If you're not sure what the title of this blog post is referring to, I'd ask kindly that you Google it quickly, read up, and then return here. The title's relevance to this post exists in its own right, but I still believe that everyone should have background knowledge on that hilarious nugget of 90's pop culture. That being said-- I'm sorry to have been gone so long! My last post was right before I moved from my friend's house into my own apartment, and needless to say, my life has been one gigantic whirlwhind since.
Instead of getting into the details (which I'm so sure that everyone reading this would love to hear about) I'm instead going to give you a few pieces of advice based on my new, ever exciting, and exceptionally unique life the last month:
A: Always, always, remember to put gas in your car before you drive into DC.
R: Road rage to an excessive degree.
L: Love can find you in the strangest of places, if you let it.
I: It never gets old when a 3-year-old tells you that he/she loves you. Never.
N: Normal people go to Target about three times a month. Awesome people go to Target three times a day.
G: Give a smile to people that are especially miserable. Karmic retribution will find them, and luck in some form will find you.
T: Take time to read, write, journal, and think every day. It pays off in more ways than one.
O: Once a day, tell yourself how fantastic you are.
N: New friends and acquaintances can really plug you into the social pipeline, if you're up for it.
Sure, there's a lot I've left out, but I hope these nuggets of wisdom quenched at least the mildest of curiosities. If not, leave a comment, or just pine over it as you sleep tonight.
Today I testified in court on behalf of a little boy that I teach who is currently going through a custody battle. I received a subpoena two weeks ago, not knowing what in fuck that even meant, until someone explained it to me. I've never been in a situation that involved any swearing to tell the truth when it mattered, unless you count interactions with my parents and ex-boyfriends (when I most certainly told lies--for good reason).
It's still hard for me to synthesize how I was feeling, how I am feeling, and what I should be feeling about the whole situation. I'm trying to write this entry with a reflective, thoughful way of verbiage and I'm telling you what-- it's just not coming to me. My boyfriend eased a bit of my worry before I went in to the courtroom, but as soon as I sat down and started to process what I was involved in, it didn't much matter.
Is this case going to be on the national news? No. Will it be on the local news? No. Will anyone else besides the people involved in the case give a shit what went on between the hours of 10-5 today? No. I find myself thinking back to my childhood, trying to remember the little intricacies that may have shaped who I am today. I can't remember any of them. They are all so viscerally ingrained in me as a human being that there is no way to separate my nature from nurture. How can we possibly explain to others who we are as people, our actions, thoughts, nuances-- when we don't even know ourselves?
The sad part is, the monumental affect that this case will have on the two families involved is emotionally trying enough to stand up to any turmoil that the entire state of Virginia might feel in a lifetime. Hugs, Christmas presents, and bedtimes will be affected. When and where his hair is cut. How many servings of spaghetti he is allowed. When and if he is allowed soda, candy, or a lollipop. Where he goes to middle school. What his bedtime and curfew will be as a freshman. When he can bring a girl home. Whether he likes wheat or white, over-easy or scrambled, and his choice between skim milk and 2%.
And the rest of the world hasn't a damn clue about it.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
what's mine is yours--can what's yours be mine?
I woke up at about 7:20 this morning because for whatever reason, my body is incapable of sleeping in. Even though I'm physically exhausted, the fact that I wake up at six during the week makes the weekend attempt for extra snooze time an absolute bust. I guess it's okay because I have to get ready for work eventually anyway, but I still had an hour.
What? What's that you say? Work? Why, yes. Thank you for asking. I'm currently on day 20 of my working streak, which will finally run it's course next Thursday. I actually haven't minded it-- I've only gotten sick once.
Laying in my bed wide awake poses a series of problems for me in the early morning, because I tend to think about all of life's intricacies and issues: something NOT fit for a human to rumble on before the sun rises. Everything is still a fog, and every answer you come up with will inevitably seem grand at the time, but when your system actually wakes up and you realize how stupid you were just a mere two hours prior, you've learned your lesson. Never, ever, EVER make important decisions or think vital thoughts when under the influence of sleep-induced drunkenness. Nevertheless, I do it every day.
And there goes my alarm, screeching at me over the whir of the overhead fan and the cars outside my window. These sounds, reminders: DON'T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING YET.
That would be a lot easier to do if I wasn't in such a fucking bind right now. It's the same old story of everyone anywhere who has ever packed up his/her life and moved it somewhere else in hopes of starting new and finding something he/she thought was missing. Where is all the goddamn money?
All of my things (that I would need for an apartment/to sleep/to live on my own) are back home in a storage unit. One that I only have another day on before the month expires. I probably should call the dude in charge before my things end up in some hillbilly auction, or better yet, Storage Wars. At least that way I'd have some credibility to my name. Any way you look at it: renting a UHaul truck here, picking up my things, and returning it here, getting a UPod/storage crate, renting a pickup truck here and driving it to and from, getting a UHaul there and then towing my car while returning it here--all of these options are going to cost me upwards of 750. 750 that I DON'T HAVE. Because I'm moving in next weekend, I need to also figure in my security deposit (my new landlord is already giving me lenience on the first month of rent) and gas money for any aforementioned option. I'm finding myself really stressing out and getting upset for the first time since being here, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
To top it off, my fat cat Tommy (a tiger kitty who thinks he is a dog, literally) peed on my blanket for no reason other than he probably was too lazy to walk the four fucking feet to the litter box. Pardon my French here if you can't handle a rager, but seriously? Get up and go to your toilet you lazy fool. Did I mention he peed all over my friend's couch, which is another 150 that I have to shell out to the dry cleaners that I don't have?
For the first time, I'm wondering whether or not this was the right move at the right time for me. I know in my heart of hearts that my spirit is healthier and that I FEEL happy for the first time in a while here, or out of Batavia, and I also know that this WAS the right move. But damn it all, if this monetary situation isn't a test of my newfound clarity and contentedness. I'm always in a rut, always going to be in debt, and always going to be struggling to get by as far as finances are concerned.
It's times like these where I pick up a spoon that isn't mine, reach from the futon that isn't mine over to the bookshelf that isn't mine, forget about all of the Benjamins floating around out in the world that aren't mine but probably should be mine, and quit worrying about what isn't mine. The Nutella-- sweet, sweet Nutella-- that is now in my hands, bought with a few bucks that once was mine, is all mine for the next 15 minutes. Life is good.
What? What's that you say? Work? Why, yes. Thank you for asking. I'm currently on day 20 of my working streak, which will finally run it's course next Thursday. I actually haven't minded it-- I've only gotten sick once.
Laying in my bed wide awake poses a series of problems for me in the early morning, because I tend to think about all of life's intricacies and issues: something NOT fit for a human to rumble on before the sun rises. Everything is still a fog, and every answer you come up with will inevitably seem grand at the time, but when your system actually wakes up and you realize how stupid you were just a mere two hours prior, you've learned your lesson. Never, ever, EVER make important decisions or think vital thoughts when under the influence of sleep-induced drunkenness. Nevertheless, I do it every day.
And there goes my alarm, screeching at me over the whir of the overhead fan and the cars outside my window. These sounds, reminders: DON'T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING YET.
That would be a lot easier to do if I wasn't in such a fucking bind right now. It's the same old story of everyone anywhere who has ever packed up his/her life and moved it somewhere else in hopes of starting new and finding something he/she thought was missing. Where is all the goddamn money?
All of my things (that I would need for an apartment/to sleep/to live on my own) are back home in a storage unit. One that I only have another day on before the month expires. I probably should call the dude in charge before my things end up in some hillbilly auction, or better yet, Storage Wars. At least that way I'd have some credibility to my name. Any way you look at it: renting a UHaul truck here, picking up my things, and returning it here, getting a UPod/storage crate, renting a pickup truck here and driving it to and from, getting a UHaul there and then towing my car while returning it here--all of these options are going to cost me upwards of 750. 750 that I DON'T HAVE. Because I'm moving in next weekend, I need to also figure in my security deposit (my new landlord is already giving me lenience on the first month of rent) and gas money for any aforementioned option. I'm finding myself really stressing out and getting upset for the first time since being here, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
To top it off, my fat cat Tommy (a tiger kitty who thinks he is a dog, literally) peed on my blanket for no reason other than he probably was too lazy to walk the four fucking feet to the litter box. Pardon my French here if you can't handle a rager, but seriously? Get up and go to your toilet you lazy fool. Did I mention he peed all over my friend's couch, which is another 150 that I have to shell out to the dry cleaners that I don't have?
For the first time, I'm wondering whether or not this was the right move at the right time for me. I know in my heart of hearts that my spirit is healthier and that I FEEL happy for the first time in a while here, or out of Batavia, and I also know that this WAS the right move. But damn it all, if this monetary situation isn't a test of my newfound clarity and contentedness. I'm always in a rut, always going to be in debt, and always going to be struggling to get by as far as finances are concerned.
It's times like these where I pick up a spoon that isn't mine, reach from the futon that isn't mine over to the bookshelf that isn't mine, forget about all of the Benjamins floating around out in the world that aren't mine but probably should be mine, and quit worrying about what isn't mine. The Nutella-- sweet, sweet Nutella-- that is now in my hands, bought with a few bucks that once was mine, is all mine for the next 15 minutes. Life is good.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
popped collars, cologne, and other things
Just a quick little blurb from my bedroom in Petworth: I'm officially cool enough to walk the streets of any large city alone.
Ironically enough, I was on the path to impending doom in Georgetown (where all doom must clearly take place, amongst the popped collars and cologne) while on my way to find some Toms. Like the sneaker brand Toms, not a slew of attractive men that I could take home with me and have my way with. Though, that may have been the better option given my journey yesterday.
City Sports is at the end of the market stretch on M street, so I turned off on a side street, up a few blocks, and then on to another to finally park. The line at Georgetown cupcake, while I drove to find a spot, was absolutely ridiculous. I didn't even have to parallel either; I was able to slide in between a bumper and a driveway, given the dimensions of my little mongrel of a vehicle.
I decided that, after driving though a shitstorm of traffic to get there, I didn't want Toms after all-- I find them too narrow for my fat feet-- and that I would just grab some ice cream somewhere and head on home. This was about 6:30.
At 7:30, an hour later, I was still trying to find my god damn car. No joke. I kept thinking about what I saw, houses I noticed, etc., but unfortunately for me (and for the otherwise eclectic nature of D.C.) Georgetown is simply a slew of red brick row houses, one after the other. The only defining features are whether or not they have cast-iron fences to keep away the riff-raff. Apparently they also tried to do that by making the nearest metro stop Foggy Bottom, because they didn't want a culture of in-and-out to develop.
I know all of this because my friend Gene, from Bread Loaf, explained the culture of GTown and how some people consequently view it as a town of snobbery and, as stated earlier, popped collars and cologne. I didn't care about that, though-- I wanted to get my effing car so I could get the eff home because I was effing tired. Fortunately, I found myself at the ice-cream shop (I WILL not add the extra consonants at the end of shop, ever.) that I wanted to find myself at: Thomas Sweets. I walked out with my Oreo fro-yo, and despite my worry about not finding my car, I was happy as a pig in shit. Walking around, aimlessly, searching for something that was somewhere, surrounded by people doing the same thing. At that point, I really didn't care about my car.
8:00 then rolled around as I re-traced my steps from City Sports-- it took me over an hour to figure out I should have done that to begin with-- and I was on my way to my car. A young couple abruptly stopped me. The female of the pair was quite pretty, with long, dark hair, and an orange dress, and the male was too preppy for my type, with the parted-wave look. If you weren't aware, that's a deep part on either side of said male head with a gigantic, combed over coif that somehow pairs well with, yet again, popped collars and cologne.
She quickly said, "Excuse me, do you know what the quickest way to get to Columbia Heights is? Like should we take a bus or just walk back to the metro?"
I couldn't believe it. I obviously looked cool enough, confident enough, suave enough eating my frozen yogurt (98% fat free) out of a cup that these fools actually thought I knew the answer! I played it cool: "Hmm. Buses are always a pain in the ass, and then you have to transfer to the metro anyways. I would say just get back to Foggy Bottom-- it's not that far away-- and then you can just stay on the metro instead of using two types of transportation."
They smiled, and Popped Collar said, "Okay, cool. We know how to get back to Foggy Bottom from here. Thanks!" The couple turned and walked away.
I found my car about 10 minutes later, right where it should have been. My bumper stickers were all in tact (do people in Georgetown know what those are?) and my iPod was still in my center console. I put the key in the ignition, turned on Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe", thinking about a fantastic date I had on Friday, and drove home.
Devouring D.C., alone, in the land of popped--well, you get it-- never felt so perfect.
Ironically enough, I was on the path to impending doom in Georgetown (where all doom must clearly take place, amongst the popped collars and cologne) while on my way to find some Toms. Like the sneaker brand Toms, not a slew of attractive men that I could take home with me and have my way with. Though, that may have been the better option given my journey yesterday.
City Sports is at the end of the market stretch on M street, so I turned off on a side street, up a few blocks, and then on to another to finally park. The line at Georgetown cupcake, while I drove to find a spot, was absolutely ridiculous. I didn't even have to parallel either; I was able to slide in between a bumper and a driveway, given the dimensions of my little mongrel of a vehicle.
I decided that, after driving though a shitstorm of traffic to get there, I didn't want Toms after all-- I find them too narrow for my fat feet-- and that I would just grab some ice cream somewhere and head on home. This was about 6:30.
At 7:30, an hour later, I was still trying to find my god damn car. No joke. I kept thinking about what I saw, houses I noticed, etc., but unfortunately for me (and for the otherwise eclectic nature of D.C.) Georgetown is simply a slew of red brick row houses, one after the other. The only defining features are whether or not they have cast-iron fences to keep away the riff-raff. Apparently they also tried to do that by making the nearest metro stop Foggy Bottom, because they didn't want a culture of in-and-out to develop.
I know all of this because my friend Gene, from Bread Loaf, explained the culture of GTown and how some people consequently view it as a town of snobbery and, as stated earlier, popped collars and cologne. I didn't care about that, though-- I wanted to get my effing car so I could get the eff home because I was effing tired. Fortunately, I found myself at the ice-cream shop (I WILL not add the extra consonants at the end of shop, ever.) that I wanted to find myself at: Thomas Sweets. I walked out with my Oreo fro-yo, and despite my worry about not finding my car, I was happy as a pig in shit. Walking around, aimlessly, searching for something that was somewhere, surrounded by people doing the same thing. At that point, I really didn't care about my car.
8:00 then rolled around as I re-traced my steps from City Sports-- it took me over an hour to figure out I should have done that to begin with-- and I was on my way to my car. A young couple abruptly stopped me. The female of the pair was quite pretty, with long, dark hair, and an orange dress, and the male was too preppy for my type, with the parted-wave look. If you weren't aware, that's a deep part on either side of said male head with a gigantic, combed over coif that somehow pairs well with, yet again, popped collars and cologne.
She quickly said, "Excuse me, do you know what the quickest way to get to Columbia Heights is? Like should we take a bus or just walk back to the metro?"
I couldn't believe it. I obviously looked cool enough, confident enough, suave enough eating my frozen yogurt (98% fat free) out of a cup that these fools actually thought I knew the answer! I played it cool: "Hmm. Buses are always a pain in the ass, and then you have to transfer to the metro anyways. I would say just get back to Foggy Bottom-- it's not that far away-- and then you can just stay on the metro instead of using two types of transportation."
They smiled, and Popped Collar said, "Okay, cool. We know how to get back to Foggy Bottom from here. Thanks!" The couple turned and walked away.
I found my car about 10 minutes later, right where it should have been. My bumper stickers were all in tact (do people in Georgetown know what those are?) and my iPod was still in my center console. I put the key in the ignition, turned on Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe", thinking about a fantastic date I had on Friday, and drove home.
Devouring D.C., alone, in the land of popped--well, you get it-- never felt so perfect.
Friday, September 14, 2012
devouring DC
I'm going to lay out my Friday night for you: with a hungry stomach, wandering eyes, and a book of Maile Meloy's short fiction at my side, I'm sitting in Busboys and Poets-- a restaurant/bookstore/cafe on 14th street in DC, thanks to Langston Hughes. My cell phone is by my right side, the screen still dewy with oil from my face when I spoke with my landlord several minutes ago. I just ordered a water (I'm on a tight budget) and a chicken quesadilla (nothing fancy or risky, I know, but I'm hungry NOW), and am giving my hostess and her husband some alone time at home before he leaves on a trip to Denver for 7 weeks. The guy sitting across from me has an angular scar on his forehead stretching from the inner edge of his eyebrow to the crease in the middle of his forehead, and because he doesn't look like a fighter I'm guessing he tripped and fell on the playground when he was younger. It's really busy here, and as with all other places I've been to in DC alone, I haven't recognized a face. It's a fantastic way to start the weekend.
I realize I haven't blogged in a while, but trust me, there's been good reason: moving here and getting myself acclimated (clearly, I'm going to be doing that for a while) has been, thus far, one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. And time-consuming as shit. I started working at my preschool the second day that I got into the city, and since then I've not taken a back seat. I've been commuting five days a week (believe people when they tell you how much traffic here f****** blows, and that Maryland drivers are idiots), I'm giving and receiving more love than I ever have every day while working with my preschool kids, I've been trying to meet up with people from Bread Loaf/locals on the weekends, I've explored a bit on my own, I'm learning (and getting better every day) how to navigate the metro lines most conveniently, I've smoked hookah for the first time in my life, I've sat down to dinner with my gracious hosts for delicious meals a handful of times, I've clutched my purse walking down the sidewalk more than once, I've had a few staring contests with people on the metro, I've gotten into clawing matches with Tommy (my cat, if you weren't aware-- he has been pretty much confined to a bedroom since arrival and is now taking it out on me), I've found an awesome place to watch my Buffalo sports teams lose, I've signed up for a free "dating" website (it's really more like Facebook for people who are willing to meet strange people in strange places) and I've even gone on a date (let's put it this way: there wasn't a second, but still fun and totally something I'd do over again). In fact, I've got another one tomorrow night (which I'm pretty excited about). Three weeks-- not too shabby, Coffta.
There is a reason why people live in cities: because it pumps life into your veins when you thought you were on your last legs. I feel renewed, refreshed, revived, and in some ways (as corny as it may sound) reborn. I feel like I've always lived here. I feel like the sidewalk was cracked for me to walk on, however long I might stay. I feel like before moving here, I was trapped in my own spiderweb of "what ifs", and now I'm devouring the "now I know" like a starved child. I needed to escape, I needed to breathe new air, I needed to hurt people, I needed to be alone in the tidal wave of a billion foreign faces that mean nothing to me. Because now I know what it feels like to survive unhappiness, to break away from something you didn't know you didn't need until you didn't need it anymore.
Cop lights are flashing in the window behind me, "Bartender" by T-Pain is playing over the speakers next to my table, and at the table to my left a guy is simultaneously drinking a beer, dipping pita in homemade hummus, reading David Sedaris, and smiling. I love DC. I am content.
I realize I haven't blogged in a while, but trust me, there's been good reason: moving here and getting myself acclimated (clearly, I'm going to be doing that for a while) has been, thus far, one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. And time-consuming as shit. I started working at my preschool the second day that I got into the city, and since then I've not taken a back seat. I've been commuting five days a week (believe people when they tell you how much traffic here f****** blows, and that Maryland drivers are idiots), I'm giving and receiving more love than I ever have every day while working with my preschool kids, I've been trying to meet up with people from Bread Loaf/locals on the weekends, I've explored a bit on my own, I'm learning (and getting better every day) how to navigate the metro lines most conveniently, I've smoked hookah for the first time in my life, I've sat down to dinner with my gracious hosts for delicious meals a handful of times, I've clutched my purse walking down the sidewalk more than once, I've had a few staring contests with people on the metro, I've gotten into clawing matches with Tommy (my cat, if you weren't aware-- he has been pretty much confined to a bedroom since arrival and is now taking it out on me), I've found an awesome place to watch my Buffalo sports teams lose, I've signed up for a free "dating" website (it's really more like Facebook for people who are willing to meet strange people in strange places) and I've even gone on a date (let's put it this way: there wasn't a second, but still fun and totally something I'd do over again). In fact, I've got another one tomorrow night (which I'm pretty excited about). Three weeks-- not too shabby, Coffta.
There is a reason why people live in cities: because it pumps life into your veins when you thought you were on your last legs. I feel renewed, refreshed, revived, and in some ways (as corny as it may sound) reborn. I feel like I've always lived here. I feel like the sidewalk was cracked for me to walk on, however long I might stay. I feel like before moving here, I was trapped in my own spiderweb of "what ifs", and now I'm devouring the "now I know" like a starved child. I needed to escape, I needed to breathe new air, I needed to hurt people, I needed to be alone in the tidal wave of a billion foreign faces that mean nothing to me. Because now I know what it feels like to survive unhappiness, to break away from something you didn't know you didn't need until you didn't need it anymore.
Cop lights are flashing in the window behind me, "Bartender" by T-Pain is playing over the speakers next to my table, and at the table to my left a guy is simultaneously drinking a beer, dipping pita in homemade hummus, reading David Sedaris, and smiling. I love DC. I am content.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
age of the VCR
For as long as I can remember, my father has been an absolutely crazy, nostalgia-obsessed pack rat.
We used to live on a dead-end road in Elba, NY, for about 7 years, and I swear to you, there were so many boxes of random shit lying around, people would think we were either the new family on the block or getting the hell outta dodge. In reality, these boxes contained anything from old cards to magazines, workshop tools to blank notebooks, shotgun bullets to pistols. I know for a fact this enraged my mother to no end, which is probably one of the thousands of reasons she and my father got a divorce. "Why aren't these GODDAMN boxes unpacked yet? They've been here for YEARS."
I can't say that looking back as an adult, reaching the stage in life where I could potentially share the same living space with someone for the rest of my life in the near future, that I blamed her at all. The real proof of my Dad's disease, though, was not in our basement--it was in our entertainment center.
Because my Dad was (and still is) a custodian who worked the 3rd shift at Notre Dame (a tiny, decrepit, poor Catholic high school in Batavia) he would be gone most nights and home during the day. Nowadays, he works split shifts; partial morning hours before kids arrive, and then after school hours when they're gone. Back then, during his night owl lifestyle, he would sleep when he was home. This posed a large problem for his television watching-- most things that he enjoyed (which, still, are few and far between) were on in the evenings. Seinfeld, Northern Exposure, Nova. Even a Canadian slapstick television show, that I happen to love: The Red Green Show. All of his favorites were on the air while he was at work.
Did my Dad fret? Did he cry himself to sleep in the mornings after turpentining and scrubbing? Or did he find a solution?
Normally, for any sort of problem, my Dad will find an exceptional solution--only after complaining and moaning over the problem in the first place. Nevertheless, he solves the issue at hand. In this case, you ask? VHS tapes. Remember, this is WAY before DVR, WAY before you could pause live television, before DVD's even existed. VCR's, while I was growing up, were the only thing that movie lovers knew. We had no predictions of the soon-to-be glory of compact disc movies, or the apocolyptic stoppage of current television via a DVR system or magical remote.
My Dad would buy multiple packages of blank VHS tapes from Walmart (JVC or Memorex, typically) and just go to town on our poor VCR. "Record (insert show) at such and such a time, then record (insert second show) an hour later. They're on the same station, so it shouldn't be difficult." My mother, I'm assuming, was in charge of this whole process because I sure as hell stayed out of the way. My brother was around 3 years old, so while he would sometimes fidget with the VCR and its contents, he preferred to stab me with mechanical pencils instead. (Seriously. I still have the scar.)
I don't know which recording eventually made my mother call for divorce papers, but I'm guessing it was the season finale of Seinfeld or a nature special featuring praying mantis, small spiders, and the circle of life. I was most likely in the other room, watching an animated, PG version of the circle of life in the form of The Lion King. My friends and I used to make a list of all characters in the film, choose roles, go to each other's houses, and watch this movie while speaking all "our" lines. If you know me, this explains a lot, right?
After my Mom ripped her final task out of the VCR, tossed it at my Dad, and wiped her hands clean of recording duties forever, my Dad set out to continue his recording journey on his own. Like I said, I can't blame my mom for divorcing my dad over VHS tapes, especially after probably falling over stacks of them. I can almost remember them arguing, a barricade of black and white plastic and recording tape built up in the middle, with only inch-by-inch squares open for peepholes. I also can almost remember my Mom sticking her pointer finger at the middle, playing a life-sized game of Jenga, and knocking the wall to my father's feet. Why would she be okay with my Dad saving time via television show when he wasn't willing to rewind the time they had missed together as spouses because he was gone every week night?
After my Mom left, surrounded by series' endings, love-triangle solutions, sarcasm and laughter, and more than one missed romantic opportunity, my Dad boxed all of his memories up, taped them shut, and got the hell out of dodge.
Into my adolescence and young adulthood, my Dad was still obsessed over VHS tapes and recording things he wanted to keep forever, things he would never watch though he intended to, things he wanted to memorialize on film. He cried when the DVD player was introduced as the main form of playing videos, and had me drive him (only half way) to an asylum when he realized that people elsewhere, outside the scope of his life, could pause their television and record it in a small box next to their TV. He's moved twice, and continued the struggle; however, the last two years, in dealing with my brother's massive shitstorm of a life, he hasn't had much time to record what he wants to watch. He also didn't pay his cable bill for several months, and never had it turned back on. Instead, he watches antenna TV, which has all of your basics, and I'm still able to watch Jeopardy, live, with him if I go over for dinner. His tapes are in boxes in his coat closet, which is used for everything but coats.
Right now I'm surrounded by picture frames, pottery I made in college, the four towels I selected to move with (four was recommended to me by a friend), artwork, a few classic games like Scrabble and Catch Phrase. I'm almost packed up. The past two days, I've had a real tough time coming to grips with the fact that I HAVE to throw shit out, that I HAVE to give things away, that I can't keep everything in my apartment. Then, I actually tried it. I have to admit: it was somewhat liberating, and I ended up taking four bags of garbage and several boxes to the dumpster, while taking a carload of things to the local AmVets resale retail shop. I don't yet miss anything I've thrown away.
I thought about why some people keep things, and what makes it so damn hard to get rid of those things when the time demands it. I mean, some of the hardest things to get rid of for me thus far have been candles, extra folders, and stray chapsticks. What if my new apartment smells like a dumpster and I'm organizing my school work, surrounded by the stench, when I realize my lips are chapped? People naturally hold on to things not because they are things, but because they are memories of something--of a time, of a place, a person, or an event. When you throw those things out, you are also throwing away that time you spent with that person in that place when you did that thing. And on a cold day, what if you need that memory?
In a short two days, I've learned that it's okay to throw away memories in light of making new ones. It's alright to let those places go, those super-tiny moments, otherwise you'll become bogged down by the past. I don't want to enter a new stage of my life where I settle down, become accustomed, and then open up a closet door and find forgotten boxes of dust lying quietly, untouched, unloved. My Dad has always brought with him the things he can't forget, I only want to bring what I need.
We used to live on a dead-end road in Elba, NY, for about 7 years, and I swear to you, there were so many boxes of random shit lying around, people would think we were either the new family on the block or getting the hell outta dodge. In reality, these boxes contained anything from old cards to magazines, workshop tools to blank notebooks, shotgun bullets to pistols. I know for a fact this enraged my mother to no end, which is probably one of the thousands of reasons she and my father got a divorce. "Why aren't these GODDAMN boxes unpacked yet? They've been here for YEARS."
I can't say that looking back as an adult, reaching the stage in life where I could potentially share the same living space with someone for the rest of my life in the near future, that I blamed her at all. The real proof of my Dad's disease, though, was not in our basement--it was in our entertainment center.
Because my Dad was (and still is) a custodian who worked the 3rd shift at Notre Dame (a tiny, decrepit, poor Catholic high school in Batavia) he would be gone most nights and home during the day. Nowadays, he works split shifts; partial morning hours before kids arrive, and then after school hours when they're gone. Back then, during his night owl lifestyle, he would sleep when he was home. This posed a large problem for his television watching-- most things that he enjoyed (which, still, are few and far between) were on in the evenings. Seinfeld, Northern Exposure, Nova. Even a Canadian slapstick television show, that I happen to love: The Red Green Show. All of his favorites were on the air while he was at work.
Did my Dad fret? Did he cry himself to sleep in the mornings after turpentining and scrubbing? Or did he find a solution?
Normally, for any sort of problem, my Dad will find an exceptional solution--only after complaining and moaning over the problem in the first place. Nevertheless, he solves the issue at hand. In this case, you ask? VHS tapes. Remember, this is WAY before DVR, WAY before you could pause live television, before DVD's even existed. VCR's, while I was growing up, were the only thing that movie lovers knew. We had no predictions of the soon-to-be glory of compact disc movies, or the apocolyptic stoppage of current television via a DVR system or magical remote.
My Dad would buy multiple packages of blank VHS tapes from Walmart (JVC or Memorex, typically) and just go to town on our poor VCR. "Record (insert show) at such and such a time, then record (insert second show) an hour later. They're on the same station, so it shouldn't be difficult." My mother, I'm assuming, was in charge of this whole process because I sure as hell stayed out of the way. My brother was around 3 years old, so while he would sometimes fidget with the VCR and its contents, he preferred to stab me with mechanical pencils instead. (Seriously. I still have the scar.)
I don't know which recording eventually made my mother call for divorce papers, but I'm guessing it was the season finale of Seinfeld or a nature special featuring praying mantis, small spiders, and the circle of life. I was most likely in the other room, watching an animated, PG version of the circle of life in the form of The Lion King. My friends and I used to make a list of all characters in the film, choose roles, go to each other's houses, and watch this movie while speaking all "our" lines. If you know me, this explains a lot, right?
After my Mom ripped her final task out of the VCR, tossed it at my Dad, and wiped her hands clean of recording duties forever, my Dad set out to continue his recording journey on his own. Like I said, I can't blame my mom for divorcing my dad over VHS tapes, especially after probably falling over stacks of them. I can almost remember them arguing, a barricade of black and white plastic and recording tape built up in the middle, with only inch-by-inch squares open for peepholes. I also can almost remember my Mom sticking her pointer finger at the middle, playing a life-sized game of Jenga, and knocking the wall to my father's feet. Why would she be okay with my Dad saving time via television show when he wasn't willing to rewind the time they had missed together as spouses because he was gone every week night?
After my Mom left, surrounded by series' endings, love-triangle solutions, sarcasm and laughter, and more than one missed romantic opportunity, my Dad boxed all of his memories up, taped them shut, and got the hell out of dodge.
Into my adolescence and young adulthood, my Dad was still obsessed over VHS tapes and recording things he wanted to keep forever, things he would never watch though he intended to, things he wanted to memorialize on film. He cried when the DVD player was introduced as the main form of playing videos, and had me drive him (only half way) to an asylum when he realized that people elsewhere, outside the scope of his life, could pause their television and record it in a small box next to their TV. He's moved twice, and continued the struggle; however, the last two years, in dealing with my brother's massive shitstorm of a life, he hasn't had much time to record what he wants to watch. He also didn't pay his cable bill for several months, and never had it turned back on. Instead, he watches antenna TV, which has all of your basics, and I'm still able to watch Jeopardy, live, with him if I go over for dinner. His tapes are in boxes in his coat closet, which is used for everything but coats.
Right now I'm surrounded by picture frames, pottery I made in college, the four towels I selected to move with (four was recommended to me by a friend), artwork, a few classic games like Scrabble and Catch Phrase. I'm almost packed up. The past two days, I've had a real tough time coming to grips with the fact that I HAVE to throw shit out, that I HAVE to give things away, that I can't keep everything in my apartment. Then, I actually tried it. I have to admit: it was somewhat liberating, and I ended up taking four bags of garbage and several boxes to the dumpster, while taking a carload of things to the local AmVets resale retail shop. I don't yet miss anything I've thrown away.
I thought about why some people keep things, and what makes it so damn hard to get rid of those things when the time demands it. I mean, some of the hardest things to get rid of for me thus far have been candles, extra folders, and stray chapsticks. What if my new apartment smells like a dumpster and I'm organizing my school work, surrounded by the stench, when I realize my lips are chapped? People naturally hold on to things not because they are things, but because they are memories of something--of a time, of a place, a person, or an event. When you throw those things out, you are also throwing away that time you spent with that person in that place when you did that thing. And on a cold day, what if you need that memory?
In a short two days, I've learned that it's okay to throw away memories in light of making new ones. It's alright to let those places go, those super-tiny moments, otherwise you'll become bogged down by the past. I don't want to enter a new stage of my life where I settle down, become accustomed, and then open up a closet door and find forgotten boxes of dust lying quietly, untouched, unloved. My Dad has always brought with him the things he can't forget, I only want to bring what I need.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
my cat, beast of the block
A few years ago, before moving into the apartment I now am about to break the lease on, I wanted a pet. At the time, I was working at an Irish pub (they have the best reubens, I'd say, EVER), trying to figure out things for my second summer at Bread Loaf, and falling in love. It was May.
Bread Loaf School of English. It's a graduate program where people from all over the world unite in one incredibly magical, naturally beautiful environment; raw, unbiased relationships are formed here, bonding experiences thrive on Route 7 from Middlebury into Burlington, cliff-jumping thrills heighten feelings of being alive, and sitting in Adirondack chairs provide a comfortably awkward seat for students to mountain gaze while their minds do gymnastics over Faulkner and Chaucer. I've been there four years, and am going back for my fifth and final summer next year (it is only a summer program, so it takes about 4-5 years) in order to graduate with a Master's degree in English Literature. I had this to look forward to for the second time in June 2010, but there was one problem: I had nowhere to live when I returned home in August. On top of it all, that April was an emotional rollercoaster, ranging from extremely rageful lows to hilltop highs that I rode, enamored.
I can't say why, but I was much more concerned with finding a furry companion for the apartment that I didn't yet have instead of finding an actual apartment to take care of it in. A co-boss of mine (another long post for another random day), upon hearing that I really wanted a cat to keep me company when I "moved into my apartment in August" said that her niece was moving to Florida, and that she wasn't taking her cat with her. She had, in fact, been looking for a nice home for him and hadn't had any luck. My boss wrote down her number on a bar napkin and told me to call her niece ASAP.
So I did.
They were leaving in a week, she said. I had to decide whether or not to take this cat, named Tommy, within the next two days so that she might have peace of mind. I said I would think about it. I also said that I would think about why on earth someone would name her cat Tommy, as if it were original or even a remotely cute name for a grown cat. I didn't say that out loud to her, but you can bet during our entire conversation I was judging her rationale. We hung up, she hoping I'd relieve her of dropping Tommy off at a shelter, me already knowing I would.
Since I still lived with my parents at the time--this was the year after I graduated college--I told my Mom the next day that I was going to pick up a cat. He would stay at her house, I said, until I got home from the summer and could move him into my apartment: again, the non-existent one. I let her know that I would pay for cat food. I told her that his name was Tommy, as if that made him more lovable or attractive an option. She didn't know it, but my mother had no option. Would she really just throw him out of the house while I was away at school? I knew better. Not too happy at first, my mother interrogated me with questions on how I would afford him, why would I expect her to take care of him while I was away, and what if they already moved to Florida by the time I came home?
That's right. At the same time, my Mom and stepdad were also looking to move to Florida (the irony is outrageous). My stepdad had already found a job, and my Mom was going to join him once they closed on the house. Needless to say, the housing market then and even now is a giant pile of garbage, and our house wasn't sold until November. I, obviously, knew that would happen--which is why I had no trouble pawning my new cat onto my mother until I moved out.
I left at about 6pm to go pick him up, from a stranger that I'd only heard about from a boss I didn't really like from a co-worker who said our boss had a niece that was looking to get rid of a cat. Unprepared, I wheeled up with nothing in my car-- no blanket, no box, no nothing--to help this Tommy fellow enjoy my company on the ride home. I knocked on the door. I met Tommy. We made small talk for a few minutes, the owner and I (my conversations with Tommy would come much later in our relationship). She gave me his bed, his feeders, and a leash.
What the hell. A leash? I almost threw it back at her, but decided if I actually wanted to keep the cat I should restrain myself from any display of violence in her presence. I took everything into my car, came back in, grabbed Tommy, and hit the road.
He moaned like a dying cow the entire way home. Clawing at my passenger window, jumping from front to back, straining his neck like he had just guzzled poison and was sucking his last breath. Shit. This was too much. I had forgotten how crazy cats get when you try to transport them places, and immediately regretted my decision. After the 20-minute drive home, I plopped him in the yard and said, "Here ya are. Your new home. Enjoy." He immediately hid in the cat house, located outside of our backdoor, kitty-corner to the flagpole in our front yard (yes, that's correct) that donned a John Deere flag which sometimes sailed high and mighty, other times drooped in the dead air. Granted, I worked a lot at the pub to finish May and the beginning of June, but I still probably only saw that cat four times in a month's span. Three out of those four times, he was in boxing matches with the king of the household, Dominik. All of these awkward male names for cats, I get it--but this one was legit. He was named after Dominik Hasek, the legendary Sabres goalie, by my brother when he was about 8.
As I said, completely legitimate.
I tried to let Tommy into the house a few times, and those three times he rip-roared with Dominik like two Boston meat-heads arguing over a parking spot at a Red Sox game. A punch upside one furry skull. A claw swat to the thick chest, a grunt and stagger back. Hair-raised on backs, the cats would have killed eachother had I not removed Tommy from the situation. "It's MY fucking house," Dominik screeched as I plopped Tommy outside.
I left for school around the middle of the third week in June. Blue eyes and I stayed together, and I was also able to find an apartment, thanks to the old man who frequented O'Lacy's that eventually became my neighbor. He heard rumors of my now-apartment-soon-to-be-old being up for grabs, and gave me the name and number of the guy who owned it. I called a few weeks into school, and was able to cut a deal. By August 1st, it was finalized--I had a place. So pumped I couldn't stand it, I thought about all the things I would be able to do now that I wasn't living at home. Watch TV when I wanted without being berated to do the dishes-- I could do them whenever the damn hell I wanted to now. Come home late without having to be quiet, because it was my domain, and I paid the bills. Buy my own groceries, be alone. Yes.
My lease was signed when I got home, sometime in the first week of August. Blue eyes and my mom had moved everything in before I got home, very graciously, I might add--and all I really had to do was unpack. And pick up my cat. Tommy.
I had almost forgotten about him, probably because sometime around mid-July my Mom, on one of our rare phone conversations while I was at school (there is no cellphone reception), told me that he disappeared. What in hell did that mean? Cats don't disappear, I said. That makes no sense. She told me she heard screaming and cat-crying about a week earlier and assumed that Dominik and Tommy got into a major fight--possibly one that caused fatal injury to my cat because Dominik was still around. She hadn't seen Tommy in days. When I confirmed with my landlord that I wanted the apartment on August 1st, I called my mom. She still hadn't seen him. Suspicious, though, was the way the cat food diminished in the feline dorm room in our yard. We suspected he roamed the countryside by day, and gorged on glutenized cat food during the wee hours of the night when Dominik was inside the house, in my brother's room, curled up at Mike's feet.
When I did arrive back in New York, my Mom confirmed a Tommy sighting--just like the Yeti of the Himalayas, he prowled our yard's edge with a watchful eye, waiting for a human to make direct contact. She was able to lure him to her with some promise of "treat" and the cunning, "kitty, kitty, kitty" that all cats apparently listen to. She pet him, he purred. She kept him in the house until two days later, I was unpacked and ready to receive him.
At first, he was a skiddish freak. He wouldn't let me touch him, let alone pet him. I'll freely admit that when I own animals, I like to cuddle them like children--this was not an option with Tommy. Much to my surprise, he began to come around after a few weeks; he would brush up against my leg, look up at me with his emerald eyes, asking for food, and even purr a little. By about a month in to my freedom I was able to pick him up, and he nuzzled my face, which now looking back seems odd to recount because he is incredibly loving and thinking back to a time when he was tentative seems unrealistic. He was the only animal in my apartment, unless you include me. This time no one yelled at him to get the fuck out. My apartment was his.
Because he was so used to the outdoors, I couldn't keep him inside all the time. I wouldn't have felt right about it, and my street is a fairly quiet side street so I didn't see it being an issue--and it hasn't been. He will lay on other people's porches, get into drunken brawls with other street hoodlums after having drank too much milk, and come running up to me from the corner of the street--7 houses down--when I call his name. He is a night watchman, keeping rodents away from my doorstep, scaring the evil cat up the street who I refer to as Lucifer away from my property, and always gets out of the way when I pull into my driveway. Tommy always comes home.
Now, Tommy and I are on the search for a new home, but unlike the first time we met, we will be doing it together. I've thought about how I would feel if I tried to leave him behind or give him away because I was moving, and I always stop thinking about it because it was never really an option. I've just gotten back from Bread Loaf after my fourth summer, and I was afraid, as I was last year, that he would have forgotten me. When I walked into my apartment for the first time after 7 weeks, he brushed up against my calf and meowed at me. His food bowl was empty, and he was hungry. Blue eyes had taken care of him for me while I was away.
I picked up Tommy and he hugged me--which is how I now refer to his nuzzles. Each paw will be on each one of my shoulders, and he will shove his sparsely-covered kitty chin into my nose, clouding my senses with loose cat hair and dander. I usually am a little annoyed when that happens, but this time I wasn't. Setting him down on my kitchen chair, I filled his measuring cup with food and filled his porcelain bowl marked with cat paws to the brim. I gave him fresh water, and stroked his tail as he began to eat. I visited my Dad, watched a little TV, read a little Steinbeck. At about 1am, I fell asleep in my own bed for the first time in weeks.
The next morning, I woke up to a hairy ass in my face. Because at this stage I was single, I knew it had to be Tommy. He often likes to lay the opposite of me, with his head and front paws stretched toward my toes and his hindlegs grazing my neck. Putting my hand gently on his head, he lazily got up and turned himself around. He plopped himself down right next to me, spine to my stomach, back of his head in-between my chest, toes pointed the same direction as mine. I draped my hand over him, and told him that no matter where I was going, he was coming with me.
Bread Loaf School of English. It's a graduate program where people from all over the world unite in one incredibly magical, naturally beautiful environment; raw, unbiased relationships are formed here, bonding experiences thrive on Route 7 from Middlebury into Burlington, cliff-jumping thrills heighten feelings of being alive, and sitting in Adirondack chairs provide a comfortably awkward seat for students to mountain gaze while their minds do gymnastics over Faulkner and Chaucer. I've been there four years, and am going back for my fifth and final summer next year (it is only a summer program, so it takes about 4-5 years) in order to graduate with a Master's degree in English Literature. I had this to look forward to for the second time in June 2010, but there was one problem: I had nowhere to live when I returned home in August. On top of it all, that April was an emotional rollercoaster, ranging from extremely rageful lows to hilltop highs that I rode, enamored.
I can't say why, but I was much more concerned with finding a furry companion for the apartment that I didn't yet have instead of finding an actual apartment to take care of it in. A co-boss of mine (another long post for another random day), upon hearing that I really wanted a cat to keep me company when I "moved into my apartment in August" said that her niece was moving to Florida, and that she wasn't taking her cat with her. She had, in fact, been looking for a nice home for him and hadn't had any luck. My boss wrote down her number on a bar napkin and told me to call her niece ASAP.
So I did.
They were leaving in a week, she said. I had to decide whether or not to take this cat, named Tommy, within the next two days so that she might have peace of mind. I said I would think about it. I also said that I would think about why on earth someone would name her cat Tommy, as if it were original or even a remotely cute name for a grown cat. I didn't say that out loud to her, but you can bet during our entire conversation I was judging her rationale. We hung up, she hoping I'd relieve her of dropping Tommy off at a shelter, me already knowing I would.
Since I still lived with my parents at the time--this was the year after I graduated college--I told my Mom the next day that I was going to pick up a cat. He would stay at her house, I said, until I got home from the summer and could move him into my apartment: again, the non-existent one. I let her know that I would pay for cat food. I told her that his name was Tommy, as if that made him more lovable or attractive an option. She didn't know it, but my mother had no option. Would she really just throw him out of the house while I was away at school? I knew better. Not too happy at first, my mother interrogated me with questions on how I would afford him, why would I expect her to take care of him while I was away, and what if they already moved to Florida by the time I came home?
That's right. At the same time, my Mom and stepdad were also looking to move to Florida (the irony is outrageous). My stepdad had already found a job, and my Mom was going to join him once they closed on the house. Needless to say, the housing market then and even now is a giant pile of garbage, and our house wasn't sold until November. I, obviously, knew that would happen--which is why I had no trouble pawning my new cat onto my mother until I moved out.
I left at about 6pm to go pick him up, from a stranger that I'd only heard about from a boss I didn't really like from a co-worker who said our boss had a niece that was looking to get rid of a cat. Unprepared, I wheeled up with nothing in my car-- no blanket, no box, no nothing--to help this Tommy fellow enjoy my company on the ride home. I knocked on the door. I met Tommy. We made small talk for a few minutes, the owner and I (my conversations with Tommy would come much later in our relationship). She gave me his bed, his feeders, and a leash.
What the hell. A leash? I almost threw it back at her, but decided if I actually wanted to keep the cat I should restrain myself from any display of violence in her presence. I took everything into my car, came back in, grabbed Tommy, and hit the road.
He moaned like a dying cow the entire way home. Clawing at my passenger window, jumping from front to back, straining his neck like he had just guzzled poison and was sucking his last breath. Shit. This was too much. I had forgotten how crazy cats get when you try to transport them places, and immediately regretted my decision. After the 20-minute drive home, I plopped him in the yard and said, "Here ya are. Your new home. Enjoy." He immediately hid in the cat house, located outside of our backdoor, kitty-corner to the flagpole in our front yard (yes, that's correct) that donned a John Deere flag which sometimes sailed high and mighty, other times drooped in the dead air. Granted, I worked a lot at the pub to finish May and the beginning of June, but I still probably only saw that cat four times in a month's span. Three out of those four times, he was in boxing matches with the king of the household, Dominik. All of these awkward male names for cats, I get it--but this one was legit. He was named after Dominik Hasek, the legendary Sabres goalie, by my brother when he was about 8.
As I said, completely legitimate.
I tried to let Tommy into the house a few times, and those three times he rip-roared with Dominik like two Boston meat-heads arguing over a parking spot at a Red Sox game. A punch upside one furry skull. A claw swat to the thick chest, a grunt and stagger back. Hair-raised on backs, the cats would have killed eachother had I not removed Tommy from the situation. "It's MY fucking house," Dominik screeched as I plopped Tommy outside.
I left for school around the middle of the third week in June. Blue eyes and I stayed together, and I was also able to find an apartment, thanks to the old man who frequented O'Lacy's that eventually became my neighbor. He heard rumors of my now-apartment-soon-to-be-old being up for grabs, and gave me the name and number of the guy who owned it. I called a few weeks into school, and was able to cut a deal. By August 1st, it was finalized--I had a place. So pumped I couldn't stand it, I thought about all the things I would be able to do now that I wasn't living at home. Watch TV when I wanted without being berated to do the dishes-- I could do them whenever the damn hell I wanted to now. Come home late without having to be quiet, because it was my domain, and I paid the bills. Buy my own groceries, be alone. Yes.
My lease was signed when I got home, sometime in the first week of August. Blue eyes and my mom had moved everything in before I got home, very graciously, I might add--and all I really had to do was unpack. And pick up my cat. Tommy.
I had almost forgotten about him, probably because sometime around mid-July my Mom, on one of our rare phone conversations while I was at school (there is no cellphone reception), told me that he disappeared. What in hell did that mean? Cats don't disappear, I said. That makes no sense. She told me she heard screaming and cat-crying about a week earlier and assumed that Dominik and Tommy got into a major fight--possibly one that caused fatal injury to my cat because Dominik was still around. She hadn't seen Tommy in days. When I confirmed with my landlord that I wanted the apartment on August 1st, I called my mom. She still hadn't seen him. Suspicious, though, was the way the cat food diminished in the feline dorm room in our yard. We suspected he roamed the countryside by day, and gorged on glutenized cat food during the wee hours of the night when Dominik was inside the house, in my brother's room, curled up at Mike's feet.
When I did arrive back in New York, my Mom confirmed a Tommy sighting--just like the Yeti of the Himalayas, he prowled our yard's edge with a watchful eye, waiting for a human to make direct contact. She was able to lure him to her with some promise of "treat" and the cunning, "kitty, kitty, kitty" that all cats apparently listen to. She pet him, he purred. She kept him in the house until two days later, I was unpacked and ready to receive him.
At first, he was a skiddish freak. He wouldn't let me touch him, let alone pet him. I'll freely admit that when I own animals, I like to cuddle them like children--this was not an option with Tommy. Much to my surprise, he began to come around after a few weeks; he would brush up against my leg, look up at me with his emerald eyes, asking for food, and even purr a little. By about a month in to my freedom I was able to pick him up, and he nuzzled my face, which now looking back seems odd to recount because he is incredibly loving and thinking back to a time when he was tentative seems unrealistic. He was the only animal in my apartment, unless you include me. This time no one yelled at him to get the fuck out. My apartment was his.
Because he was so used to the outdoors, I couldn't keep him inside all the time. I wouldn't have felt right about it, and my street is a fairly quiet side street so I didn't see it being an issue--and it hasn't been. He will lay on other people's porches, get into drunken brawls with other street hoodlums after having drank too much milk, and come running up to me from the corner of the street--7 houses down--when I call his name. He is a night watchman, keeping rodents away from my doorstep, scaring the evil cat up the street who I refer to as Lucifer away from my property, and always gets out of the way when I pull into my driveway. Tommy always comes home.
Now, Tommy and I are on the search for a new home, but unlike the first time we met, we will be doing it together. I've thought about how I would feel if I tried to leave him behind or give him away because I was moving, and I always stop thinking about it because it was never really an option. I've just gotten back from Bread Loaf after my fourth summer, and I was afraid, as I was last year, that he would have forgotten me. When I walked into my apartment for the first time after 7 weeks, he brushed up against my calf and meowed at me. His food bowl was empty, and he was hungry. Blue eyes had taken care of him for me while I was away.
I picked up Tommy and he hugged me--which is how I now refer to his nuzzles. Each paw will be on each one of my shoulders, and he will shove his sparsely-covered kitty chin into my nose, clouding my senses with loose cat hair and dander. I usually am a little annoyed when that happens, but this time I wasn't. Setting him down on my kitchen chair, I filled his measuring cup with food and filled his porcelain bowl marked with cat paws to the brim. I gave him fresh water, and stroked his tail as he began to eat. I visited my Dad, watched a little TV, read a little Steinbeck. At about 1am, I fell asleep in my own bed for the first time in weeks.
The next morning, I woke up to a hairy ass in my face. Because at this stage I was single, I knew it had to be Tommy. He often likes to lay the opposite of me, with his head and front paws stretched toward my toes and his hindlegs grazing my neck. Putting my hand gently on his head, he lazily got up and turned himself around. He plopped himself down right next to me, spine to my stomach, back of his head in-between my chest, toes pointed the same direction as mine. I draped my hand over him, and told him that no matter where I was going, he was coming with me.
Friday, August 17, 2012
e.e. cummings at his best
Yesterday I was shopping at Aldi--a chain grocery store that offers decent products/produce for a fraction of the price--for a few key items. Since I may only be in my apartment for another week, it was crucial that I chose wisely: products that I would thoroughly enjoy, couldn't be eaten in one use (i.e. T.V. dinners) so that I got bang for my buck, and versatile blinner items.
Blinner. Breakfast + lunch + dinner. For instance, eggs can be eaten any time of the day. Who doesn't love fried eggs? Egg salad? A veggie omelet for dinner? Then there's cereal--the most incredible food item in existence. You can include in this category sandwiches of many varieties, even oatmeal. I guess, looking at this list, breakfast items are really the only true blinner items one can enjoy at any time of the day.
Needless to say, I got eggs, milk, a few cans of tuna fish, apples, peaches, a few yogurts--all for under 10 bucks. Oh, and chocolate chips. (I've got a potluck to go to this weekend and have most of the ingredients needed for a healthy chocolate-chip cookie pie, inspired by one of my favorite bloggers, Chocolate Covered Katie. If you haven't been to her blog, I highly recommend it! http://chocolatecoveredkatie.com/) As I was checking out, I noticed the woman in front of me had the New York Yankees logo tattooed on the nape of her neck, amidst the tufts of fluffy, frizzy white hair growing there. She was about forty, give or take, wearing a t-shirt that was too tight, a bra that was too small, and jeans from the juniors section of American Eagle or Aeropostale. They may or may not have had embellishments on the pockets; I'm going to err on the side of yes, yes they did. She was alone.
For whatever reason, I couldn't stop staring. I must have said out loud, "Wow. That's dedication." because the cashier looked at me puzzled, for a brief moment, before telling me that I owed her nine dollars and some change. Snapping out of my trance, I quickly collected my things out of the shopping cart at the end of the conveyor belt. At Aldi, you either steal their boxes and pack all of your shit in, or bring your own bags to prove you're going green. You can also buy bags at the register, but luckily I was able to fit everything into my arms.
I walked quickly to the automatic doors, hoping to gain some ground on this Yankee woman. Was this some sort of dynastic family symbol? Perhaps her father, now dead from leukemia, was an avid Yankees fan and this was some sort of tribute. Her son, born on the day the Yankees won their last World Series (which, by the way, seems like ages ago) was a child of God; his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and he wasn't supposed to survive. His father, screaming both at the television in the hospital room and at the good Lord for his undeserved travesty, watched as his wife pushed out his first son at the same exact time the immaculate trophy was brought on the field. She went weeks later and got the tattoo. Perhaps good gin and less tonic put her into a state of utter oblivion and her then-boyfriend pressured her into getting the NY as a way to prove her undying love to him. Maybe she just really loved the goddamn Yanks.
Her car was parked adjacent to mine, but she made it to her car and unloaded her cart in record time. By the time I made it out to my Cavalier, she was dipping her inked neck into a Pontiac and shutting the door. I opened my driver's side backdoor and set my things down--eggs first, of course. I made sure that the yogurt and milk were sitting upright, and tore open the bag of apples with my fingers, grabbing one for the drive home. I got into my front seat, took a bite of Empire State, and drove home.
I don't know why, but this woman--we will call her Maude--kept popping into my head randomly throughout the day. This morning, when I woke up, I saw her tattoo on the ceiling in my room. The walnuts in my oatmeal created the letters "N" and "Y" next to eachother; I swear I heard Whoopi Goldberg on The View say something about a crazy woman with a Yankees tat that was parading her almost-three year old son around Times Square, celebrating prematurely his birthday and praising God at the same time. Why was this woman tormenting me?
My favorite poet is e.e. cummings. I'm not entirely sure why, except for the fact that his manipulation of language and creation of phraseology is unmatched by any other American poet, in my opinion. since feeling is first is my favorite cummings poem for sure, but it isn't my favorite thing he has said or written. That sentiment lies in a quote on being true to yourself:
I don't know how I came across this quote today, or why e.e. cummings was even on my mind. But, nevertheless, Google images came through for me. After seeing this picture, I thought of Maude. Maybe her life was one big battle, and the only thing that really made her happy was watching the New York Yankees, win or lose, rain or shine, trophy or not. Maybe Maude's way of fighting was silent; maybe she was exhibiting her constant struggles in the name of family illness and strife via a gigantic NY because it was her way of proclaiming victory, something she had chosen for herself. I thought that maybe yesterday, after I had seen her, Maude was going home to start preparing dinner before her husband, a hard-working, construction-loving, concrete-laying build of a man, got home. There is a babysitter at her apartment, watching her three-year-old son, Paul, named after Paul O'Neill. The babysitter leaves. Maude walks into his bedroom, where Paul is taking a nap. She rustles his hair, pushes it gently out of his eyes, tells him all the things a mother can only say when her children are asleep. She slowly fingers the discoloration under his chin, a deep-penetrating scar that creates a half-moon on his neck, remembering how he is a miracle. Paul's eyelids flutter and he reaches his arms out, eyes still closed, in an effort to put them around his mother's neck. Maude obliges and bends her forty-year old back, the one in constant pain she inherited from her father, toward her son; creaks her aging neck down to his tiny, delicate hands. He traces the ever-so-slightly raised scar tissue on the back of her neck-- N in fluttered swoops, then the Y splitting the middle that caresses her upper spine.
I thought maybe Maude knows more about winning battles than most.
Blinner. Breakfast + lunch + dinner. For instance, eggs can be eaten any time of the day. Who doesn't love fried eggs? Egg salad? A veggie omelet for dinner? Then there's cereal--the most incredible food item in existence. You can include in this category sandwiches of many varieties, even oatmeal. I guess, looking at this list, breakfast items are really the only true blinner items one can enjoy at any time of the day.
Needless to say, I got eggs, milk, a few cans of tuna fish, apples, peaches, a few yogurts--all for under 10 bucks. Oh, and chocolate chips. (I've got a potluck to go to this weekend and have most of the ingredients needed for a healthy chocolate-chip cookie pie, inspired by one of my favorite bloggers, Chocolate Covered Katie. If you haven't been to her blog, I highly recommend it! http://chocolatecoveredkatie.com/) As I was checking out, I noticed the woman in front of me had the New York Yankees logo tattooed on the nape of her neck, amidst the tufts of fluffy, frizzy white hair growing there. She was about forty, give or take, wearing a t-shirt that was too tight, a bra that was too small, and jeans from the juniors section of American Eagle or Aeropostale. They may or may not have had embellishments on the pockets; I'm going to err on the side of yes, yes they did. She was alone.
For whatever reason, I couldn't stop staring. I must have said out loud, "Wow. That's dedication." because the cashier looked at me puzzled, for a brief moment, before telling me that I owed her nine dollars and some change. Snapping out of my trance, I quickly collected my things out of the shopping cart at the end of the conveyor belt. At Aldi, you either steal their boxes and pack all of your shit in, or bring your own bags to prove you're going green. You can also buy bags at the register, but luckily I was able to fit everything into my arms.
I walked quickly to the automatic doors, hoping to gain some ground on this Yankee woman. Was this some sort of dynastic family symbol? Perhaps her father, now dead from leukemia, was an avid Yankees fan and this was some sort of tribute. Her son, born on the day the Yankees won their last World Series (which, by the way, seems like ages ago) was a child of God; his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and he wasn't supposed to survive. His father, screaming both at the television in the hospital room and at the good Lord for his undeserved travesty, watched as his wife pushed out his first son at the same exact time the immaculate trophy was brought on the field. She went weeks later and got the tattoo. Perhaps good gin and less tonic put her into a state of utter oblivion and her then-boyfriend pressured her into getting the NY as a way to prove her undying love to him. Maybe she just really loved the goddamn Yanks.
Her car was parked adjacent to mine, but she made it to her car and unloaded her cart in record time. By the time I made it out to my Cavalier, she was dipping her inked neck into a Pontiac and shutting the door. I opened my driver's side backdoor and set my things down--eggs first, of course. I made sure that the yogurt and milk were sitting upright, and tore open the bag of apples with my fingers, grabbing one for the drive home. I got into my front seat, took a bite of Empire State, and drove home.
I don't know why, but this woman--we will call her Maude--kept popping into my head randomly throughout the day. This morning, when I woke up, I saw her tattoo on the ceiling in my room. The walnuts in my oatmeal created the letters "N" and "Y" next to eachother; I swear I heard Whoopi Goldberg on The View say something about a crazy woman with a Yankees tat that was parading her almost-three year old son around Times Square, celebrating prematurely his birthday and praising God at the same time. Why was this woman tormenting me?
My favorite poet is e.e. cummings. I'm not entirely sure why, except for the fact that his manipulation of language and creation of phraseology is unmatched by any other American poet, in my opinion. since feeling is first is my favorite cummings poem for sure, but it isn't my favorite thing he has said or written. That sentiment lies in a quote on being true to yourself:
I don't know how I came across this quote today, or why e.e. cummings was even on my mind. But, nevertheless, Google images came through for me. After seeing this picture, I thought of Maude. Maybe her life was one big battle, and the only thing that really made her happy was watching the New York Yankees, win or lose, rain or shine, trophy or not. Maybe Maude's way of fighting was silent; maybe she was exhibiting her constant struggles in the name of family illness and strife via a gigantic NY because it was her way of proclaiming victory, something she had chosen for herself. I thought that maybe yesterday, after I had seen her, Maude was going home to start preparing dinner before her husband, a hard-working, construction-loving, concrete-laying build of a man, got home. There is a babysitter at her apartment, watching her three-year-old son, Paul, named after Paul O'Neill. The babysitter leaves. Maude walks into his bedroom, where Paul is taking a nap. She rustles his hair, pushes it gently out of his eyes, tells him all the things a mother can only say when her children are asleep. She slowly fingers the discoloration under his chin, a deep-penetrating scar that creates a half-moon on his neck, remembering how he is a miracle. Paul's eyelids flutter and he reaches his arms out, eyes still closed, in an effort to put them around his mother's neck. Maude obliges and bends her forty-year old back, the one in constant pain she inherited from her father, toward her son; creaks her aging neck down to his tiny, delicate hands. He traces the ever-so-slightly raised scar tissue on the back of her neck-- N in fluttered swoops, then the Y splitting the middle that caresses her upper spine.
I thought maybe Maude knows more about winning battles than most.
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