  Will neighbors and strangers alike have parked multiple vehicles up and down the street?  Will people who don't know how to parallel park take up more than one spot per vehicle?

No more stress and no more ritual cursing of Lent and Catholics and fish fries (okay, I probably still will, but for different reasons).  We are guaranteed safe and clean off-street parking each time we return home now.  Additionally, we no longer have to worry if we'll wake up to vandalized cars, car windows smashed, trash strewn in the yard, trash thrown on our front porch, porch lights shot out by BB guns, air conditioner units stolen, or used tampons tossed in the gangway¹.

No more additional taxes!  That 1% additional income tax if one lives or works in the city?  Gone!  Take some other suckers' money, ZMD!

Even the laundry is easier in the county!  This particular house has laundry facilities on the main floor, so no more taking my life in my hands by lugging baskets of laundry up and down treacherous city basement steps.

Not all safety and laundry is guaranteed in the city.  I am well aware of that.  I also sometimes worry that I'll lose my parallel parking skills or that I'll become lax and forget to lock my car doors or I'll start leaving valuables in my car.  But I gotta say,....life is a whole lot easier than it was.

¹Yes, all of those things have happened, including the tampon.

White Privilege in Two Paragraphs

There are yard signs around the city which say, "We Must Stop Killing Each Other."  There is one on my sister-in-law's block.  And she was grieving the fact that her nine-year-old daughter (our niece, Little Red) is now able to read, which means that she will have to explain to Little Red what that sign means and why it's posted and what is going on with the state of the world.  I said, "Well, it's true [that we must stop killing each other]" to my Unit, who then expressed her desire (similar to her sister's) to keep Little Red as young and innocent as she can be, before she has to realize what a horrible place the world is.

I see one of those signs "We Must Stop Killing Each Other" every day when I drive home from work, and it dawned on me that for other children, other nine- and ten-year-olds, "We Must Stop Killing Each Other" is an everyday reality.  Other, non-white children have to be told on a daily basis why their friends and families are being shot and killed.  Other, non-white children have to be taught things like "Hands Up; Don't Shoot" and to always comply with persons of authority because at any moment they could be unjustly harassed, assaulted, and/or killed.  That is their everyday reality.  And the fact that Little Red's parents have the luxury of deciding when to tell her about this reality -- this "other" reality -- is white privilege.  Plain.  Lucky.  Stupid. Privilege.

Of Squirrels and Angels

Scene:  7 a.m. on Sunday morning, my Unit rushes into the house after taking Dogzilla for her morning constitutional.  I am, of course, still in bed.

"Well, Dogzilla caught a squirrel!" she announces.
"What??"  I'm really only half awake.
"Yes!  It practically jumped in her mouth!  I think this squirrel wanted to die.  Seriously, it ran right into her mouth.  And then of course, she wouldn't let it go -- "
"This was on your walk?  Or out in the backyard?"  (See? Still not entirely awake.)
"While we were walking!  And I try to keep her away from squirrels while we're walking, and it still ran and jumped directly into her mouth!!"
"Kamikaze squirrel?"
"I guess!  So I have her on the leash, I'm trying to get her to drop the squirrel, but of course, I don't want to touch the squirrel!  And she wouldn't let it go!!  I didn't know what I was going to do!  Was she just going to bring it home??  So I have her down on the sidewalk, I'm still holding onto the leash, and I'm telling her 'NO!' and 'DROP IT!' and this short, scruffy, white guy comes out of nowhere -- why are all my angels short, scruffy, white guys?"
"Wha--?"
"And he says, 'Hey, I can help you,' so I say, 'Sure!'" my Unit is both exasperated at this point in her story and in the telling of it.  "So he slowly reaches into his pocket --"
"Wait, I can't see!"  (Still in bed, no contacts or glasses.)   

My Unit comes closer so my sorry blind self can mostly see her, and she slowly acts out the dramatic reaching into the pocket.  "And he pulls out...a taser."
"WHAT?!?!"
"YES!  A fucking taser!  And I'm like, 'Dude, don't tase my dog!' and I'm thinking, 'And don't tase me either!!'"
"Who goes around with a taser in their pocket??"
"Apparently short, scruffy, white guys do!  So then he leans in real close [to Dogzilla] and goes zzt-zzt!" (Unit mimicking the sound and action of a taser.)
"WHAT??!?"
"Just to scare her a bit!  He didn't touch her. And she dropped the squirrel!  And the squirrel is lying there on its side, all huhuhuh" (Unit mimicking squirrel death-panting.)
"Yeah, it was probably bleeding internally."
"And the guy says, 'Oh.  I'm gonna hafta put it out of its misery.'  So I say, 'Okay,...umm, do you mind if I walk away before that?'  And we left."
"Wow."
"Yeah!  So that happened.  Okay, I have to go to work -- bye!"

And then she left.
End scene.

First Rant of 2016

I can honestly say that I've never thought to myself, Now would be a good time to load this piece of weaponry and shoot it randomly in celebration.  Granted, I'm not a fan of guns to begin with, but WTF, people?!?  For starters, it's a waste of ammo.

So many effin' gunshots last night, so very close to Leonard's house.  As a friend mentioned, who remembers the old PSA's "What goes up must come down.  Think before you shoot"?
I remember the first time I read one of those billboards in this city.  I was so confused.  I thought maybe it was a joke that I wasn't getting.  People really need to be told that?  People really shoot their guns at New Year's Eve?

And Leonard grew up in the Midwest, people!  Often, out in the "country," and still no random gunshots to "celebrate" things.

Leonard does not understand it, and it just adds to the idea that most gun-owners are morons who shouldn't be out and about, let alone with weapons.  But hey, now we have a pretty good idea who is armed on this block.

Image courtesy of TIME Magazine, 2011

NYE Curse

It's that time of year again:  Leonard's New Year's Eve Curse.  Each year, I start to think about plans for NYE; perhaps I'll venture out during "amateur night" as we call it.  And then I remember.  No, I can't go out.  We want to keep the collateral damage to a minimum.

For the past 10+ years, the horrible things that have happened to me have happened either on New Year's Eve itself or within the first month of January¹.  Here is a list of past things that have happened, in no particular order:

• robbed at gunpoint
• concussion
• locked out of my apartment.  At midnight.  With my dog.  But no cell phone.
• car breaking down on the highway.  Late at night.  Bad part of town.
• trip to the ER for emergency plastic surgery
• a series of broken car windows (retaliation from our jackass neighbor -- repeatedly).
• endoscopy and colonoscopy

So if you see me and I'm asking about New Year's Eve plans, kindly remind me of this list.  Even better, just hand me all of the leftover bubble-wrap from your holiday shopping and shipping and walk away.  Run.  Save yourself!

¹With the exception of lightning car (August 2014)
2018 Update:  or Treepocalypse.  That was July 2016.

Ranty McRantersons: Baseball Edition

So there's a petition going around (I've seen several friends post about it on Facebook) to make the MLB's Opening Day a national holiday. Anheuser Busch has even endorsed it (hello, publicity stunt!). There's something about this stunt that I find beyond ridiculous, even offensive. "But Leonard, it's just a day off of work! Who doesn't want that?" I don't, not when it costs this much.

While I would never begrudge someone his or her enjoyable pastime, it is just that: a pastime. And while it is a colloquialism to say that baseball is the U.S.'s national pastime, it's just a fun thing to say; there is no official pastime. More than that, what about other pastimes? I'm sure the fans of football, soccer, hockey, basketball, etc. would like the openings of their seasons recognized nationally. Hell, perhaps I think National Knit in Public Day should be recognized officially so I can participate. Like many sports, knitting too requires skill, talent, dexterity, practice, eye-hand coordination, spatial recognition, and (gasp!) math.

And what about the myriad of different art openings? There are many, many of us who do not enjoy any sport at all. Surely those seasons and offerings should be recognized as a part of our culture, too.

But here's the part I really, REALLY dislike: I am tired of the inflated status sports continue to have, not just in this city, but in this country -- especially when budgets for arts programs continue to be slashed across the country, at both local and federal levels. Combine that inflation with the god-like status many players receive (or take upon themselves), add in the culture of hypermasculinity that pervades both college and professional sports, and we get things like accused rapists, murderers, animal abusers, and homophobes.
And I find nothing in that that I want to celebrate. That "free" day off of work isn't so free after all.

So, by all means, please enjoy your "sportsball" and your pastimes and your hobbies, but also please stop trying to foist them on the rest of us.
Thanks.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

As I was lying there, my stomach started growling.  My stomach had been upset most of the day, due to eating junk food and soda on the road.  I didn't really want to eat, but I knew the growling and rumbling would keep me from falling asleep.  Earlier in the evening my step-dad had said, "I'm eating a Rice Krispie treat.  I pulled one out for you, too."  I politely took the wrapped treat, but had no intention of eating it at the time.  It was not homemade, but the actual Rice Krispie brand in the blue metallic wrapper.  Again,  I had eaten junk food all day, and didn't want anymore, so I set the treat on my bedside table, planning on ignoring it.

As my stomach growled in the thick darkness of rural Iowa, I contemplated the treat.  What the hell, I thought.  Just a bite.  Still in the dark, I unwrapped the Rice Krispie treat.  Each crinkle of the wrapper sounded like thunder.  There is NO sound in the house in rural Iowa.  No traffic, no neighbors, no helicopters overhead, no sirens, no gunshots, no dogs barking outside, no car alarms, no cats  running around, no fans, no icemaker, no dehumidifier, no house settling noises.  Nothing.  Except silence that fills my ears until I can hear my own blood pumping through my veins.

I was certain the screaming of the cellophane wrapper would bring my stepdad lumbering into the guest room wanting to know why I was eating in bed.

Despite the raging wrapper, I managed to open the treat.  I originally planned to just nibble off a corner and then put the half-wrapped treat back on the bedside.  But after that first bite, I couldn't stop.  Maybe I really was hungry?  Maybe it was because I haven't had a Rice Krispie treat in years?  Whatever the reason, that treat was the most delicious thing I had tasted in 48 hours.  Somewhere between bites two and three, I thought, Do they have a pest problem?  Maybe mice or something?  I probably shouldn't leave a half-eaten Rice Krispie treat out.  It didn't really matter as there was no turning back now.

Going entirely by my sense of touch in the pitch black, I laid flat in bed and slowly peeled back the wrapper with increasingly sticky fingers and took bite after bite of the crunchy, marshmallowy goodness.

And that is how I ate an entire Rice Krispie treat in bed in Iowa in the dark.

(Delicious picture provided by QuarryGirl.com)

Bird Shit and Bee Stings

Another oldie but goodie from the vaults.  It still makes me laugh (now.  At the time, there was no laughing).

Bird Shit & Bee Stings (08-08-06)

Subtitle:  Why I don't go outside.

I am not an outdoorsy person.  Even people who barely know me, know this.  I am a house cat.  I like the comforts of home.  I like my computer, my electric lights, hot water, and, of course, air conditioning.  If I could, I would build a shrine to my A/C and worship it daily.

I do not like bugs, dirt, sweat, or sleeping in uncomfortable places.  Yes, I am a rather spoiled and high-maintenance Leonard, but at least I can admit that.  And admitting it is half the battle.  Therefore, I do not go outside if I can help it.  I don't do "outside things."  However, only 50% of this is because I don't like it. The other 50% (okay, maybe it's more like 60/40) is because if I know I won't have a good time, I don't want to ruin other people's good times by whining and complaining and being an all around pain in the ass.  Let's just save ourselves the trouble and not make Leonard go outside to begin with.  At least that's my logic.

I have always been this way.  My mother swears that, as a baby, whenever she took me outside, I would immediately start to cry.  I have never broken a bone, had poison ivy, or seen a shooting star.

But I do like some outside things.  I like rappelling and rock-climbing, oddly enough.  I also like riding motorcycles (riding on the back of said bikes; I can't drive one).  An ex of mine was happy to accommodate the latter.  So one Saturday afternoon, we went for a leisurely late lunch and drive around the city.

Sometimes when we were tooling around, the end of the chin-strap on my helmet would fly up and smack me in the face.  It hurt.  A lot.  Especially if we were going down the highway.  It felt like I'd been sliced in the face. But Saturday afternoon, doing maybe 40 mph should not have produced such an effect.  Nonetheless, I felt a sharp stinging sensation that I at first assumed was the chin-strap.  

But it was too high for the chin-strap.  It was in my ear.  My next thought (granted, all of these happened in the course of about three seconds) was that my earrings were caught on something.  But it still HURT.  It kept hurting, stinging.  I stuck a finger inside my ear-flap and immediately heard an angry buzzing sound, and my finger plucked out (and promptly threw away) a bee.

And it HURT.  It stung.  It burned.  It throbbed.  I had already said, "OWW!" quite loudly.  As soon as I processed what had happened, I think I beat my girlfriend on the helmet, saying, "Go home!  Go home!  Go home!"  Obviously, we were already heading home, but this translated into:  "Please go home now using the most direct route because I am in severe pain."

My ear was stinging, burning; I could actually feel it swelling up.  Every bump in the road made it throb; the wind whistling past just emphasized the heat radiating.  I had my hands on my girlfriend's shoulders, gripping for dear life, her shirt clenched in my fists.  I cried nearly the whole way home, unable to do anything but wait out the ride.  At stoplights, I occasionally wondered if people thought she was kidnapping me.  "What is that butch woman doing to that poor girl crying on the back of the motorcycle??"

In addition to not having any broken bones or outbreaks of poison-whatever, I have never been stung by a bee or wasp or anything.  Never.  Ever.  Not even once, not even a tiny sweat bee.  I had no idea it hurt so badly, even though I've feared it for the past twenty-some years.  When we got back to my place, and I gingerly removed my helmet (convinced that side of my head had swollen up to Quasimodo proportions), and looked at her, and just said pathetically, "It huuuuuuuurts!"

To which she replied, "Yes, well, probably because the stinger is still in your ear."

Aaack!  Using tweezers, she gently removed it from my right ear, and I promptly removed all jewelry.  I also called my mom to ask, "What do you do for a bee sting?"  I had no idea; I had never had one before.

Unfortunately, Mom didn't know either.  She said, "Ohhh, did you get stung by a bee?"

Me:  "Yesss. (sniffle)  It flew inside my helmet."
Mom:  "Oh, while you were out on the motorbike?" (Yes, my mother actually used the word "motorbike."  I have no idea why.)
Me:   (still pathetic)  "Uh-huh."

While this was going, the girlfriend was looking up online how to treat bee stings.  My grandmother was also deathly allergic to them, so I was paranoid about that, too; although, you can't usually discover an allergy until the second sting.  Finally Mom asked, "Well, were you at least having a good time up until then?"

I said, "Yes, I was fine -- until five minutes before I got stung when a bird shit on my arm!!!"

At this point my mother just started laughing, then tried (unconvincingly) to apologize for laughing at me.  "Oh, sweetie, you're just not meant to be outside!"

"I know!" I wailed into the phone.  "But I thought maybe if we were going fast enough, Outside wouldn't know I was there!!"

Yes, a bird really did shit on my arm about five minutes before "the bee incident."  Two things in one day, within five minutes of each other, that have never, ever happened to me.  So when I say no to camping, river-rafting, float-tripping, please remember this story.  Oh, but do call me when you go ziplining!  I totally want to do that.

 

(Image courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger) 

Who Needs a Will?

Plans for the future...

My Unit:  "You still have a headache?"
Me:  "Yeah."
Her:  "Why?"
Me:  "Sometimes my glasses give me a headache.  And I did smack my head on the freezer the other day."  (putting my hand towards the lump on my head)
Her:  "STOP TOUCHING IT!  But even before that, you were having headaches.  I'm started to get worried.  Maybe it's a brain tumor."
Me:  "I might have a brain tumor.  I might die from a brain tumor.  You always said you were going to outlive me."¹
Her:  "So you're just going to die and leave me because of a brain tumor?  Who does that??  So rude."
Me:  "I know."
Her:  "So here's what will happen after you die.  I'll get a roommate and live in this house like a nun.  They'll move in here."  (gesturing to my office)  "Wait, no, I'll move back here.  I don't always like being up front because of potential gunshots.  I'll move back here."
Me:  "Are you going to repaint it?"²
Her:  "No, I'll leave it exactly as it is.  Like a shrine."
Me:  "With all my Barbies and everything?"
Her:  "Of course!  And who'd sell a DVD collection like that?  That's a woman-trap if I ever saw one."
Me:  "What about the animals?"
Her:  "Oh, they can stay and hang out.  Well, Doogie will have to go.  And you'll just die and leave me with nothing but books and Barbies and DVD's."
Me:  "And yarn."

¹: It's funny because my Unit is eleven years older than I am.
²: My office is Pepto Bismol pink.

And the Kharmic Credit Plan Award Goes To...

...me.

I just resisted throwing an object back into my jackass neighbor's yard that they had clearly just thrown over the fence into my yard.  On the upside, said object is a Spider-Man water gun, and it is now MINE.  I fully plan on using it.

In other news, we're still in the Top Five Most Dangerous Cities!  Leonard doesn't lie.  *pointing to the blog header*

 Sadly, it was not this water gun.

Or this inappropriate and vaguely homoerotic one.