Overly Verbal

Many of you have expressed concern about Mouse, and the possibility that he might have eaten or be eating food that might kill him. Imported, contaminated wheat gluten seems to be the culprit, and Iams assures me that their dry cat foods do not contain wheat gluten.

I had to look it up on their website, actually, because when I buy cat food I immediately transfer it to a plastic container and throw away the bag.* (Why? First off, Mouse could not possibly eat enough cat food to prevent its going stale before he finished eating even the amount in the smallest marketed bag of “Active Maturity”. He weighs only nine pounds, and the smallest bag it comes in is four pounds, although I usually buy it in eight pound bags, because I’m all thrifty like that. Secondly, I like to put things in pretty little containers. Something about OCD?)

And Mouse likes the wet food, but he doesn’t like the “chunks in gravy”. I don’t know why, but he only enjoys the “feasts”. (Probably because the very word “chunks” offends him as much as it does me.) And none of the feasts are subject to recall at the moment, so not to worry. I keep a close eye on him. (I have to, because he’s always either yelling at me or sitting on me.)

(In other news, Goethe believes that this whole cat food thing could be terrorism. He tells me Al Catta might be involved. (Remember, the wheat gluten in question was imported.))

Anyway, now that I’ve just read the list of ingredients for the food designed for “normally active adult cats” I’m starting to wonder why my cat needs to ingest “dried beet pulp” or “Pyridoxine Hydrochloride”. I am pleased that the food contains “rosemary extract” though. That seems healthy. Of course, left to his own devices, Mouse would eat only marshmallows, potato chips, bugs, and part of whatever I was eating, almost none of which is ever healthy, so it’s important that his regular food is fortified.

(In other other news, Goethe, while watching TV just now loudly exclaimed. “Anus Beef?” Apparently it was during a commercial for some fast food joint that is now using Angus beef in their burgers. I have repeatedly told Goethe that he needs to get his hearing checked. He just doesn’t seem to hear me.)

And, like most of my weekends, this one is coming out lovely so far. You know how you wake up some Saturday mornings and your living room is littered with the evidence of your Friday night’s frivolity? Sure, for many people, that evidence is half-empty whiskey bottles, cigarette butts, and one or more pairs of underwear, and maybe I’m weird, but if I wake up Saturday morning and strewn around my living room floor are dictionaries and Scrabble tiles?** That means I enjoyed my Friday night.

And my Saturday’s coming out pretty well too. McDonald’s for breakfast. That’s always nice. Earlier I vacuumed, did some laundry, and baked an apple crisp (then I called my mother and watched some baseball.) (Okay. Not really. I am going to mention “America” soon, though. Wait for it . . . ). Later I’m going to read a book. I enjoy the status quo (although I am also open to change, but only insofar as change is also sometimes fully enjoyable).

Finally, it has recently come to my attention that one or more readers are not paying attention to the alternate text on the photographs I post here. If you simply move your mouse over a picture, a tiny box will pop up, with funny, funny words in it. (For example, the photograph of the shopping cart waiting for the bus has text attached to it that reads, “It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw.”*** Really, go look.) Anyway, everyone should really pay more attention, because I go to great lengths to amuse you. (Okay, no I don’t. First off, I’m not really trying at all. Secondly, I just really think I’m horribly funny, and if you all went away I would continue to amuse myself here, because it makes me happy.)

So I guess that’s it, except we all know that I like the church signs. Several days ago I saw one that read, “Be an organ donor. Give your heart to God.” Funny stuff, that. Later that week the same church implored, “Beat the Easter rush. Come to church this Sunday!” I felt a little like it was sending the wrong message, but I believe it’s the people living in the glass houses who should throw the first stone, and not those living in the ghetto****.

_____
* I could be a little more precise, and so I shall. I don’t just throw the bag away. I empty it of cat food, then fill it with trash, then throw it away. Reduce, reuse, recycle. That’s just what I do.

** Okay, fine, and an empty wine bottle. I mean, I haven’t been abducted by aliens or anything.

*** I would have made it read “Michigan seems like a dream to me now” but Saginaw is a much funnier word than Michigan is, don’t you think?

**** Replacing the shopping carts by the Dumpster? At least two mattresses, which is totally awesome, because it’s going to rain tomorrow, and there’s simply nothing easier to move than a sopping wet mattress.

So we all know that I enjoy reading the news, and that I normally begin with the very least important news, only occasionally going so far as to read stories about things that actually matter. But I just encountered this, and I thought I better share: “Baby poultry-associated salmonellosis outbreaks”.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe we do need to call the armed forces in to protect small children this Easter.

It figures that just after I go so far as to find an icon to represent my troubles numerically, the very next day when I get home, all of the shopping carts have been removed. There are none by the near Dumpster, none by the far Dumpster, none in the creek. There aren’t even any in front of anyone’s door.

But I finally figured out what’s happening to them.

They’re taking the bus!

(I thought about including a photograph from a different angle, which includes the 7-11 of which I am so fond, but it also shows one of the buildings in my complex, and I really don’t want people to know where I live.*)

And that, as one might say, is all.
_____
* Sara, are you still under the impression that I live in Jersey? Keep telling people that, if you would.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there has been a 100 percent increase in the number of shopping carts near my home. Two appeared by the near Dumpster today. They may have been there yesterday. I honestly didn’t check. (And unlike other pictures I have been kind enough to post here, these don’t get any bigger when you click them. But like other pictures that I have been kind enough to post here, the text attached to them is, well, funny.)

And yes, this is likely to become a regular feature. Thanks for asking.

That is all.

After telling someone last night the story of the shopping carts, even walking with him past one of the Dumpsters, and pointing out to him the creek (because I’m cool like that), I realized that I haven’t caught you all up lately.

So at the high point, there were 17 shopping carts on the grounds. Might have been 18 - the details are a little hazy (that happens when you try to deny reality.). Half of them were by one Dumpster, half of them by the other, except that there was one still in the creek. Then one day, all of the shopping carts by the Dumpsters disappeared. I don’t know where they went, but I do hope they weren’t scared. Happily, one stayed behind to join his friend in the creek, perhaps to keep him company. (Although I am occasionally softhearted, I can’t say I’ve ever been as concerned with the feelings of shopping carts as I am now.) Then one day, both of the shopping carts were removed from the creek, and placed by the Dumpster. So there are now only two, and I suspect they will be removed in due time, and then I’ll have to find something else to go on and on about. (Um, yeah, like that will be hard.)

So I was going to maybe take a photograph of the two remaining carts when I got home today, because I know you all miss that, but on my way home I had a truly enraging encounter. You will never guess who emerged from the parking lot of the 7-11 just as I was walking past. (Okay, maybe you will, since a) I mentioned plumbers in the title, and b) that’s all I ever talk about any more.) Yup, it was R_____ C_____, plumber. “Excuse me, ma’am? Are you going to your apartment now?” I didn’t say yes, didn’t even nod, just looked at him in a way that I hope said “F*ck you, you lazy-ass plumber. I will see you in hell.” So then he says, “I can be there in five minutes.” To which I replied, “No.” And then he said something about how he was sorry, and he even looked a little downtrodden, but I think only because I was depriving him of revenue, and not because he had any concern whatsoever about the state of my plumbing. But I’m a little pissed off that I didn’t know before that that’s where he hangs out, because I would have totally enjoyed going to 7-11 only to find him gorging himself on Slurpees and Go-Go Taquitos in the parking lot. (I can see the headline now, “Mild-mannered woman finally snaps, kills plumber with bottle of Mad Dog, pushes body through neighborhood in shopping cart”.)

So after convincing my landlord that I was going to have nothing further to do with our local plumber, I am now waiting patiently for him to call me with contact information for reliable plumbing services, as recommended by his realtor. In the interim, I took a go at it myself. “The clog’s close to the sink,” I thought, “I can do this.” Alas, even after venturing to Home Depot and buying a longer, thicker plumber’s auger, with a spear-like tip, I did not succeed. In fact, after the seventh or eighth time I fed a long metal tape far into the pipe, I thought, “Well, maybe I’ve loosened the clog. Where’s the plunger?”

Shortly thereafter, I actually broke the plunger. If you had asked me Saturday whether I had the strength to break a plunger, I would have said no. But, apparently, in addition to being brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous, I am also possessed of enough upper body strength to force a wooden rod through a somewhat flexible inverted plastic bowl. (Or else I just happened to own a really cheap plunger. Maybe that’s it.)

So that’s all I’ve got. Nothing else has happened to me in days. (Well, okay, maybe one thing happened, but I’m not going to tell you about it, because it might be a harbinger of the coming apocalypse.)

Anything happen to you?

You know how sometimes when I get so distressed that I can’t make actual sentences I just write lists?

Simply select who didn’t come to my house last night:

a) a plumber

b) Jesus

c) a goat

d) WMATA’s first Inspector General Helen Lew*

e) a plumber

Here’s a hint: no matter which you pick, you’ll be right! I hope the gods are enjoying themselves.

But in a sure sign that the choices I make do occasionally have some impact on the world around me, I got a letter in the mail today: “Congratulations! Your credit line has been increased by $100 due to your good payment history. This increase is effective immediately.” Hot damn! I’m rich!

Now if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll go use my incredibly increased credit line to go buy some cat litter. Because that’s the kind of fun thing I do on Friday nights. That, and the vacuuming. (I won’t be making any pork chops, though, because I did that yesterday. Will the fun never end?)

_____

* Dear Ms. Lew,

Congratulations on your new job! I hope that you’ll be able to find time in between trying to figure out how to prevent bus drivers and train operators repeatedly running over and killing people to look into the bus route I use to travel to work every day. It generally runs on time, but there’s this one guy (usually on Thursdays) who is constantly leering at me, and frequently tells me how sexy my ankles are. I know I have sexy ankles, and tend to actually accentuate the sexiness of my ankles by wearing heels with ankle straps, so it’s no surprise that he remarks upon them, but he’s kind of gross, and frequently drunk, even before 8 a.m. Can you do something about that? Maybe find him another bus route?

(Also, you might want to inspect the news stories the WMATA issues, because there are at least three mistakes in the one about your appointment. If you’re looking for a copyeditor, let me know.)

Thanks so much.

Jennifer

Okay. So Saturday, Verizon came to my house. To replace the set-top box they gave me in December with the DVR I was supposed to have. And it was something like the seventh time they said they were coming, so when the man showed up I said, “Wow! You’re actually here! This shouldn’t take long: all you have to do is replace the box I’ve got with a DVR!”

And then he said, “With a DVR? I don’t have a DVR.”

So I stood there looking confused, while he fiddled with his portable telecommunications device, as if it would give us the very meaning of life. Finally, he said, “Huh. That’s not what they told me I was here to do. Anyway, I’ve got one in the garage. I’ll go get it, but it will take me half an hour.”

Then he came back, and now I could record TV, if only I wasn’t constantly dashing to and fro to meet various and sundry service personnel.

So on Monday, I left work early to meet the plumber (and that’s not a euphemism, unfortunately) (or maybe fortunately. That could be a euphemism for lots of things, couldn’t it?)*. But the plumber never came.

Then today, I left work early to meet the plumber. When I called him 25 minutes after he was to have arrived, he was “on the way”. He then arrived 25 minutes later. So I showed him the problem, told him what we had done in vain attempts to solve the problem ourselves, and even took the snake out of the closet to show it to him when he asked what kind of snake we used.

He tells me the clog must be close to the sink, based on all of the evidence he’s seen. (He didn’t really say anything about evidence. I’m just trying to keep you involved in the story until we get to the good part.)

“So maybe we just used a snake that was too small?”, I ask. (And by “small” I mean in diameter, not length, but I didn’t say the word “narrow” to him, or “diameter”, because I didn’t think he’d know what I meant.)

“Yes, I think that snake is too small.”

“Great!” I exclaim, “Then all you have to do is get a bigger snake out of your truck, and my sink will be fixed! This won’t take long at all! Do you want me to take everything out from under the sink?”

“No, I don’t have a snake.”

Don’t plumbers have snakes? I mean, isn’t that why we invite them over? Because they have snakes and we don’t? Why would a plumber not have a snake? He drove up in a big truck. What the hell is in his truck if it’s not snakes? Pipes? Too bad I didn’t need a pipe.

Because I have a pipe. So I beat him over the head with it and then dumped his body out by the Dumpsters. But I can still access my blog from prison, so it’ll be fine.

Okay, I didn’t actually kill the plumber. I wanted to. But instead he’s coming back tomorrow.

I think.

I have this idea in my head that I have free will, that I make choices, and that when those choices have consequences, good or bad, they were my choices to make. And sure, I make choices that some people might think are not the wisest choices, but in general I’ve been pretty happy so far, and have, in fact, had plenty of experiences that have served to teach me that I’m pretty good at this thing called life.

But I’ve given up that idea. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. I can’t see one possible way in which any choice I make is impacting the things that happen to me. (Okay, maybe one. I chose not to remove everything from under the kitchen sink until I actually was asked to by a plumber, because I had very little reason to believe a plumber would actually come to my house. That’s worked out, anyway.)

So I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a toy for the gods. I don’t believe in any god, let alone multiple gods, but I can’t help but feel as if something is bandying me about for its amusement. And now I can’t decide whether to simply rage against the machine, give up entirely, or redouble my efforts, but I’ll let you know what I finally settle on, even though my choices seem to have no effect on what actually happens.

(In addition to having my eventual Wikipedia entry read, “She had long since ensconced herself in her townhouse,” I would also like it to say, “And through it all, she kept her sense of humor.” Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.)

_____
* I would like very much to give you his first and last names here, because when you say his first and last names, followed by the word “plumber” he sounds like nothing if not a porn star: R_____ C_____, plumber. It’s really freakin’ hilarious, actually.

I talk too much.

Not too much like “oh my god, will that girl never shut up?” Okay, fine, like that, but only sometimes. But I’ve noticed, and even remarked to some people, that I seem to be always talking lately. Like when I’m not sitting down and actually talking to someone, or standing in their office doorway having a way too long personal conversation while we both should be working, I’m talking on the phone. I really resisted getting a cell phone, have only had one for like a year and a half, actually, but I almost can’t measure how much more I talk now that I have a cell phone. It’s kind of neat, because it’s fun to catch up with people you haven’t talked to in a while, but at the same time, do I really need to keep talking?

And one would think that all the talking would diminish my ability to write. Alas, one would be wrong. It diminishes my ability to read, that’s for sure, and I believe I have reached a critical mass with the unread New Yorkers in my bedroom. They probably only go back as far as two months, but sometimes I feel like the Collyer brothers. (Okay, fine, more like Langley than Homer.) (Why do I know not only their story, but both of their first names? Because I’m interested in people who are like me. I mean, not the filth and obsessive hoarding part. I don’t so much go for the filth, and I really only hoard reading material. But in general, with the OCD? I’m all over it.) (Also, we all went to Columbia, and I once lived in Harlem, as did they. So we have a lot in common.) (And at some point in time, I suspect that the Wikipedia entry about me will read, in part, “She had long since ensconced herself in her townhouse.” Only they’ll have to add the part about my 47 cats. And I’ll have to buy a townhouse.) (And you know how Homer went blind? I have a degenerative retinal disease. The similarities are uncanny, really.)

Anyway, I failed miserably in actually turning off the computer on Sunday. But since Shutdown Day is technically this Sunday, I’m gonna try again. And I think that everyone has had ample opportunity to tell me new things (and many people have actually acted on that opportunity, for which I am quite appreciative, especially to the one person who had simply been neglecting to tell me new things, and finally came around to doing so. Knowledge is, like, power, or something). So I think you should try it too, because it sounds like a good idea.

But at the same time, I think that instead of having a cell phone that can read the Internet, maybe I should keep my current cell phone and just get one of those nifty new tablet PCs, with the fancy wireless connections. And if I have to spend part of Sunday figuring out which of the nifty new tablet PCs I want, I don’t see how I can do that if I turn my computer off.

Unless I spend the whole day on Sunday talking to people who have one. Do you have one? Call me. I’m thinking about the Scribbler SC 3000. It’s only $2600 or something. (Also, do you know any rich men, who are looking to meet a nice, smart, funny girl who has an awful lot in common with a pair of eccentric recluses? Call me.)

Phone rings, 10:30ish last night:

Manuelo: Jennifer! Why are you at home? It’s Saturday night, and it’s Saint Patrick’s Day. Why aren’t you out having some fun, getting drunk?

Me: Well, everyone and their mother is crowding into bars, getting wasted and shouting in fake Irish accents, and then driving their cars home. Doesn’t sound like fun to me. Plus, I’m not Irish. So I’m in bed, reading a book.

. . .

11ish:

Me: I’ve got a call on the other line. Let me call you back.

. . .

Someone Who Shall Remain Nameless: Jennifer! What are you doing?

Me: I’m talking to Manuelo on the phone. What are you doing? There’s an awful lot of noise in the background.

SWSRN: I’m urinating! In a bar!

Me: Well, thanks for sharing. Go drink some more green beer and call me back tomorrow. Much though I love to talk to you while you’re urinating, it’s almost 11, and I’m on the other line.

SWSRN: What? I can’t hear you. It’s loud in here! What? I’m not drinking green beer. I’m drinking Irish Car Bombs!

Me: Okay. Bye.

. . .

So we all know that I don’t like most holidays. Easter I love, because I like egg salad sandwiches and marshmallow Peeps, and little girls in frilly dresses and bonnets are cute, and a perfectly natural way to commemorate the son of God coming back from the dead, if you ask me. Thanksgiving is good (and also involves marshmallows. Coincidence? I think not.). Otherwise, I could do without most holidays. They usually serve to make you feel obligated to spend time with people you don’t want to, or to spend oodles of cash.

Unless they make you feel obligated to drink too much and then call people while you’re urinating: New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Labor Day even, all have lost their initial meaning and turned into drinking festivals.

But I was reminded of a story that I have yet to share with you. I took a summer class when I was at school, because my alma mater (an institution that was once called “King’s College”) royally screwed up my transfer credits when I first enrolled, and apparently when they should have found this problem in an annual review neglected to do so because my records had been pulled and weren’t in the cabinet. (“Okay, so there’s not a master list for these reviews? You just go through a cabinet, and anyone who has files not in the cabinet just doesn’t have their files reviewed?” “Yes.” “I know I’m not actually finished with my education, may never finish, in fact, because you people make mistakes and then have plans for catching those mistakes that don’t actually involve a complete review of the records that might contain those mistakes. But here’s an idea: try to be just a little more organized.”) In the end they “found” some scholarship money to give me so that I didn’t have to pay for their mistake, but it sure did take me writing some nasty letters to make that happen, and then I had to take a summer class, which I did not want to do.

(And many of you have heard this story before, but I love to tell it, so I’ll do so again: the class involved my writing a short essay about Chaucer. I’m a pretty good writer, I think, and my short essay may have been, in fact, amusing, and maybe during summer classes it’s okay to take everything just a little less seriously than you would during the academic year, and sure, the class was taught by a grad student, and not a real-life tenured professor, but when this paper came back to me with an actual honest-to-God smiley face on it, I nearly completely lost my mind. A smiley face. On an essay. About Chaucer. Basically, I paid someone an obscene amount of money per hour to provide me with such helpful criticism as . I know that seems unbelievable, but I still have the paper, so I can prove it.)

Anyway, after this summer class concluded, I and my classmates went to a local bar to celebrate. And because we were a highly educated bunch, someone came up with the bright idea to drink Flaming Dr. Peppers. In case you’re unfamiliar with this concept (um, right), you pour 151 on top of a shot of Amaretto, set it on fire, and drop it into a beer. (Does it taste like Dr. Pepper when you drink it? I’m afraid I can’t recall.) So when someone in a position of authority in the bar came to the conclusion that we had had enough flaming alcoholic beverages and the bartender then refused to bring us anymore? Seeing as how we were an educated bunch, someone lit upon the idea to divide in order to conquer. A team was formed, people sent to opposite ends of the bar to purchase the components of this drink separately. We’d just put them together ourselves: you can’t keep us down, Mr. Bar-Owner - we have Ivy League educations, and shall set things on fire and then drink them even in spite, nay, now because, of your disapproval!

Shortly after we pulled off this feat we were kindly asked to leave the bar. I had never been kicked out of a bar before, haven’t since, don’t intend to again, really, but I think it’s something everyone should do at least once. The thing about it is, just don’t call me in the middle of the night while you’re in the midst of doing it, particularly if you’re urinating.

So UPS just showed up. And I was perhaps a little effusive, well, fine, effervescent, because after this week, the fact that my perfectly suitable and perfectly colored yarn actually arrived at my door this very evening sends me just about over the edge of gladness.

But when the UPS guy, after learning your first and last name, and your home address, and your phone number, learns that your small package is filled with yarn, and asks, after you describe the project you intend to complete, “You can knit that good?”?

I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

What with the freezing precipitation, and the fact that in the background was TLC’s “Waterfalls” (I set iTunes to random, or shuffle, or whatever the fuck it’s called), I guess a conversation about how he’d rather be at home in his pajamas than out delivering packages was natural. So I said, “Yeah, me too. Get home safely.”

But I did not really think that he would then tell me, “Listen, baby, if you need someone to come over and keep you warm, let me know. I’ll hang wit’ you.”

And maybe that’s just what I need. Someone to keep me warm. If only he hadn’t replaced one of his teeth with a gold cap. I mean, that’s cool and all, but I really don’t think I could live the rest of my life with someone who has a gold tooth. Not that I’m an elitist or anything, or have remarkably high aesthetic standards, but okay, fine, I’m an elitist with remarkably high aesthetic standards.

But a certain someone will be happy to know that the yarn I purchased sight unseen over the Internet is precisely the right color for the project I have in mind.

And “certain someone”? Thank you for propogating the human species with a person who will grow up with all the love, sanity, and education that he or she* needs, and besides that a sense of humor to beat the band. Not everyone is as capable as you are, and about that I am somewhat dismayed, but also delightfully pleased that there will be a little one under your charge. (I’d make a little one myself, and raise him or her in a sterling environment, but first there’d have to be that whole apocalypse thing.)

____
* Part of the whole color problem? Gender neutrality. I mean, I’m playing along, but I’d really like to knit something pink. (Just so you know. I know it’s wrong, and that there’s no hope now of forcing the baby to be a girl, but if this particular baby comes out female, I will literally jump up and down for joy. I know that’s wrong, but I can’t help but be me. Sure, I’ll love a little boy too, and knit for him tiny denim overalls, because I can, in fact, “knit that good”, but could you just please have a baby girl? Please? It would be fun.)