We had some excitement here the other night. Around 3:00am, I am woken up by one of the cats who was in my son's bedroom and wanted to get out. So, I stumble out of bed, open up the closed door and am required to listen to the cat's litany on how terrible his 33 seconds of forced exile was. While out of bed, I decide to replenish the beasts' food bowls so they will not complain early in the morning. I am standing in the kitchen, getting the cat food when another of my cats (I have five, remember?) out of the blue, leaps from a windowsill in the dining room up the wall...I don't see what she sees, but don't really think too much about it - it is 3:00am, after all. Another one of the beasties comes flying from the hallway and SAILS through the air to the countertop and crouches as if to leap onto the refrigerator (which is crammed full of stuff). The wall leaper makes an abortive attempt at the countertop, but she is cut off by yet another cat who has woken from a sound sleep to come into the kitchen and see what was going on. I look, and perched on the handle of a basket on top of the refrigerator is a bird. The countertop croucher tenses and starts the back-side wriggling that cats do - in his walnut-sized brain, you KNOW he is thinking..."this bird is MINE!"- and prepares to leap. I yell, fling myself at the cat, the bird flies away, and all the beasts scatter and scramble, partly from fright (the bird) and partly because they now have a fresh chance at the bird (the cats). Me, I just stand there, wondering how I am going to get this apparently uninjured, healthy bird out of the house before the cats destroy it (the house).
It is by now about 3:15AM. The bird has lit onto a built-in cabinet (thank heavens it is attached to the wall), and the biggest of the cats has gotten there first and is attempting to climb up the bookcase to get to the bird. I grab the cat and quickly put him out the front door. I grab two others and they get put out as well. I now must quickly run to the rear of the house and block up the unlockable pet door, which I do with a Swiffer. Then, I run through the house shutting every door, lest the bird decide to fly around. I apparently wasn't quick enough with the pet door action, because there is somehow another cat in the house. Out he goes, along with the food bowls, onto the porch out back.
It has by now begun to rain heavily, and even though it's January, it starts thundering as well. One of the cats is afraid of thunder, so despite the fact that it is pouring down rain on him, he continues to frantically "dig" his way through the door...Another cat is howling, indignant that he cannot get in the house. Yet another, my normally docile and sweet Mama Cass I can hear growling and being generally angry because she really just doesn't like being around the other cats, and now she is stuck outside with them. It is 3:24AM.
I realize I need help getting this bird out of the house, so I go wake up Man. Out he stumbles, both of us in bathrobes, and we decide on a plan of action. Man, armed with a broom, is going to "shoo" the bird down into the hallway, where I, armed with an opened umbrella, will then deflect the bird into the vestibule that leads to the front door. Hopefully the bird, assuming he is not knocked unconscious by Man's swat of the broom, or impaled on the point of the umbrella, will fly blissfully free out the open door, into the night. So, we steady ourselves, broom raised, umbrella poised, door open, and start. The bird is gently "shoo'ed", it flies towards the opened umbrella, wings flapping furiously...it gets to the vestibule and is headed toward the open door...it can smell the sweet rain-scented night air...ahhhh....freedom...And then, whoosh..there is a flash of grey fur and a graceful leap and the poor bird, so close to escape, is snatched from the air and firmly and irrevocably stuck in the jaws of a cat...
It's 3:45AM and I am sweeping up the last of the pin feathers on the floor, and I am seriously considering getting a dog.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Dinner
So here is typical dinner conversation at my house...
Me: So, did everyone have a good day today?
Boy: Yes.
Man: Yes.
Me: Well, today I ran into an old girlfriend of mine who just returned from an around the world cruise with husband number EIGHT and their 2 children whom they adopted after their house was burned to the ground in a freak 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' incident and they were on their way to Greece because the new husband actually is a secret agent who is now assigned there to investigate some shady dealings on the topsy-turvey financial market but first they need to find a temporary home for the horses they adopted from an old racehorse rescue group...gee it was good to see her!
Me: (to son) What did you do today?
Boy: I made a candy cane so sharp that I could stab myself with it. (Man looks up with interest)
Man: Oh yea? (hereafter ensues a fifteen minute conversation between Boy and Man regarding the technical aspects of the construction and engineering of the super sharp candy cane of death, the practical applications of such a weapon and the discussion of how manufacture could be mass-produced).
Me: -sigh-
Me: So, did everyone have a good day today?
Boy: Yes.
Man: Yes.
Me: Well, today I ran into an old girlfriend of mine who just returned from an around the world cruise with husband number EIGHT and their 2 children whom they adopted after their house was burned to the ground in a freak 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' incident and they were on their way to Greece because the new husband actually is a secret agent who is now assigned there to investigate some shady dealings on the topsy-turvey financial market but first they need to find a temporary home for the horses they adopted from an old racehorse rescue group...gee it was good to see her!
Me: (to son) What did you do today?
Boy: I made a candy cane so sharp that I could stab myself with it. (Man looks up with interest)
Man: Oh yea? (hereafter ensues a fifteen minute conversation between Boy and Man regarding the technical aspects of the construction and engineering of the super sharp candy cane of death, the practical applications of such a weapon and the discussion of how manufacture could be mass-produced).
Me: -sigh-
Friday, December 3, 2010
Gym Tale
So, as you know, I go to a gym to exercise. No one there pays too much attention to me, luckily - most of the people using the facility are WAY younger and WAY MORE physically fit than me, so I have gotten used to just sort of disappearing into the background. Which suits me just fine. I think it takes an exceptional athlete to appear at their best while exercising, and that sure doesn't apply to me. Well, a few days ago, I was huffing and puffing while lifting my girlie weights, and I see in the mirror an older male patron apparently watching me. So I sort of nod to him, in the mirror, mind you, and quickly look away. I don't really like lifting or doing any sort of exercise in front of a mirror but I don't have a choice on this particular day. So as I move on to a different exercise, I look in the mirror to check my form, and I notice this guy is still looking at me. Again, I look away, but now I am beginning to wonder if I am either totally 'spazzing' while lifting these weights and he is staring in horrid fascination, or if I have somehow managed to sit in wet paint or have some other equally embarrassing wardrobe malfunction which is causing his interest in what I am doing. I try to ignore his long glances, and continue my exercise. But now, I am stealing little looks into the mirror to see if he is still watching and every time I peek, it seems he is. So now I am getting REALLY uncomfortable, and more than a little annoyed. As I marched over to where he was, I was deciding exactly what I would say to him and how I would demand to know why he was staring at me when I saw it. His cane, leaning up against the linear squat machine. My steps faltered, and as I came to a stop, another man came up to him and said "You done?", handed him his cane and led him to the next piece of equipment. What can I say? Thank goodness his buddy got to him before I did!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Elizabette's
This is a break from my usual type of post. I was stuck in a traffic jam yesterday, and my mind sort of just wandered, and this is where it went. It's very clear in my mind - I don't know if I am a skilled enough writer to draw the picture this deserves in your head...but I hope so. I would love your feedback on this.
The very first time I went to Savannah was in 1989 to visit my best friend. She had moved there after school, accepting a minuscule salary, no benefits or job security for the chance to work in her chosen career. We went to River Street, the gem of that lady of the south, and walked for hours on cobblestone streets meandering under old oak trees. We talked as if our very lives depended on getting everything said in that one very short night...It was January, and it was cold. Realizing we were hungry, we searched for a restaurant or pub, but time had wisped away under cover of our happy voices, and so the only place open was the big hotel on the river. Practically schoolgirls still, we were hardly dressed for dinner at the Hyatt, but in we strolled, graciously accepting the small table squished near the kitchen door. We paused our conversation long enough to look at the menus, and realized in an instant that we were out of our league...between the two of us, we had about enough money for a bowl of soup, and that was only if we had enough guts to not leave a tip for the waiter. So, out we went, back up to the river, not really distressed at our situation. After all, we had survived many nights of insufficient funds, back at school. We found another open door; down a half set of stairs, set into the basement of one of the big tourist places. We walked in to a blast of heat, and music - the jazz being played by the musicians on the tiny stage was the kind that sets every hair bristling...the kind of music girls like us had only heard in the movies we had snuck in to see. A very fat woman eased herself off a stool in the corner and approached us. We asked in timid voices if they served food there, and if we were too late to order something to eat. The fat lady didn't say much, but she sort of nodded, and slid an arm around each of us, and shepherded us to a table, right in front of the piano. The musicians looked at us briefly, without interest. A man in shiny pants brought us some coffee - unasked for, but very much appreciated because we were both feeling cold. We sipped our coffee, pungent with some unknown liquor, and assessed our surroundings. We were in a very nice place. Remembering the Hyatt, we began to get a little nervous, but no one had even brought us a menu yet. We figured we would have enough for at least the two coffees, if we couldn't afford to eat. The band played, the few other customers - women in elegant dresses, the men in suits with narrow colorful ties- danced in the small clearing near the stage. We listened and watched, silenced by the warmth, the coffee, the music, the comfort we had found in this little place. After a half hour or so, we had still not been brought menus, but the fat lady appeared at the table with two plates, mounded high with delicious smelling food. We looked at one another; my friend and I worried we wouldn't be able to pay. We started to ask how much for the dinner, but she shushed us and put a plate in front of each of us, and waited for us to start eating. It was meatloaf, hot and tangy and ambrosial with mashed potatoes that were salty and somehow sweet at the same time. Gravy floated on everything, except for the fresh strawberries and grapes that were nestled next to the pile of meatloaf. It tasted as delicious as it smelled and we ate it all. Warm, a bit tired now, but with full bellies, we enjoyed the rest of the band's final set. The fat lady once again came up to our table. She said that she was ready to close up, and asked if we had come by car or did she need to call us a taxicab to get home. We looked at her blankly, and my friend told her that we had walked there from her apartment on Whitaker Street. The woman sighed and shook her head; " You can't walk all that way now. It's 2 o'clock in the morning. I'll call a car for you." We were worried - we hadn't thought of getting back to the apartment, and we still hadn't paid for dinner. We asked how much we owed her for the dinner and coffee, and she surprised us by asking "Well, how much do you have?" "8 dollars", I said. She smiled and said that would be just about right. We handed her the 8 dollars but she took only two. "You'll need the rest for your cab ride home." She shooed us out the door and waited with us in the cold until we were ensconced in a battered taxi. She stood and watched as we were driven away, the old car bouncing heavily on the rutted road.
The very first time I went to Savannah was in 1989 to visit my best friend. She had moved there after school, accepting a minuscule salary, no benefits or job security for the chance to work in her chosen career. We went to River Street, the gem of that lady of the south, and walked for hours on cobblestone streets meandering under old oak trees. We talked as if our very lives depended on getting everything said in that one very short night...It was January, and it was cold. Realizing we were hungry, we searched for a restaurant or pub, but time had wisped away under cover of our happy voices, and so the only place open was the big hotel on the river. Practically schoolgirls still, we were hardly dressed for dinner at the Hyatt, but in we strolled, graciously accepting the small table squished near the kitchen door. We paused our conversation long enough to look at the menus, and realized in an instant that we were out of our league...between the two of us, we had about enough money for a bowl of soup, and that was only if we had enough guts to not leave a tip for the waiter. So, out we went, back up to the river, not really distressed at our situation. After all, we had survived many nights of insufficient funds, back at school. We found another open door; down a half set of stairs, set into the basement of one of the big tourist places. We walked in to a blast of heat, and music - the jazz being played by the musicians on the tiny stage was the kind that sets every hair bristling...the kind of music girls like us had only heard in the movies we had snuck in to see. A very fat woman eased herself off a stool in the corner and approached us. We asked in timid voices if they served food there, and if we were too late to order something to eat. The fat lady didn't say much, but she sort of nodded, and slid an arm around each of us, and shepherded us to a table, right in front of the piano. The musicians looked at us briefly, without interest. A man in shiny pants brought us some coffee - unasked for, but very much appreciated because we were both feeling cold. We sipped our coffee, pungent with some unknown liquor, and assessed our surroundings. We were in a very nice place. Remembering the Hyatt, we began to get a little nervous, but no one had even brought us a menu yet. We figured we would have enough for at least the two coffees, if we couldn't afford to eat. The band played, the few other customers - women in elegant dresses, the men in suits with narrow colorful ties- danced in the small clearing near the stage. We listened and watched, silenced by the warmth, the coffee, the music, the comfort we had found in this little place. After a half hour or so, we had still not been brought menus, but the fat lady appeared at the table with two plates, mounded high with delicious smelling food. We looked at one another; my friend and I worried we wouldn't be able to pay. We started to ask how much for the dinner, but she shushed us and put a plate in front of each of us, and waited for us to start eating. It was meatloaf, hot and tangy and ambrosial with mashed potatoes that were salty and somehow sweet at the same time. Gravy floated on everything, except for the fresh strawberries and grapes that were nestled next to the pile of meatloaf. It tasted as delicious as it smelled and we ate it all. Warm, a bit tired now, but with full bellies, we enjoyed the rest of the band's final set. The fat lady once again came up to our table. She said that she was ready to close up, and asked if we had come by car or did she need to call us a taxicab to get home. We looked at her blankly, and my friend told her that we had walked there from her apartment on Whitaker Street. The woman sighed and shook her head; " You can't walk all that way now. It's 2 o'clock in the morning. I'll call a car for you." We were worried - we hadn't thought of getting back to the apartment, and we still hadn't paid for dinner. We asked how much we owed her for the dinner and coffee, and she surprised us by asking "Well, how much do you have?" "8 dollars", I said. She smiled and said that would be just about right. We handed her the 8 dollars but she took only two. "You'll need the rest for your cab ride home." She shooed us out the door and waited with us in the cold until we were ensconced in a battered taxi. She stood and watched as we were driven away, the old car bouncing heavily on the rutted road.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Airplane!
Just the other day, a friend shot some video of his flight landing at a major US airport. The footage was spectacular, stunning, awe-inspiring and outright beautiful. The video was enhanced by his addition of wonderful, exciting music; something famous, I think. He put his artistic endeavor on his Facebook page and shared it with the world (or, at least people who are linked in as his FB buds). I watched his video and sighed - it was truly magical. Alas, when the screen showed his 'out the window' view of the planes very final descent, I had to look away - my stomach knotted, I began to perspire and I had an insane desire to run out of the room. Yes, you know my dirty secret - I am afraid of flying (Hah! That's putting it mildly!). And, it is TOTALLY a control thing with me. For years, I flew in tiny, laughably small planes, swooping over vast expanses of the southeastern US for my work. As long as I could reach over the pilot's shoulder and take charge of the aircraft at a seconds notice, I was fine. See, in my head, as long as I was watching the pilot and approving their every move, we were good. Case in point: Once, I was passenger in a puddle jumper that STALLED IN MID-FLIGHT. Did I panic when the dash light emblazoned with ENGINE STALL WARNING flashed on and off? Which I could plainly see because I was less than 2 feet away? Did the excruciatingly loud buzzer alerting us that the engine had stalled cause me duress? You betcha. But, I knew I could 'will' the pilot into fixing the situation, or 'yell' the pilot into fixing the situation, or if needed, SMACK the pilot 'upside his head' to get the situation fixed. And, if none of that worked, I could ruthlessly shove the pilot out from behind the controls, and I could take over; restart the engine and safely fly us to our destination. (cue applause: Yippee... Penny has once again saved the day!) Do I know how to fly even the least sophisticated airplane? Absolutely not. Hell, I can't even fly a kite. But you see, that's how I know I have control issues. Because if I am in a small plane, I'm okay. Whereas, if I am a passenger on a large jet, where I can not even SEE the pilot, much less SMACK them if they begin to screw up, I am seriously a mess. So, I don't know how to fix my control issue, but it's pretty bad and getting worse. The other day, my girlfriend was driving us to a restaurant for lunch and she took a wrong turn. It was all I could do to stop myself from smacking her 'upside the head'.
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