A day with Pickles and me

I think a lot about my beloved, dearly departed cat Pickles. Some of you who know me in real life had the distinct privilege of knowing the Divine Miss P. For everyone else, click on the image below for an idea of what she was like:

Pickles was unlike any other cat I’ve ever known. She was her own breed—a breed of One. Fiendishly smart, contrary, spoiled, overbearing, disdainful, and endlessly lovable.

I’d like to share a little of what our days together were like. Below is an example of a typical Saturday for us. The dialogue has been altered for creative purposes, but the events are all true.

4:00am
I’m sleeping.

Pickles:  Bored.
Me:  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Pickles:  BORED.
Me:  Zzzzzz–sngh?
Pickles:  BORED! BORED! BORED! BORED! I’M BORED!!!!!
Me:  What the fuck? I was sleeping!
Pickles:  You were boring me. You will entertain me now.
Me:  It’s 4 o’clock in the morning.
Pickles:  I fail to see your point. You will entertain me now.
Me:  I’m not entertaining you now. I’m going back to sleep.
Pickles:  Suit yourself. But one day I’ll smother you. You’ll be sorry.

10:0am
Pickles is sitting on my lap. She peeks in my coffee cup and wrinkles her nose.

Pickles:  Is that coffee?
Me:  Yes.
Pickles:  I don’t care for coffee.
Me:  I know. We go through this every morning.
Pickles:  You insist on drinking coffee even though you know I don’t care for it.
Me:  I’m not asking you to drink it.
Pickles:  (sniff sniff)  What is that smell? It’s foul.
Me:  It’s toast.
Pickles:  NOXIOUS VAPORS!!!  YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL ME!!!
Me:  Sigh. We do this every day, Pickles. It’s toast. It won’t kill you.
Pickles:  VILE!!!  ASPHYXIATING!!!!
Me:  Oh stop, you’re being a drama queen.
Pickles:  You should cook whatever you made yesterday. That smelled delicious.
Me:  I didn’t cook anything yesterday.
Pickles:  Yes you did. That blue liquid you had in the kitchen. It smelled delicious.
Me:  That was Windex.
Pickles:  I don’t care what the recipe is called. I want some.
Me:  You’re so weird. You don’t like food smells but you like cleaning products.
Pickles:  Don’t judge.

This was how Pickles looked most of the time: annoyed.

2:00pm
I’m about to go out to run errands. I can’t find one of my flip flops.

Me:  Have you seen my other flip flop?
Pickles:  No.
Me:  It was right there. You must have seen it.
Pickles:  I haven’t seen it. (Pickles shifts position, revealing what appears to be part of a flip flop.)
Me:  What are you sitting on?
Pickles:  I’m not sitting on anything.
Me:  Is that my flip flop?
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Yes it is. That’s my flip flop.
Pickles:  No it isn’t.
Me:  Pickles, I can SEE it. Get up, I need it.
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Get up. Come on.
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Don’t make me take it from you.
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Come on, give it to me. (Tries to slide shoe out from under Pickles. She takes a swing at me and her claw snags on my arm.) Hey! Look, you drew blood! Give me my shoe, you rotten cat.
Pickles:  No. I’m keeping it.
Me:  Sigh. (Puts on sneakers instead)

5:00pm
I’m in the shower. Pickles is curled up on the bed, sleeping.

Pickles:  WAIL!!  BLOODY MURDER!!!!!!  HORROR!!
Me:  (running out of the bathroom and almost slipping and cracking my head open)  What??? What happened??? What’s wrong???
Pickles:  (sitting calmly on the bed) I want to go under the covers.
Me:  That’s IT? That’s your emergency? It sounded like your tail was being hacked off, the way you were carrying on.
Pickles:  I want to go under the covers. You will lift up the covers so I can go in now.
Me:  You know very well how to go under the covers yourself. You do it when I’m not home.
Pickles:  But you’re home now.
Me:  So what? You can still do it yourself.
Pickles:  Not when you’re home. When you’re home, you do things for me. That’s how it works. So lift up the covers and let me in. But if you don’t make an interesting enough tent, I will come right back out and you will have to try again. And stop dripping on me.
Me:  Sigh. (Lifts covers so Pickles can go under them. After three attempts, a satisfactory tent is created and Pickles is reasonably content.)

This sort of thing might explain why Pickles looked annoyed all the time. 

9:00pm
I have music playing. Pickles is sprawled on the couch. Shirley Bassey’s “Goldfinger” comes on.

Pickles:  This song is too loud.
Me:  It’s the same volume as all the other songs.
Pickles:  I don’t like it. Turn it off.
Me:  Maybe you’ll like this one. (Plays “Diamonds Are Forever.”)
Pickles:  No. I hate this one too.
Me:  What is it with you and Shirley Bassey??
Pickles:  I don’t like her voice. Turn it off.
Me:  No, I like this song.
Pickles:  TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF!!!!
Me:  Okay, okay. Relax.
Pickles:  Yes. This song is acceptable.
Me:  There’s nothing playing right now.
Pickles:  Yes.

Midnight
Pickles is taking up a disproportionate amount of space on the bed.

Me:  Time for bed.
Pickles:  Whatever.
Me:  Move over, you’re in my way.
Pickles:  Why can’t you sleep around me?
Me:  Because it’s not comfortable.
Pickles:  Yes it is.
Me:  I can’t curl up into a perfect circle the way you can.
Pickles:  Too bad for you.
Me:  Come on, shove over or I’ll move you myself.
Pickles:  (Moving) I was going to move anyway.
Me:  Good night.
Pickles:  Good night.

12:15am

Pickles:  Stop that.
Me:  Stop what? I’m not doing anything.
Pickles:  You’re in my area.
Me:  I am not in your area.
Pickles:  Look at your arm. It’s on my blanket.
Me:  So what? It’s not in your way.
Pickles:  It’s on my blanket.
Me:  Big deal. You drape your tail over me half the time and I don’t get all bent out of shape about it. Or how about when you sleep on my head?
Pickles:  That’s different.
Me:  How is that different?
Pickles:  Because it’s me.
Me:  That’s not an answer.
Pickles:  Yes it is.
Me:  (long sigh)  Fine. I’ll move my arm. Is that better?
Pickles:  I suppose.
Me:  Good night.
Pickles:  Good night.

12:30am
Pickles comes over and curls up against me.

Me:  What is it?
Pickles:  Nothing.
Me:  You’re right up against me, you know.
Pickles:  I know. I was bored with my blanket and wanted to lie over here instead, that’s all.
Me:  I see. Okay. Good night.
Pickles:  Good night.

12:35am
Pickles rubs her face against mine, purring loudly.

Me:  What’s all this about?
Pickles:  I’m—my cheeks are itchy. Yes. I’m just using you to scratch them, that’s all.
Me:  Is that purring? You’re purring.
Pickles:  No I’m not.
Me:  Haaaa, you’re purring.
Pickles:  Shut up and go to sleep.

12:40am
Pickles rests her head in my palm.

Me:  You have your head in my hand, you know.
Pickles:  Just in case my cheeks get itchy again, that’s all.
Me:  Mmm hmm. Good thinking. (Kisses her on the head)
Pickles:  Stop that. (Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)
Me:  Good night, little Pickles.
Pickles:  Good night, Mommy.

She was the best cat ever.

Television is good for you

I love television.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  From my earliest childhood, with  Sesame Street, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Captain Kangaroo, The Electric Company (the original, not that bullshit remake), Zoom (the original, not that bullshit remake), and a zillion cartoons, that big box has been a huge part of my life.

A lot of buzzkills argue that too much television is unhealthy.  My reply to them is, “Suck it.”  I learned to count to 20 in Spanish thanks to Sesame Street.  Schoolhouse Rock taught me about the parts of speech, and I can still sing the preamble to the Constitution.  And raise your hand if, like me, you learned to twirl your arms from watching Bernadette on Zoom.  Now tell me that trick hasn’t held you in good stead all these years.

I have learned much from TV shows over the years.  I’ve also drawn very important conclusions from my recent TV watching habits.  I’d like to share a few of them with you.

• Life insurance companies should automatically report to the police anyone who takes out extra policies on their spouses.   Per 48 Hours Mystery, Dateline, and everything else that runs on the ID Channel, this should be a no-brainer.  If you take out an expensive policy, you may as well be wearing a sandwich board that says, “I’m about to commit murder!!”  So just go ahead and report these folks to the police and save them some legwork.  (Note to Mr. Weebles:  That million-dollar policy I just took out on you is in NO WAY related to this.)
• Similarly, people with Crazy Eyes should be summarily reported to the police. Check out the perps featured on the ID Channel.  They ALL have Crazy Eyes.  I don’t care what profilers and psychologists say—ocular creepiness is the most reliable indicator of criminal intent.

These are Crazy Eyes.

These are not Crazy Eyes.

• No matter what day or time it is, some version of Law & Order is always on.  ALWAYS.  I find this oddly comforting.
• Any man who tried to call me “Baby girl” would get the asskicking of a lifetime.  Except for Derek Morgan on Criminal Minds.
• There are a LOT of aliens, chupacabras, sasquatches, and other mysterious creatures around us.  Be careful out there.
• Most ghost hunters are obnoxious dickwads.  They walk around allegedly haunted places trying to taunt the spirits by yelling, “Show yourself!!”  If I were a ghost, I’d scare these idiots so badly that they’d need diapers for the rest of their lives.  Just because you’re talking to dead people doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have good manners.

Surely, my friends, you have also gleaned crucial learnings from your TV viewing.  Please share.

I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore

I’m infuriated by how things are at the moment.  Politicians who support legislation that suppresses women’s rights.  Corporate officers who maintain their own profits—and those of their shareholders—by cutting jobs left and right and manipulating the financial system at our expense.  Religious zealots who would drag us all into a new Dark Age if they had their way.  The destruction of the environment across the globe.  Violence against women, children, and animals.  I could go on and on and on.

Social and political problems are nothing new.  But I’m so fed up with how the Powers That Be are failing to address them despite the wishes of the general public.  Look at how the Senate rejected the bill that would require background checks prior to gun purchases.  Public support for gun control is at a record high, yet these fuckwads still voted against this measure.  Women make up 50% of the workforce, yet the Equal Rights Amendment remains unratified, the glass ceiling is still firmly in place, and misogynist douchebags are as vocal as ever.  Despite the number of Americans who expressed their disgust during the recent fiscal cliff talks, Republicans and Democrats couldn’t work together to find solutions to our economic difficulties because they were too busy having a dick-measuring contest.

Carl von Clausewitz, the famous military strategist, said, “War is a continuation of policy by other means.”  I believe its inverse is also true: policy is a continuation of war by other means.

I realize that I’m overdramatizing and oversimplifying much of this.  But you get the idea, hopefully.

We can protest, sign petitions, write letters, boycott, and try to vote shady politicians out of office.  But there’s not much hope of success; corporations enjoy “personhood,” politicians are beholden to lobbyists more than to constituents, and companies don’t care about consumers until their bottom lines are adversely affected.

Typically, petitions are effective only when small, specific goals are involved.  A petition to keep one animal from being euthanized, for instance, can be successful; a petition to abolish wholesale animal killing won’t be.  Although I like how in the UK they have e-petitions, where petitions that get more than 100,000 signatures are considered for debate in the House of Commons.  There’s no guarantee that a petition with 100,000 names will be chosen, but it’s an interesting way for British citizens to get their voices heard. [Note: Since writing this, I've learned that the US has a similar thing in place---I suppose I didn't know this because our politicians seem hellbent on remaining deaf to us  Color me shocked.]

Protests can help to shine the spotlight on problems, but in themselves they don’t change anything.  Occupy Wall Street was—and still is—a vital voice for the 99% of us who are getting shafted by the 1%.  But nothing in corporate America has really improved.  Corporate leaders and shareholders are still making money hand over fist while houses are still in foreclosure and the job market continues to languish.  And to date, not one brokerage CEO has been sent to jail for his part in destroying the financial market.

Writing letters to your representative or senator?  One constituent voicing displeasure with a certain policy isn’t going to make much of a difference, unfortunately.  Same with boycotting certain retailers or other companies.  What’s one less consumer to a franchise or a multi-national corporation?  Nothing, really.

Voting idiots out of office can be effective, but government is like a hydra—a multi-headed clusterfuck.  You cut one idiot out, there will surely be two more to take his or her place.

Negative publicity (or what I like to call “public shaming”) can sometimes serve as an impetus for change.  Just a few weeks ago, Disney was slammed for its “I Need a Hero” t-shirts for girls.  News of these shirts spread like wildfire, sparking multiple online petitions and news stories.  Shortly afterwards, Disney removed those shirts from their website.  It’s hard to know whether they would have lost a lot of revenue if they hadn’t—I suspect they wouldn’t have—but it was refreshing to see that corporations can respond to public sentiment and do the right thing.  There are other examples of the power of the consumer backlash, like the New Coke debacle and the Tropicana branding fiasco.  But they largely involved products, not policies.

It often takes years, even generations, for sea changes in attitudes and practices to occur.  At times it takes acts of civil disobedience (e.g., Rosa Parks, the Woolworth’s sit-ins) or rioting (e.g., the Stonewall Riots) to get the ball rolling.  But those daring, drastic acts aren’t ones that most of us have the cojones for.

Power and money are the two things most likely to influence people and organizations to change.  As long as their current practices are lucrative and/or keep them in power, they won’t have any reason to change the status quo.

In one of my favorite acts of civil disobedience, loss of both power and money led to a policy change.  In 1989, Margaret Thatcher instituted the Poll Tax, which set off a series of riots in London, and more importantly, it inspired a massive non-payment campaign.  An estimated 20-30% of the British public refused to pay the tax, and it was abolished by Thatcher’s successor, John Major.  Such protests can succeed because of the sheer number of people involved; what were they going to do, throw all of those people in jail?

So what can we do?  We can write blog posts and use Twitter and Facebook to broadcast information about the injustices we see around us.  And I’m not talking about the impassioned-but-utterly-futile “Share this status if you think child abuse is wrong!” posts on Facebook.  Social media can be immensely helpful in spreading negative publicity, raising awareness, and promoting thought-provoking dialog.  But individually, we can do only so much.  (But if a blog post alone could generate change, then this post would have worked wonders.)

I don’t want to be powerless anymore.  I’m tired of sitting here sputtering with impotent rage.  I want to ACT.  The old saying goes, “Think global, act local.”  Today, with people, countries, and economies being so inter-dependent, we can think globally and act locally AND globally.  I want to make a genuine, tangible difference.  I bet a lot of you do as well.  Now we just have to figure out how to go about it.

Sit Down & Shut Up: Volume II

Welcome, dear ones, to the latest installment of Sit Down & Shut Up, in which the Magnificent™ Le Clown and I help you with life’s pressing challenges.  Our inaugural column was a huge success and we look forward to assisting you once again.

Today, we turn to the subjects of love and sex—two of the greatest and most powerful forces on earth.  Gandhi said, “Where there is love there is life.”  Nietzsche: “Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil.”  And from the great philosopher Steve Martin: “I believe that sex is the most beautiful, natural, and wholesome thing that money can buy.”

If you are plagued by problems regarding love and/or sex (and who isn’t?), we invite you to ask your question below.  As always, we are here to serve.

Here’s your diploma ‘cuz you’ve been SCHOOLED

I considered making the title of this post “Ohhhhhh SNAP!” or “Awwwww DIP!!!” but this title felt a little more mature.

Some of you may recall this post, in which I talked about coming up with a great, pithy line but the troglodytes at my workplace didn’t get it.  It was less than satisfying.

Today’s discourse is on snotty comebacks.  Usually I think of them about 20 minutes after the fact and I kick myself for not coming up with them sooner.  Every once in a while, though, the gods smile upon me and I think of the right thing to say at just the right time.

For example, when I was in high school (yeah, I was snotty back then too), some friends and I were talking to this guy who was sort of obnoxious.  One of my friends wasn’t in the mood for his antics and she told him he was a jackass.  He turned to me and said, “What’s her problem?  You guys have never called me anything like that before.”  And I replied, “Not to your face, anyway.”  BURN!

Then there was the time I was having dinner in a nice restaurant with a friend.  A couple with a screaming child (he was maybe 2 years old) was two tables away.  The parents paid no attention and made no effort to comfort their little boy, and the wails became higher and more ear-splitting as the evening went on.  To be fair, it wasn’t the kid’s fault—he never should have been subjected to a 2+ hour meal at a place like that.  And it wasn’t his fault that his parents were inattentive fucks.  When the family finally left, they passed our table.  My friend loudly proclaimed, “Thank God they’re finally leaving.”  The mother, presumably thinking she would patronize us and shame us into submission, stopped and snipped, “Oh, I know, you’re really suffering.  Kids are such a pain, right??”  I smiled. “Not all kids.  Just yours.”  BURN!

Then there was the time I was at my local pet food shop.  It was a small space with little room to maneuver.  On this particular day, I was joined in the store by a shrieking harpy and her doormat boyfriend/husband.  She bitched nonstop about anything and everything, and stood around blocking the entire fucking store.  No matter where I was, she was in my way.  And she took umbrage at my efforts to get past her.  Mind you, I did say “Excuse me.”  If she hadn’t been so busy yattering away, perhaps she might have heard me.  Instead, she muttered “Bitch” just loud enough for me to hear.  I looked at her, rolled my eyes and calmly said, “You’re so boring.”  An unconventional response, but one that I suspected would drive her apeshit.  And it did.  BURN!!

Now I’d like to close with one of my all-time favorites, which wasn’t a burn but a great line nonetheless:

When I was in college, a bunch of us got into a stuffed animal fight, hurling teddy bears and other plush toys at each other (yeah, I know, but give me a break, we were freshmen).  One of my friends sustained a direct hit with a bunny.  She cried, “I’ve been killed by a Gund!!”

And I said, “Gunds don’t kill people.  People kill people.”

I’m still patting myself on the back for that one.

A non-Valentine

I hate Valentine’s Day.  Always have.  When I was single, I looked at happy couples, men buying flowers, and women carrying flowers, and it turned my blood to bile.  I hated them all.  I was sickly green with envy.  It would eat at me until I wanted nothing more than to recreate the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, except with a lot more carnage.  Cupid could take those arrows and shove them up his chubby little ass.

No love songs played in my house.  It was The Smiths, The Cure, Elvis Costello… any gloomy, angry, or depressing songs were okay.  After endless dating disasters and unhealthy relationships, I resigned myself to being one of those bitter, cranky, single New York women who always wore black, lived with her cat, and had regular threesomes with Ben & Jerry.

Then Mr. Weebles came along.

Who am I kidding, I’m still bitter and cranky, I still wear black, I still have cats, and although the threesomes aren’t so regular anymore, Ben & Jerry and I are still friends with benefits.

Mr. Weebles hates Valentine’s Day too.  When we first started dating, he warned me that he didn’t like the forced sentiment imposed by a Hallmark Holiday.  Fine, I said.  We’ll do the opposite of something Valentine-ish.  So instead of lovey-dovey gestures and fancy dinners, we celebrate Valentine’s Day at the least romantic venue of all:  Hooters.  Because nothing says Be My Valentine quite like cute girls in skimpy outfits, curly fries, and ESPN blaring.

Mr. Weebles is a modest guy.  If you’ve read this, you know this about him.  He doesn’t dig attention or grandiose gestures.  So, honey, if you’re reading this, tough shit.

Our good friend Meizac (Meizac and Mr. Weebles are friends too) posted a song on Facebook this morning—”Dead Sea” by the Lumineers.  I hadn’t heard it before so I looked up the lyrics.  There were two lines in particular that killed me:

You’ll never sink when you are with me

Honey can’t you see I was born to be your Dead Sea

This is how I feel.  Dude, you know that as long as I’m alive, I will never, ever, let you sink.  I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you.  I love you with every fiber of my being, and I would do anything and everything for you.  You were my missing puzzle piece.  Thank you so much for finding me.  Happy February 11th.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I need a few boxes of tissues.

What I’ve learned from RuPaul’s Drag Race

I love drag queens.  I love their over-the-top fabulousness.  They’re great performers, they’re fierce, and they strut their stuff in heels higher than any I’ve ever worn in my life.  I don’t know any drag queens personally but if I did, I’d be a drag hag, big time.

I wish I could be a drag queen myself.  Kind of like in Victor Victoria—a woman posing as a man posing as a woman.  I wouldn’t even need padding because I’ve already got it goin’ on.  I’ve already thought of some possible names for my drag persona: Miss Demeanor, Helena Handbasket, Luscious LaFleur, Tempest O’Toole, and Ola Moore (it makes sense if you say it out loud).  And I can lip sync like a boss.  But I realize that the whole point with drag queens is that they’re men in drag.  So I guess my career as a famous queen will have to wait until I reincarnate as a guy.

Anyway, I’ve learned a lot by watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.  Each season you get to know more about the queens and their backgrounds, and I can’t begin to guess at how difficult it must be to face the kinds of challenges they’ve faced—coming out, getting into the drag scene, struggling to be and feel accepted.  That’s tough stuff.  They’ve experienced far more adversity than I ever have, and I admire them.

One of the things I love about the show is that RuPaul, bless her, encourages all the ladies to love themselves and embrace everything that makes each of them special.  Regardless of their height, weight, and looks, they work with what they’ve got.  Many of them talk about how when they’re on stage, they feel beautiful and fantastic.  And boy, do they WERK IT.

This is Roxxxy. I’d kill to have an ass like this.

My favorite queen this season is Roxxxy Andrews.  I love her style and her attitude.  I think she’s voluptuous, sassy, and gorgeous.  She looks great and she has a sexy walk.

It occurs to me that we biological gals can and should take a few pointers from our drag sisters.  Literally every woman I know has agonized over her self-worth in one way or another.  We’ve all felt “less than.”  Maybe because someone told us we were and we believed it.  Or because society implies that we are if we’re not stick figures with straight blonde hair and big boobs.  Or because we compare ourselves unfavorably with others.  Fuck that.  Can I get an amen?  Yes.  Thank you.  Fuck that.  Amen.

So I’m taking a tip from RuPaul and the girls.  I’m embracing my inner drag queen.  I’m going to take what I’ve got and WERK IT.  If Roxxxy can do it, so can I.

Except maybe not in such high heels.

The baby squirrel

It happened on my way home from work one summer night.  I was around the corner from my building.  There were about eight people crowded around a spot on the sidewalk.  I went to investigate.  They were all staring at this little creature, no more than 2 inches long, barely moving.  I couldn’t tell what it was.  A baby rat?  A baby mouse?  Then I heard someone say it was a baby squirrel who had fallen from his nest.  Apparently the squirrel’s nest was on a fire escape several floors above us.

Everyone was just standing there.  Nobody was doing anything to help this poor little thing.  Some evil bastard suggested that someone should stomp on it to put it out of its misery.  I didn’t know what to do but I was furious at how everyone just stood there, staring.  I wanted to scream at all of them:  “What the fuck is wrong with all of you??  This is a living creature who needs help!!”  I don’t remember what I actually said, but I yelled something as I shoved people out of my way to get to the squirrel.  I had some tissues with me and I gently picked him up and wrapped him up in the tissues to keep him warm.  He was so light.  His eyes weren’t open but he moved every so often.

So there I was with this injured baby squirrel.  Now what?  I frantically searched for a working pay phone (this was 1999, pre-cell phone days).  When I found one, I called the ASPCA.  I spoke with a very nice woman who apologetically explained that they didn’t accept squirrels.  I asked if she could suggest somewhere else, but she didn’t know of a place that might be able to help.  By this time I was almost hysterical and I was crying.  I didn’t want this baby squirrel to die.

Then I saw a woman who lived in my building.  She said, “Oh, you know who helps squirrels?  Bernie Goetz.”  Bernie Goetz???  The Subway Vigilante??  The guy who shot some would-be muggers on the subway back in 1984?  My neighbor said Goetz lived nearby and that he was known for rescuing squirrels.  Who knew?  I needed to get his phone number.  Back to the phone booth.

While I was on the line with the operator, I noticed that the baby squirrel had stopped moving.  I looked more closely at him and realized that he was gone.  I thanked the operator and hung up.

I suppose I wasn’t really surprised that the little guy died.  I don’t know how far he fell, but it was far enough that his injuries would have been severe.  I had hoped to get help to him in time, but I couldn’t.  At least he wasn’t alone at the end.  Even if it was a giant creature holding him in a tissue in her hand, he wasn’t alone.

I walked over to Washington Square Park and found a nice tree.  I dug a small hole and buried him.  I’m so sorry, little squirrel.  I wanted so badly to save you.  I’m so sorry you fell from your nest.  I hope you didn’t suffer too much.  I tried, I really did.

I said a little prayer over the tiny grave and cried all the way home.

Simply A-Meizing

January is a big month for birthdays on the blogosphere.

Today happens to be the birthday of one of my blogging besties, Meizac.  I met her through Le Clown (who else?) when she was cursed lucky enough to be chosen as his Personal Assistant for the week.  We started following each other’s blogs, then we became Facebook friends, and then we became real friends—even though we have yet to meet in person.

For those of you who follow Meizac, you know she is a tough broad in so many ways.  For starters, she could kick my ass in her sleep.  She boxes, she does kettlebells, and she did Tough Mudder last year.  If you don’t know what Tough Mudder is, picture the Marines’ physical training but with louder outfits.  Seriously, look at this shit.  She’s completely badass.

She’s in graduate school.  She teaches.  She’s the mother of two insanely precocious and adorable kids.  She cooks and bakes.  She’s Wonder Woman With Curly Hair, for fuck’s sake.  And throughout her life, she’s slogged through more mud, jumped over more hurdles, and clawed her way through more obstacles than anyone who isn’t a Navy SEAL.  If you read her blog, you know what I mean.  To go through everything she’s gone through, and to come out so phenomenally on the other side, is a true testament to the stuff she’s made of.  She’s an extraordinarily beautiful woman in every way.  And she’s much funnier than she realizes.  If I didn’t love her I’d hate her guts.

For my birthday, she made a video of herself doing 45 snatches (one of the unfortunately but hilariously named kettlebell moves) while wearing Jesus Jello labels all over herself.  I can’t possibly top that.  So I hope this post will do.

Happy birthday, my Curly Sister.  I am honored and privileged to be your friend.

Mysterious windows

One of my favorite books of all time is Time and Again by Jack Finney.  (He’s the guy who wrote Invasion of the Body Snatchers, by the way.)   Time and Again is a science-fictionish historical mystery set in New York City.  I say “science-fictionish” because it’s set in both 1970 and 1882.

My very well-loved copy of one of my very favorite books.

Finney set up a compelling time-travel approach: you can take any structure or locale that has remained unaltered and use it as a way of going back to an earlier time during its existence.  Time travelers must first immerse themselves in the everyday life of their destination era—the culture, current events, attitude, etc—as a way of “loosening” the mind’s ties to the current day.  Finney used the Dakota apartment building in Manhattan as a portal between 1970 and 1882.  The way it’s explained in the book, you can almost believe it could work.  I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about other places that would serve as appropriate portals.  I could use the Empire State Building to go to 1931.  The Brooklyn Bridge could take me to 1883.  Certain historic houses could get me as far back as the 1650s and 1660s.  You get the idea.

My favorite part of the story is when the protagonist, Si Morley, arrives in 1882.  He boards a Fifth Avenue coach and looks at another passenger:

…I sat watching him from the corner of my eye, tense, excited, almost frightened at my first really close look at a living human being of the year 1882….This was no motionless brown-and-white face in an ancient photograph….There he sat, a living breathing man with those memories in his head.

I still remember when I first read these lines.  I had goosebumps.  Because I get this.  I so get this.  It’s not about witnessing a historic event or meeting a famous historical figure.  It’s about being a part of that time, even briefly.  Like when you first visit another country:  “Look!  Actual Italians/Indians/Australians/Peruvians!  And this stuff looks just like in the photos!  Hey, they really talk like that!”  Except you would be visiting, say, 1862:  “Hey, Lincoln is president and right now they’re all living through everything I’ve read about!!”  It would blow my mind to see and interact with 19th-century people as live, Technicolor humans and not as static black and white relics.  To walk through streets with the old buildings when they were brand new.  And before they were torn down.

If you’ve read this or this, you know I’ve had some strange experiences with people who are no longer with us in corporeal form.  I’ve freaked out a few of you (you know who you are) by being able to sense things without your telling me.  So I wasn’t surprised when something else peculiar happened a few months ago…

I was on a train in New Jersey.  We were about to stop in Newark—the tracks go over the Passaic River and into the station.  I was looking out the window as the train passed over the railroad bridge. For a second or so, I saw the scene not as it is now, but as it might have looked in the 1830s or 1840s.  It was fleeting but I remember it vividly.  Lots of trees, low small buildings and houses, and boats.  What I recall most distinctly is a mill with a waterwheel near the bridge.  When I got home I looked for lithographs or maps of the area during that time, but no dice.  If I did a thorough archival search I might find some but it doesn’t seem worth the effort.  Maybe I imagined the whole thing, maybe I didn’t.  I’ll probably never know.

All I know is, I hope it happens again and that I’ll be able to verify it.  I would love nothing more than to peek through one of those mysterious windows of time again.  Until then, maybe I’ll entertain myself by thinking of going to Flushing Meadows Park to see the 1939 World’s Fair.