I’m trying not to judge.
Everyone goes through those periods where they don’t feel like exercising. But I’m getting oh-so-frustrated with the way he just lies there in my bed when it’s oh-dark-thirty, my running shoes are laced up, and the coffee I get to drink when I get done is gurgling through the sieve and smelling so inviting.
I know it’s early. I’d rather spend the morning lying about, too. I’d like to be able to forget the visual of my widening ass in the mirror and just crawl back into bed. But he’s my friend, my best friend, and you’d think he’d be supportive and HELP me by removing his head from my down-filled pillow, hauling his butt out of my bed and getting to stepping.
I fill his bowl with food and a metallic tinkle as the kibble hits the walls of the bowl fills the kitchen. I pause to listen. The rest of the house is silent. I pull his chain collar off its hook and it makes a jangling sound. I still. I listen, ear toward the stairs, but can detect no movement from my upstairs bedroom.
Hrmph!
As quietly as possible, I tromp up the stairs, collar in hand. I’m halfway up the steps when I hear a rustling and a thump.
In the dim morning light streaming through the windows he appears at the top of the stairs, tail wagging ever so slightly, a sleepy, half-lidded look on his face. When his face is a scrunched up like this, he looks just like a Shar Pei.
I find myself grinning at him, and I whisper, “You wanna go for a run?”
His tail stops wagging.
Brat.
Volunteered at the museum yesterday. When I was a kid, the museum’s collection was housed in this Palladian-style building. Its works were carefully lit, but on the whole I remember it being a dark facility. Since then, they’ve added on this atrium between the original building and the newer facility where they house their visiting collections, the interactive children’s museum, café and gift shop.
Through the rear of the atrium, you can watch the sailboats in the harbor, and it truly is an idyllic setting. I can’t believe I get to spend every other Saturday there.
I left the museum and went to see Ivan. My hair is literally breaking off, and he tells me it’s either too long and needs to be shorter or I’m stressed out. I hold my breath as he trims off an inch.
“The good news is that with all this breakage, you’re going to get a lot of lift.”
He told me to call him if I want to go do something sometime. I promised to do so, and headed out.
My phone was blowing up all day. One of my friends has a first date with a new guy. Sadie is just calling to chat. Carrie is childfree this weekend, and we’ve been catching up. And Email Buddy Eric has made a life-changing decision. He’s working, so I head over to see him at his office.
I spent an hour or so talking with him before I went home to where Boy and his new girlfriend are doing their laundry and waiting for me to come home and feed them.
Boy really likes this one. She’s a redheaded vegetarian from Fort Lauderdale he'd met at a football game. How he always finds the ones who drive Mercedes is beyond me. She’s a sweetheart of a girl, and not surprisingly, a lot like me. I walked in to find her Seventh Generation laundry soaps on the counter and took this as a good sign. I ordered in Chinese food and then shooed them out to Barnes and Noble while I finished up their laundry.
Dog ate some lo mien and went into the living room to lie on the couch and catch an episode of NCIS.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Vaya Con Dios, Cornholio
I was home alone Sunday afternoon, doing the laundry and some work I’d brought home, when I had an unannounced visitor. We’d never met before, so I thought that just to drop-in was a bit rude. But there he was on my doorstep. Then he moved right on in without waiting for an invitation.
He was brown and black and maroon, about eight inches long, and smart enough to figure out that hiding behind my dryer would stop me from screaming. As loudly.
We quickly came to an unspoken agreement wherein I would stay away from the laundry closet and he would stay where he was, behind the dryer with his head poking out underneath the bi-fold door so he could keep an eye on me.
I thought it was thoughtful of him to stay mostly hidden even though I suspected that he was only doing it to keep me from screaming again.
While Dog came downstairs to see what all the ruckus was about, I grabbed my phone to call the one person close enough, and brave enough, to take care of my unwanted guest – Lily.
Please be home. Please be home. Please be home.
“A what is under your dryer?”
“A snake. There’s a snake in.my.house. And he’s looking at me from under the door. I think he’s getting ready to make his move.”
“Make his move?” And she started laughing. “What does it look like?”
“He looks like a snake, Lily.”
“Yeah, I got that. What color is it?”
“He’s a bunch of colors, and he’s got beady little eyes.”
"Does it have a neck?"
"No, no neck."
"Then it's probably harmless," she said and then sighed. "Okay, find a towel to shoo him out. I’m coming over.”
I have great neighbors.
I gave Dog a Frosty Paw to get him upstairs and away from the scene. Lily got there. I handed her a dishtowel. And the snake slid right out the front door and into my flower garden.
Great.
“Wow. Is that a pygmy rattler?” Lily asked when she saw the colors on his back.
“That’s not helping,” I told her, removing the paper bag I was breathing into from over my face.
“I don’t see anything on his tail,” and she’s crouching closer to him as he’s trying to climb up my fence. “You know, you need to move this bougainvillea. The meter reader is going to have a hard time getting in here once it gets a little bigger.”
“Li-ly, what kind of snake is it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. He’s just a baby, so there are going to be more of them around.”
Even better.
We went inside and looked up Florida snakes. He does, in fact, look like a pygmy rattler, but in the interest of my sanity, we’ve decided that he’s a corn snake. So, I’m calling him Cornholio, and I think Lily’s intense scrutiny and the way she kept trying to pick him up have scared him off for good.
I repaid Lily for helping me out with Cornholio by cleaning out her pantry and refrigerator. She is a food hoarder. At 5'2" and a hundred pounds, she doesn’t eat much, but she buys a lot of food. The oldest thing I found expired in 1999.
“That’s fine," she told me when I held it up to her.
"Really?"
"I’ve never even opened it.”
“The lid’s bulging.”
“Okay, so maybe that one is bad.”
“And for the record, vinegar and brine do not ensure the preservation of a food item after five years.”
“I haven’t been sick in years.”
“I didn’t say they wouldn’t preserve you.”
“Right.”
“Stop buying black beans and olives. You have enough in here to feed Cuba for a week.”
“Noted.”
“You know what? Stop buying food altogether. Check with me before you go to Publix. And by the way, this type of cheese is not the kind that ages well.”
Two hours and three trash bags full of discarded food later, I left her to finish and went home to make dinner for both of us.
I fed her my version of shrimp Creole last night and made her stay over to watch scary movies while I fell asleep in the big chair in my Cornholio-free house.
He was brown and black and maroon, about eight inches long, and smart enough to figure out that hiding behind my dryer would stop me from screaming. As loudly.
We quickly came to an unspoken agreement wherein I would stay away from the laundry closet and he would stay where he was, behind the dryer with his head poking out underneath the bi-fold door so he could keep an eye on me.
I thought it was thoughtful of him to stay mostly hidden even though I suspected that he was only doing it to keep me from screaming again.
While Dog came downstairs to see what all the ruckus was about, I grabbed my phone to call the one person close enough, and brave enough, to take care of my unwanted guest – Lily.
Please be home. Please be home. Please be home.
“A what is under your dryer?”
“A snake. There’s a snake in.my.house. And he’s looking at me from under the door. I think he’s getting ready to make his move.”
“Make his move?” And she started laughing. “What does it look like?”
“He looks like a snake, Lily.”
“Yeah, I got that. What color is it?”
“He’s a bunch of colors, and he’s got beady little eyes.”
"Does it have a neck?"
"No, no neck."
"Then it's probably harmless," she said and then sighed. "Okay, find a towel to shoo him out. I’m coming over.”
I have great neighbors.
I gave Dog a Frosty Paw to get him upstairs and away from the scene. Lily got there. I handed her a dishtowel. And the snake slid right out the front door and into my flower garden.
Great.
“Wow. Is that a pygmy rattler?” Lily asked when she saw the colors on his back.
“That’s not helping,” I told her, removing the paper bag I was breathing into from over my face.
“I don’t see anything on his tail,” and she’s crouching closer to him as he’s trying to climb up my fence. “You know, you need to move this bougainvillea. The meter reader is going to have a hard time getting in here once it gets a little bigger.”
“Li-ly, what kind of snake is it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. He’s just a baby, so there are going to be more of them around.”
Even better.
We went inside and looked up Florida snakes. He does, in fact, look like a pygmy rattler, but in the interest of my sanity, we’ve decided that he’s a corn snake. So, I’m calling him Cornholio, and I think Lily’s intense scrutiny and the way she kept trying to pick him up have scared him off for good.
I repaid Lily for helping me out with Cornholio by cleaning out her pantry and refrigerator. She is a food hoarder. At 5'2" and a hundred pounds, she doesn’t eat much, but she buys a lot of food. The oldest thing I found expired in 1999.
“That’s fine," she told me when I held it up to her.
"Really?"
"I’ve never even opened it.”
“The lid’s bulging.”
“Okay, so maybe that one is bad.”
“And for the record, vinegar and brine do not ensure the preservation of a food item after five years.”
“I haven’t been sick in years.”
“I didn’t say they wouldn’t preserve you.”
“Right.”
“Stop buying black beans and olives. You have enough in here to feed Cuba for a week.”
“Noted.”
“You know what? Stop buying food altogether. Check with me before you go to Publix. And by the way, this type of cheese is not the kind that ages well.”
Two hours and three trash bags full of discarded food later, I left her to finish and went home to make dinner for both of us.
I fed her my version of shrimp Creole last night and made her stay over to watch scary movies while I fell asleep in the big chair in my Cornholio-free house.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Golden Handcuffs
A couple of weeks ago I had a conversation with one of my aunts about the fact that, though, I have a nebulous idea of what I want to be when I finish growing up, I’m not entirely certain that I don’t just want those things because they sound like good things to want.
This is the result of working for the same organization for twenty or so years. It becomes all you know, all you see. Everything else becomes abstract, a lovely concept that’s set apart from the reality of what you know.
Anyway, my aunt and I had a good long talk and decided the best plan of action right now would be to talk with people who worked in the fields in which I was interested to get some good gouge on what living in that world would be like.
Here are the things I’ve thought about doing after I leave my company:
After some reflection on our conversation, I decided to take it one step further, so I had an interview at the Fine Arts Museum this week to be a volunteer. This museum has a curator and a librarian, so I figured that volunteering there would give me access to their world and act as an introduction to the people who actually do these jobs.
Either I made a good impression or the director is desperate for help, because I’m to start next Saturday. Wish me luck!
For the rest, well I’m already a writer. Sort of. I’ve published a couple of short stories. And, though, my fiction well has been a bit dried up as of late - I have three separate story ideas languishing on my laptop with nary a clue as to how to resume - through the blogging I keep chugging along. Another mixed metaphor. Crap.
I suppose my next step with this is to talk with a local newspaper or something to see if there’s something I can do there. I suppose the easiest way to go about it would be to actually talk with a writer, someone who does it professionally. But that would be cheating, wouldn’t it? I don’t believe you can really decide if something’s for you unless you actually do it yourself.
The event planner thing might be a bit time consuming to do on a part time basis, and I have to wonder at what that occupational outlook could be in a still declining economy.
And, lastly, the small business owner idea. I know exactly what kind of business I’d like to own, and it’s the kind that will NOT make any money. I haven’t worked in retail since I was eighteen years old, and if I remember correctly, the business owner I worked for did, in fact, want to make money. Come to think of it, she was really ambitious, owning and operating four stores spread out over New England. And she was only twenty-seven.
So, basically, I need to find a business owner who is independently wealthy and who won’t mind me hanging about his or her store to steal ideas of how to run a business that's really just a very expensive hobby.
Hmmm… Maybe I need to table that one for now.
This is the result of working for the same organization for twenty or so years. It becomes all you know, all you see. Everything else becomes abstract, a lovely concept that’s set apart from the reality of what you know.
Anyway, my aunt and I had a good long talk and decided the best plan of action right now would be to talk with people who worked in the fields in which I was interested to get some good gouge on what living in that world would be like.
Here are the things I’ve thought about doing after I leave my company:
- Librarian at an academic institution or museum
- Curator
- Writer
- Event planner
- Small business owner
After some reflection on our conversation, I decided to take it one step further, so I had an interview at the Fine Arts Museum this week to be a volunteer. This museum has a curator and a librarian, so I figured that volunteering there would give me access to their world and act as an introduction to the people who actually do these jobs.
Either I made a good impression or the director is desperate for help, because I’m to start next Saturday. Wish me luck!
For the rest, well I’m already a writer. Sort of. I’ve published a couple of short stories. And, though, my fiction well has been a bit dried up as of late - I have three separate story ideas languishing on my laptop with nary a clue as to how to resume - through the blogging I keep chugging along. Another mixed metaphor. Crap.
I suppose my next step with this is to talk with a local newspaper or something to see if there’s something I can do there. I suppose the easiest way to go about it would be to actually talk with a writer, someone who does it professionally. But that would be cheating, wouldn’t it? I don’t believe you can really decide if something’s for you unless you actually do it yourself.
The event planner thing might be a bit time consuming to do on a part time basis, and I have to wonder at what that occupational outlook could be in a still declining economy.
And, lastly, the small business owner idea. I know exactly what kind of business I’d like to own, and it’s the kind that will NOT make any money. I haven’t worked in retail since I was eighteen years old, and if I remember correctly, the business owner I worked for did, in fact, want to make money. Come to think of it, she was really ambitious, owning and operating four stores spread out over New England. And she was only twenty-seven.
So, basically, I need to find a business owner who is independently wealthy and who won’t mind me hanging about his or her store to steal ideas of how to run a business that's really just a very expensive hobby.
Hmmm… Maybe I need to table that one for now.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Mexican Food, iPods, and Movies That Make You Go "Eh.."
Email Buddy Eric and I went out for Mexican the other night. It had been too long since we’d had a face-to-face, and there are conversations that just shouldn’t leave a paper trail. We had a lot of stuff in the "off-line" category to cover. Like, which of the people we know are doing things they shouldn’t be doing. It was awesome!
We went to Los Mariachis. About fifteen years ago, Los Mariachis was the scene of one of my more memorable first dates. It was with Dan in Vermont, and what’s really funny about that date is that even though it was mutually agreed upon that it was the worst first date ever, we ended up dating for years afterward. Go figure.
So, after the mariachi band played, after we ate and ate and ate, and after we finished a second round of beers, we walked over to the Dairy Queen and ate ice cream at the picnic table outside while the traffic on Ulmerton zipped by. The weather right now is perfect – warm and sunny during the day but cool in the evenings. I love Florida in October and April. Every other month is a toss up so far as the weather goes.
When I got home, Boy was on the couch working on a term paper for his World Religions class. I’d picked up him and four trash bags full of laundry after work. He was on his third load of laundry and watching one of the Rush Hour movies. I got the feeling that his paper is going to somehow include a reference to drug dealers and Jackie Chan nailing a ransom note on the door of a church on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.
But I just bit my tongue and went to bed.
I got up yesterday and went running. It was the first time in a long time as my iPod gave me a sad face icon over a month ago, and I can’t seem to run without a soundtrack. But when I noticed that my favorite jeans wouldn’t move past my thighs, I finally popped into the Apple store last week andwas coerced into handing over recycled my old iPod for one of the new Nano’s with the video camera.
I’d had an 80GB that Boy had gotten me for my birthday last year, so this was a step down. But thesmug adolescent in the blue shirt salesman said that the reason I’d gotten the sad face on that one was because I'd used it for running, and blah, blah, something hard drive. The Nano has a flash drive that won’t get ruined so easily. I’m not sure what the video camera is for. I’m fairly certain no one wants a video of me red-faced and panting.
Speaking of “red,” even though I really wanted the blue one, I bought the (Product) Red Nano because Apple donates proceeds to that organization Bono pimps. Money for AIDS relief in Africa? You just know I was onboard. I’m such a Goody Two Shoes.
After my run, I emailed Dan in Vermont who has to eat Amy’s enchiladas when he wants Mexican:
“I went to Los Mariachis last night, and it was really, really good…”
I got his response as Boy and I were looking for seats at the movie theater last night:
“See now that’s just wrong.”
Boy and I went to see The Invention of Lying. I love Ricky Gervais, and it was almost worth the $20 just to hear Jen Garner confess that she had just been masturbating.
Almost.
We went to Los Mariachis. About fifteen years ago, Los Mariachis was the scene of one of my more memorable first dates. It was with Dan in Vermont, and what’s really funny about that date is that even though it was mutually agreed upon that it was the worst first date ever, we ended up dating for years afterward. Go figure.
So, after the mariachi band played, after we ate and ate and ate, and after we finished a second round of beers, we walked over to the Dairy Queen and ate ice cream at the picnic table outside while the traffic on Ulmerton zipped by. The weather right now is perfect – warm and sunny during the day but cool in the evenings. I love Florida in October and April. Every other month is a toss up so far as the weather goes.
When I got home, Boy was on the couch working on a term paper for his World Religions class. I’d picked up him and four trash bags full of laundry after work. He was on his third load of laundry and watching one of the Rush Hour movies. I got the feeling that his paper is going to somehow include a reference to drug dealers and Jackie Chan nailing a ransom note on the door of a church on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.
But I just bit my tongue and went to bed.
I got up yesterday and went running. It was the first time in a long time as my iPod gave me a sad face icon over a month ago, and I can’t seem to run without a soundtrack. But when I noticed that my favorite jeans wouldn’t move past my thighs, I finally popped into the Apple store last week and
I’d had an 80GB that Boy had gotten me for my birthday last year, so this was a step down. But the
Speaking of “red,” even though I really wanted the blue one, I bought the (Product) Red Nano because Apple donates proceeds to that organization Bono pimps. Money for AIDS relief in Africa? You just know I was onboard. I’m such a Goody Two Shoes.
After my run, I emailed Dan in Vermont who has to eat Amy’s enchiladas when he wants Mexican:
“I went to Los Mariachis last night, and it was really, really good…”
I got his response as Boy and I were looking for seats at the movie theater last night:
“See now that’s just wrong.”
Boy and I went to see The Invention of Lying. I love Ricky Gervais, and it was almost worth the $20 just to hear Jen Garner confess that she had just been masturbating.
Almost.
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