All week my neighbors have been pounding, sawing, and buzzing away at some big project in their backyard. Yesterday I thought the Chelsea Summerfest was going in over there, they had so many of those white picnic shelter tents set up. Since I can’t see over the palisade fence (which resembles a fort in an old western), I really couldn’t tell what they were doing. For one brief, shining moment I even thought they might be moving - all the shit was cleared off the porch - until I realized that the shit had simply been moved to a temporary pile in the front yard.
Smoke and classic rock started billowing from their back porch mid morning. I shut all the windows and turned the air conditioner on. I went to run an errand, took a spin of the rather-diminished Summerfest sidewalk sales, got a steal of a deal on a toilet bowl brush (sans caddy) at the hardware store, and returned home. There was a note stuck in the door asking my permission to have a moonwalk installed in my backyard near the tree line. I was to holler over the fence to let them know.
So I went to the back and hollered over. Then hollered again. On the third holler the chef looked up from the sizzling grill. “Mmm - burger,” said my dieting stomach. I tried not to drool and told her the moonwalk was okay.
She thanked me and was truly appreciative. She explained it was a party for her son’s graduation and said I could come too. Really, despite my grousing, the neighbors are not bad people. And seeing the amount of stuff and money going into this shindig, I’m thinking they might be eccentric millionaires, who prefer their vintage Broncos with genuine rust and haven’t moved to a nicer house because they cannot bear to part with the twenty-foot, bright yellow “Wolverines” carving that seems permanently fixed in the backyard.
The moonwalk went up about two hours ago. Part of the palisade came down to allow passage between the yards. The kids are bouncing around screaming and the adults are putting their cigarettes out on the lawn. The Rolling Stones are blaring from a boombox on the porch.
That sappy penguin movie is playing at the Michigan tonight. It might be a good night to go.
30 July 2005
29 July 2005
28 July 2005
Meep Meep
Another car story.
On the way home today, I happened to glance in the rearview mirror to see a bright red Aztec screaming up Freer Road. I honestly thought they were simply going to plow through me. I tapped on the brake, just enough to make the light come on and hopefully alert the driver to slower traffic in the 25 mph zone.
The Aztec crossed the double yellow line into oncoming traffic to pass me, cut me off, then braked 500 feet later, waiting to turn left into the school complex.
Naturally I leaned on the horn. Only instead of a huge Wagnerian blast to match my fury, I got a tiny, ineffectual meeeep, tuned an octave above middle C. The only problem with the little Korean car is the little Korean horn. The Aztec occupants probably thought there was a small child on a bike somewhere near by, if they heard the horn at all.
I’m glad I’m home.
Mercury’s retrograde until August 15. Everybody’s losin’ it. Hang on and be careful out there.
On the way home today, I happened to glance in the rearview mirror to see a bright red Aztec screaming up Freer Road. I honestly thought they were simply going to plow through me. I tapped on the brake, just enough to make the light come on and hopefully alert the driver to slower traffic in the 25 mph zone.
The Aztec crossed the double yellow line into oncoming traffic to pass me, cut me off, then braked 500 feet later, waiting to turn left into the school complex.
Naturally I leaned on the horn. Only instead of a huge Wagnerian blast to match my fury, I got a tiny, ineffectual meeeep, tuned an octave above middle C. The only problem with the little Korean car is the little Korean horn. The Aztec occupants probably thought there was a small child on a bike somewhere near by, if they heard the horn at all.
I’m glad I’m home.
Mercury’s retrograde until August 15. Everybody’s losin’ it. Hang on and be careful out there.
26 July 2005
Just Like It Sounds
Since I magically acquired additional vacation days at my “real” job, I took one today to stay home and catch up on some work for my second job (the “unreal” one).
The phone rang and I got up to answer it. The caller ID displayed “Unknown caller,” so I was pretty sure it was a telemarketer, but I was bored and answered it anyway.
Turns out it wasn’t a telemarketer, but a surveyor. I had a hard time understanding the woman on the other end of the line, who sounded like she had an adenoid problem, but I gathered she wanted to collect some information about how I get my news. I consented, and she asked the first question.
“What county do you live in?”
“Washtenaw,” I replied.
“Where?” she asked.
“Washtenaw County,” I said.
There was a pause. “Could you spell that please?”
I spelled Washtenaw.
There was a pause.
“Just like it sounds,” I said, which is exactly what D. said to me when I said “Huh?” before I moved here.
She was clearly nonplussed, but remained professional. “That’s all the questions I have. Thank you for your time.”
“Thanks!” I said brightly, and hung up. At least it was some amusement for the day.
I think there is an unwritten rule that every place must have names designed to separate the natives from the tourists, the residents from the outsiders. Back in the Greater Johnstown Statistical Area, your pronunciation (or mispronunciation) of Conemaugh Hospital and Menoher Boulevard could mark you as an in or an out, a person with roots there or a newcomer.
In my various moves around the midwest, I’ve blundered into several of these myself. The Native American place names are understandable, but it’s the slaughtered European cities that crack me up most. Versailles and Cadiz are not pronounced the same way in oHIo as in France or Spain. I never imagined Milan could be MY-lan. But after a year, I’m learning my Michigan patois. Maybe soon I’ll qualify for townie status.
Just don’t get me started on Saline.
The phone rang and I got up to answer it. The caller ID displayed “Unknown caller,” so I was pretty sure it was a telemarketer, but I was bored and answered it anyway.
Turns out it wasn’t a telemarketer, but a surveyor. I had a hard time understanding the woman on the other end of the line, who sounded like she had an adenoid problem, but I gathered she wanted to collect some information about how I get my news. I consented, and she asked the first question.
“What county do you live in?”
“Washtenaw,” I replied.
“Where?” she asked.
“Washtenaw County,” I said.
There was a pause. “Could you spell that please?”
I spelled Washtenaw.
There was a pause.
“Just like it sounds,” I said, which is exactly what D. said to me when I said “Huh?” before I moved here.
She was clearly nonplussed, but remained professional. “That’s all the questions I have. Thank you for your time.”
“Thanks!” I said brightly, and hung up. At least it was some amusement for the day.
I think there is an unwritten rule that every place must have names designed to separate the natives from the tourists, the residents from the outsiders. Back in the Greater Johnstown Statistical Area, your pronunciation (or mispronunciation) of Conemaugh Hospital and Menoher Boulevard could mark you as an in or an out, a person with roots there or a newcomer.
In my various moves around the midwest, I’ve blundered into several of these myself. The Native American place names are understandable, but it’s the slaughtered European cities that crack me up most. Versailles and Cadiz are not pronounced the same way in oHIo as in France or Spain. I never imagined Milan could be MY-lan. But after a year, I’m learning my Michigan patois. Maybe soon I’ll qualify for townie status.
Just don’t get me started on Saline.
24 July 2005
Today I Woke Up Sad
This morning’s dream was a documentary, set in a village somewhere in Afganistan; leathery old men, young girls with shiny black hair, lots of talking and gesticulating. I turned over and rubbed my aching sinuses, wondering how my subconscious came up with this this time.
The throbbing beneath my cheekbones echoed the distant rumbling of thunder. I knew this was a big storm just by listening - every two or three seconds, another low, rolling wave resounded. Going over the dream, I thought about the book “Kite Runner” that I read this summer, and then jumped to the installation of thousands of pairs of shoes on the Diag that I saw yesterday. Each pair of shoes represented an Iraqi civilian or American soldier killed in Iraq. I wondered if someone on the exhibition team had the job of watching the news or listening to the radio to find out how many shoes they would need to add the next day. I wondered if they had a big crate of shoes and military boots that travelled with them - how many would they need?
I sighed and put my hand down to pet my good and patient kitty, curled up by my hip, waiting quietly for her breakfast. The weather approached rapidly and soon I could see the lightning flashes even through my closed eyelids. Kitty doesn’t like the thunder, and hopped down to creep under the bed. I tend to sleep on the right side of the bed, as if saving the left side will make a lover appear. Well, they do say if you act as though you already have everything you want in life, it will come to you. A well-rehearsed fantasy of a man with strong arms starts up in my head, but the lack of a real partner hurts too much this morning, and I can’t have who I want and should stop thinking of him, so I turn the fantasy off. Who are “they” anyway? Do they know what it’s like to have a heart that feels like a boiled tomato when you split the skin and all the guts run out? I sighed again and rolled over to the left side of the bed.
My shoulders ache from all the time spent at the keyboard during the week. Some yoga usually helps for a while, but the ache soon comes back. I pulled myself into a modified “child pose,” knees to my chest, forehead to the mattress, arms stretched above my head. “Child pose” looks like a Muslim at worship. I breathed in long, slow, deep breaths to soften my belly and breathed out tension and affirmation that I am connected to the cosmos, and as such I am enough, and have everything I need to handle whatever life brings my way. As my breath curled out of me it carried little prayers, that my house would withstand the thunderstorm, that my heart would survive the storms of its own strange passions, that the world would outlast all the shit and hate and fire we rain down on it and each other, and someday heal.
The rain pounded at the windows and the thunder shook the house. I knew I should get up, feed the cat, do the laundry, go buy the newspapers, write this out. But I didn’t. I stayed there for a while, just another small mammal sheltering in her nest, another member of a race of wee, cow’rin’, tim’rous beasties whose plans gang aft a-gley.
The throbbing beneath my cheekbones echoed the distant rumbling of thunder. I knew this was a big storm just by listening - every two or three seconds, another low, rolling wave resounded. Going over the dream, I thought about the book “Kite Runner” that I read this summer, and then jumped to the installation of thousands of pairs of shoes on the Diag that I saw yesterday. Each pair of shoes represented an Iraqi civilian or American soldier killed in Iraq. I wondered if someone on the exhibition team had the job of watching the news or listening to the radio to find out how many shoes they would need to add the next day. I wondered if they had a big crate of shoes and military boots that travelled with them - how many would they need?
I sighed and put my hand down to pet my good and patient kitty, curled up by my hip, waiting quietly for her breakfast. The weather approached rapidly and soon I could see the lightning flashes even through my closed eyelids. Kitty doesn’t like the thunder, and hopped down to creep under the bed. I tend to sleep on the right side of the bed, as if saving the left side will make a lover appear. Well, they do say if you act as though you already have everything you want in life, it will come to you. A well-rehearsed fantasy of a man with strong arms starts up in my head, but the lack of a real partner hurts too much this morning, and I can’t have who I want and should stop thinking of him, so I turn the fantasy off. Who are “they” anyway? Do they know what it’s like to have a heart that feels like a boiled tomato when you split the skin and all the guts run out? I sighed again and rolled over to the left side of the bed.
My shoulders ache from all the time spent at the keyboard during the week. Some yoga usually helps for a while, but the ache soon comes back. I pulled myself into a modified “child pose,” knees to my chest, forehead to the mattress, arms stretched above my head. “Child pose” looks like a Muslim at worship. I breathed in long, slow, deep breaths to soften my belly and breathed out tension and affirmation that I am connected to the cosmos, and as such I am enough, and have everything I need to handle whatever life brings my way. As my breath curled out of me it carried little prayers, that my house would withstand the thunderstorm, that my heart would survive the storms of its own strange passions, that the world would outlast all the shit and hate and fire we rain down on it and each other, and someday heal.
The rain pounded at the windows and the thunder shook the house. I knew I should get up, feed the cat, do the laundry, go buy the newspapers, write this out. But I didn’t. I stayed there for a while, just another small mammal sheltering in her nest, another member of a race of wee, cow’rin’, tim’rous beasties whose plans gang aft a-gley.
22 July 2005
My Hyundai Ate the Ditty Bops
Two or three months ago, I heard a song called “Ooh La La” on the radio one night and it was such a strange song to hear on the radio, all old-timey and foot-stompin’ and twangy (and with a cricket interlude), but with such light, sweet, clear harmonies that I had to know who it was. A short Google search on the lyrics delivered the Ditty Bops. I bought their eccentric little CD shortly thereafter and it’s been in my car since.
On the way to work earlier this week I put the CD in the stereo as I pulled out of the driveway. The music should have started right away, but it didn’t. I was at the stop sign at the end of the street before I realized something was wrong. I pushed a few buttons. Nothing happened. I looked around. The CD wasn’t lying in the tray or on the floor or on the seat. It wasn’t anywhere.
My bewilderment grew as I traveled down Freer Road. I tried to eject the CD, but nothing came out. So tried it again. And again. It was obviously not there. By now I had picked up a tailgater, a big brown Buick, but they were going to have to wait. The fabric of the universe had torn open in my Hyundai and the Ditty Bops had been sucked down a wormhole into another dimension.
I put another CD in the stereo. The Pet Shop Boys started up immediately. Now I was really, truly baffled. I looked in all the jewel cases, just in case there was ergot on my Chex and I hallucinated putting the CD in the stereo. The Ditty Bops sleeve was empty.
Sure, Einstein came up with that whole E=mc² thing, but the CD didn’t blow Washtenaw County off the planet when it inexplicably converted itself to energy, so it had to be somewhere. I ejected Neil Tennant mid breathy vocal and started prying at the stereo, digging my nails into the little gaps between the unit and the dashboard. A plume of dust blew out behind me as both passenger-side tires dropped off Jackson Road into the gravel. The Buick backed off about a hundred yards.
There wasn’t much else I could do, so I journeyed on to work, occasionally pursing my lips and scowling at the radio. The stereo did not come with the car. My parents had it installed for me as a gift, since the original car radio had a cassette deck, but no CD player. There’s a small gap above the stereo, maybe the thickness of a disc. I can hardly believe that a CD would fit in there without my deliberately pushing, hard, on it, but still, it’s the only logical place where the Ditty Bops could be.
Interestingly enough, other people do not have logical reactions to this. One friend gasped, “I hope everything’s all right with your car. That happened to my husband and the next thing he knew, the alternator was shot.” Someone else suggested in all seriousness that I pop open the hood to see if I can grab the CD from the other side.
Huh?
As I see it, I have two options: 1. Buy a new Ditty Bops CD or 2. Have the stereo removed to pry the CD from the Hyundai’s ravenous jaws. I’m thinking 1. sounds like the path of least resistance.
On the way to work earlier this week I put the CD in the stereo as I pulled out of the driveway. The music should have started right away, but it didn’t. I was at the stop sign at the end of the street before I realized something was wrong. I pushed a few buttons. Nothing happened. I looked around. The CD wasn’t lying in the tray or on the floor or on the seat. It wasn’t anywhere.
My bewilderment grew as I traveled down Freer Road. I tried to eject the CD, but nothing came out. So tried it again. And again. It was obviously not there. By now I had picked up a tailgater, a big brown Buick, but they were going to have to wait. The fabric of the universe had torn open in my Hyundai and the Ditty Bops had been sucked down a wormhole into another dimension.
I put another CD in the stereo. The Pet Shop Boys started up immediately. Now I was really, truly baffled. I looked in all the jewel cases, just in case there was ergot on my Chex and I hallucinated putting the CD in the stereo. The Ditty Bops sleeve was empty.
Sure, Einstein came up with that whole E=mc² thing, but the CD didn’t blow Washtenaw County off the planet when it inexplicably converted itself to energy, so it had to be somewhere. I ejected Neil Tennant mid breathy vocal and started prying at the stereo, digging my nails into the little gaps between the unit and the dashboard. A plume of dust blew out behind me as both passenger-side tires dropped off Jackson Road into the gravel. The Buick backed off about a hundred yards.
There wasn’t much else I could do, so I journeyed on to work, occasionally pursing my lips and scowling at the radio. The stereo did not come with the car. My parents had it installed for me as a gift, since the original car radio had a cassette deck, but no CD player. There’s a small gap above the stereo, maybe the thickness of a disc. I can hardly believe that a CD would fit in there without my deliberately pushing, hard, on it, but still, it’s the only logical place where the Ditty Bops could be.
Interestingly enough, other people do not have logical reactions to this. One friend gasped, “I hope everything’s all right with your car. That happened to my husband and the next thing he knew, the alternator was shot.” Someone else suggested in all seriousness that I pop open the hood to see if I can grab the CD from the other side.
Huh?
As I see it, I have two options: 1. Buy a new Ditty Bops CD or 2. Have the stereo removed to pry the CD from the Hyundai’s ravenous jaws. I’m thinking 1. sounds like the path of least resistance.
20 July 2005
Just got home from Meijer
Actual contents of shopping bag:
One (1) bag cat litter
Eight (8) cans cat food
One (1) box Typhoo tea, 80 count
One (1) two-pound bag organic cane sugar
One (1) canister McVities milk chocolate digestives (more on these later)
One (1) box instant pasta salad mix
One (1) six-pack tonic water
Four (4) limes
Six (6) “Barbeque Bucks” Michigan lottery scratch-off tickets
And I wonder where my money goes.
One (1) bag cat litter
Eight (8) cans cat food
One (1) box Typhoo tea, 80 count
One (1) two-pound bag organic cane sugar
One (1) canister McVities milk chocolate digestives (more on these later)
One (1) box instant pasta salad mix
One (1) six-pack tonic water
Four (4) limes
Six (6) “Barbeque Bucks” Michigan lottery scratch-off tickets
And I wonder where my money goes.
18 July 2005
First Fruits
This year’s vegetable garden is just about the sorriest one I’ve ever had. You know from previous posts that the radishes didn’t turn out. The lettuce bolted and went all to seed before it even leafed out. What is there has been salad for the bugs. I’ve been lazy and let the grass and weeds encroach on the edges.
Early in the season, it became evident that the cucumbers were my best, brightest hope. I set up a cage around them so the guy who mows the lawn wouldn’t mow them too. I lovingly trained the vines to climb the cages, coiling the soft baby tendrils around the wires. Today I was both rewarded and downcast.
First, the reward. Today I picked two firm, dark green, five-inch cukes. They were just waiting for the rain that finally came this week to plump out. There’s a third that will probably be ready tomorrow. I rubbed the spines off one and ate it, sun-warmed, right there in the garden. It had a satisfying crunch, mild flesh, no seeds, and not the least touch of bitterness.
For bitterness, I pulled some of the salad greens that have survived - deeply notched, oak-leaf shaped leaves with a pungent, almost radish-like flavor, stronger even than arugula. I think it’s some sort of cress. Its peppery heat contrasted nicely with the cucumber for a little mid-afternoon snack.
The carrots are still making a valiant effort in soil that is really too hard for them. I pulled one up and it was about half an inch long by five microns wide. I ate it for dessert. I think I detected a molecule of carrot.
The bad news is that I’m not the only one snacking in the garden. Every black-eyed susan bud has been chewed off. Every piece of cucumber vine that sticks outside of the cage has been chewed off. Chewed-off ends, rather than neatly clipped ends, implicate deer as the culprits rather than rabbits. And the cucumber cage is tall enough that a rabbit would probably need stilts to reach some of the vines.
The vines on the ground remain unnibbled (perhaps because of their cover of weeds). So I gently unwound all the soft green tendrils and laid the cucumbers back on the ground. I tied some soap scraps to the wire cage, although I suspect soap’s efficacy as a deer deterrent is a myth perpetrated by Unilever. The approaching thunderstorm will probably dissolve all the soap anyway. Just as long as it makes the cucumbers happy...
Early in the season, it became evident that the cucumbers were my best, brightest hope. I set up a cage around them so the guy who mows the lawn wouldn’t mow them too. I lovingly trained the vines to climb the cages, coiling the soft baby tendrils around the wires. Today I was both rewarded and downcast.
First, the reward. Today I picked two firm, dark green, five-inch cukes. They were just waiting for the rain that finally came this week to plump out. There’s a third that will probably be ready tomorrow. I rubbed the spines off one and ate it, sun-warmed, right there in the garden. It had a satisfying crunch, mild flesh, no seeds, and not the least touch of bitterness.
For bitterness, I pulled some of the salad greens that have survived - deeply notched, oak-leaf shaped leaves with a pungent, almost radish-like flavor, stronger even than arugula. I think it’s some sort of cress. Its peppery heat contrasted nicely with the cucumber for a little mid-afternoon snack.
The carrots are still making a valiant effort in soil that is really too hard for them. I pulled one up and it was about half an inch long by five microns wide. I ate it for dessert. I think I detected a molecule of carrot.
The bad news is that I’m not the only one snacking in the garden. Every black-eyed susan bud has been chewed off. Every piece of cucumber vine that sticks outside of the cage has been chewed off. Chewed-off ends, rather than neatly clipped ends, implicate deer as the culprits rather than rabbits. And the cucumber cage is tall enough that a rabbit would probably need stilts to reach some of the vines.
The vines on the ground remain unnibbled (perhaps because of their cover of weeds). So I gently unwound all the soft green tendrils and laid the cucumbers back on the ground. I tied some soap scraps to the wire cage, although I suspect soap’s efficacy as a deer deterrent is a myth perpetrated by Unilever. The approaching thunderstorm will probably dissolve all the soap anyway. Just as long as it makes the cucumbers happy...
17 July 2005
Kim's Online Dating Tips
- If you say you are educated, be sure you spell “educated” correctly, or at least come close.
- Do not refer to the “stigma of meeting online.”
- Do crop your main photo so only you are in it. Do not simply cut your ex’s head out of the picture, leaving her body hanging by its hand from your shoulder.
- Choose a nickname that does not include the number 69. “NoCreditsNoClue” isn’t a good one either.
- The suggestions offered on the site to help with writing your headline are...suggestions. If you copy and paste one into your headline, you have the same headline as the thirty other guys who just did the same thing.
- If you state you are 25 and you last updated your profile on August 10, 2000, you are 29 or 30 now. Time to freshen that up, bud.
Got one of your own? Leave a comment...
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