Klepto Mania
I'm starting to feel a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.
Why? Because M and I went out to get cupcakes and coffee on Wednesday (mmm... cupcakes)(if you aren't familiar with Cupcake Royale in Ballard, whose slogan is "Legalize Frostitution!", go there and eat everything in the store. now.) and on the walk back to my car, we passed a Tully's Coffee with a cardboard sign leaning against the front of the store that said "Why lie? I need caffine" (original spelling, natch). I decided that since nobody else was using it, I needed it. Then by my car we saw ANOTHER piece of cardboard that had a longer missive on it, something about being hungry and a vet and homeless and honestly it was a gigantic run-on mercy plea of the type that I never really believe anyways. So M took it and we added it to the stash. Upon stealing, we noticed that on the back of the sign was a long list of numbers, adding up to quite a healthy amount (almost $100!), so it apparently served double-duty as a calculator.
Now I'm feeling a little bad, since I can't seem to shake the notion that it might be kind of a bad thing to steal things from the homeless. Even if the things are their beggin' signs (maybe especially then? Depends on your politics).
So, to those two homeless people who are now missing their best pieces of cardboard - I'm sorry. I'm almost at the verge of buying some more cardboard, making them new signs (now, with correct spelling! Believable scenarios! Maybe little doodles in the corner for that artsy appeal!) and leaving them in Ballard for them to find. Except that I know that most homeless people are migratory, like a bird (a smelly, smelly, mumbling bird), and that the two that I deprived of their advertising are probably in a different neighborhood now. So I either get to comb the city, looking for a homeless vet with no sign and a "caffine" addict with no sign (won't that be easy?) or make enough signs to cover all the neighborhoods of Seattle with proper homeless-guy advertisement.
See all the trouble I get myself into for just wanting some stinkin' cupcakes!
But they ARE good, though.
mmmm.
vroom vroom vroom
My friend Lucy was an odd duck. She was a bit forgetful when it came to names and identities, so to simplify her life she decided that everything she owned would be named Sadie (it's a nice name, after all). Her dog, her rabbit, her truck, all of her friends - we'd just turn whenever we heard "Sadie!", certain that she'd forgotten our names again. Or, alternately, that her dog/rabbit/truck was about to attack us.
I made the mistake of asking her to help name my first car, a 1981 Chevrolet Sprint that was that odd tone between tan and gold, and that featured vinyl seats and a spider-web crack in the roof that my optimistic father decided wasn't the result of a rollover, but instead possibly from a bowling ball dropping mishap or having been driven by an NBA player.
Her name was Sadie, of course.
Sadie was the smallest car ever made. Driving it felt like the vehicular equivalent of streaking - my butt felt exposed and inches from the concrete, and the windows and windshield were close enough and tight enough to feel indecent. I'll never forget my first venture onto the freeway, where I had the spectacular misfortune of merging between two semi trucks with a THIRD in the fast lane. I could see underneath all three, and the close-up of all 16...32...48 (yes, I had to get my calculator. shush.) gigantic wheels spinning inches from my exposed little tin can almost made me swear off driving forever. Then I discovered that the lack of mass made Sadie's little three cylinders work like rocket jet packs and worked with her constantly changing wardrobe of dents to create the dorkiest hot rod racer in existence. My friend Patty had a Subaru Brat (southwest WA has some mighty fine rides, as you can see) and we'd see who could go the fastest from her freeway exit to her driveway, a straight shot past a dairy farm and park, and still make the sharp 90-degree turn into her gravel drive. It was a little over a mile total distance. I got up to 82 mph, which I think is still the record.
There was another good section of road in my hometown that went over a railroad track just as it crested a hill, creating a bump that, if taken at 60-65 mph, created a few feet of air and an incredibly satisfying bounce in the landing. I had a couple of younger brothers of a friend in the back seat that had refused to buckle up the entire trip, and had been calling me "MOM" for lecturing them. As we turned onto the road/jump, I sneaked a glance with their older sister in the front seat, who simply nodded and pulled her seat belt tight. With no warning to the little demons in the backseat, I sped up to 70+ and launched Sadie airborne for what seemed like hours. The kids were on the roof, floating like astronauts, and rebounded around the back half of the car like hyperactive ping-pong balls when we finally hit the road again. I had to pull over, we were laughing so hard (my friend and I - the boys were too busy threatening lawsuits to truly enjoy the ride).
We also abused poor Sadie when it came to her transportation skills. The 2-door hatchback was used every soccer practice to transport as many people as possible from the school to the field. The record, and I remember this because my little brother was wedged sideways in the 12-inch "trunk" space between the back seat and hatchback, was 8 people and two french horns. Sadie listed. Sadie developed a scraping sound, but we made it somehow across town and she forgave me enough to soldier on for another couple of years. I don't remember why I was carrying two french horns. Please don't ask.
My friends loved my car, I would lend her to just about anybody and didn't care about dents. She was light enough for two people to lift, which I loved since it meant that I never had to learn how to parallel park since my brother and I could just pick her up and move her. It also, unfortunately, meant that my highly resourceful friends could pick her up and move her, which resulted in many nights of "Where did I park?" turning into "How the hell did they get her up there?!".
For continuity's sake, my subsequent two cars were also named Sadie. If this gets confusing, just realize that you are anthropomorphizing vehicles anyways and that a little bit of abstract logic sometimes makes the world go 'round. And then name something you own Sadie.
She's okay, though the stitches will be in for another week and I'm going crazy missing her. I actually am realizing how sloppy I am, knowing that she cleans up after me. I made biscotti and had to sweep twice before the trail of ingredients was gone.
The owner also did pay the bills for the main visit, which was a relief since $400 isn't exactly money I have lying around at the moment. She sent a very curt letter with the check, saying that it was exactly as she had promised, and that this remits her obligation to me. I feel a little bad, I can't imagine how she feels knowing that her dogs were that brutal. But not too bad, as the brutality can't be something that just came out of the blue and after all, they are her responsibility to train and de-psychofy.
I like that word.
One Helluva Weekend
Yesterday I took Monkey to the park.
We played kick-ball, a little fetch, she wrestled around with a Chow mix for a while, and then after we'd been there about a half hour, a group of three new dogs came in. Monkey trotted over with tail wagging to say hi, and I half-watched from across the park as they surrounded her and started sniffing.
Monkey has a problem with being sniffed. As long as it’s her nose doing the work, she’s fine, but when other dogs get too personal with her she stiffens up and gets poofy. If it continues, she makes her mean face and will sometimes do the Cattle-dog jaw snap (never biting, she just clicks her jaw in the air as a warning). The final stage is a theatrical growl and a whirl away from the offender, usually running straight over to me since in reality the Monkey is a Chicken. I saw her go through the stages with the three new dogs, and started walking that direction when I heard the first jaw snap and the other dogs start to snarl. Then I saw the German Shepard mix, who outweighed Monkey by at least twenty pounds, jump up and put his paws around her head, biting into her neck and pulling her to the ground as the other two grabbed hold of her front paw and her side. I was running, screaming “LET HER GO! GET THEM OFF OF HER!!” while the dogs’ owner was grabbing at whatever she could get of her three balls of sudden aggression. By the time I’d gotten over, Monkey was on her back (as a good, submissive dog should be – it’s the canine version of crying “uncle” but in this case only left her offering up more targets) and the Pit Bull was yanking her front leg one way while the Shepard and the other mix were attacking her exposed abdomen. I kicked the Pit Bull hard in the nuts and made it let go, but couldn’t get the Shepard mix off. When his owner and I finally pried him loose (the third was off at that point, it wasn’t as attached as the others), Monkey rolled into a ball in the mud and I started yelling at the owner, demanding her name and asking everyone around (the entire park was there) where the nearest vet was. I got Monkey to stand up, and saw the inch-and-a-half diameter bloody hole in her flank, along with more blood along her stomach and leg. That was all I needed to see, I started shaking and headed to the park entrance. The dog owner said she would follow me, but the first place we went to was closed, so I ended up getting her contact information and heading off to an all-hours emergency vet across town.
We spent three hours at the vet. She got stitches in two places (the upper and lower teeth grips of the Shepard mix) with disgusting little straw-drains coming out and is shaved all along her abdomen and on her right front leg. There are puncture wounds everywhere, and she’s going crazy with the itching as they’re slowly healing over. I haven’t left her side since we left the vet, since part of her healing process is forcing her to leave her stitches alone and when I’m not there to personally tell her to stop licking, she has to wear a giant cone on her head. Most of the time in the past I’ve thought those things were hilarious, but when I had to put it on her last night and saw how traumatic it was for her, I just can’t laugh. She can’t move around very well in it, since my apartment is so tiny and the cone catches on everything. She can’t lay down with it on, since it catches on things on the way down and she’s already uncomfortable laying on her stitches and drains. I had to sleep last night, and thought that if I put the cone on and left her alone, she would find a way to lay down out of sheer exhaustion. I went to bed at 3 a.m., and when I looked again at 8 a.m., she was still sitting up in the same position I’d left her, staring dejectedly at the floor through that gigantic piece of plastic. I took it off and watched her sleep like a rock for the next four hours.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I go back to work tomorrow on an overtime schedule and can’t leave Monkey alone without putting her in the collar. I can’t bring her to work, and I can’t stand working for ten hours knowing that she’s sitting in one place, staring at the ground, unable to lie down or even walk around the apartment.
(Later) Yet again, my parents save the day! I just got back from Tacoma, where I handed off Monkey to the only caretakers I would trust her with while in this fragile condition. My dad has a light schedule this week while waiting for an electrical inspection and mom is off tomorrow, so they’re going to watch her and keep her with them so she doesn’t have to be in the cone except for at night. I’m guessing she’ll sleep most of the day since she won’t be able to in the evenings with the cone on. Thank God they’re willing to do this sort of thing, I was on the verge of bringing Monkey to work with me and keeping her in my car in the cone all day, since at least then I could let her out on my two breaks and at lunch. Nine hours trapped in the backseat is a bit much to ask of a dog, though. Plus then she would have had the cone on all day and night, and who knows when she would have gotten any sleep.
I miss her already. Good Lord, if I’m this attached to my dog, I’m going to be a total mess if I ever have kids!
On Stage
I've been watching "Napoleon Dynamite" almost daily since I bought it last week, and realizing that most of its allure for me (besides the apparently endless humor I find in his dramatic exhalations) is realizing that my high school experience wasn't all that far off from Napoleon's. I drew obsessively, with slightly more advanced shading than his but still the subjects weren't much better. I had a series of dresses that I designed with poufs and ruffles and models in dramatic poses holding flowers. I drew pegasuses (pegasi?) and unicorns and dragons. I dressed haphazardly, in styles ranging from hammer pants to capris with headbands. I wore stonewashed jeans.
But the biggest flashback comes when I see him decide to take the stage and singlehandedly save the day with his amazing dance movez. For some bizarre reason, when I entered high school and finally started to come out of my shyness, the first self-chosen step to my transformation was to immediately jump on stage and act. I had done church musicals in my past, but I still remember that my first audition (for Oklahoma!) had me almost wetting myself in fear. I convinced a friend of mine to come out and sing with me so my voice didn't stand out as much. Obviously, I didn't get the part - who would cast an actor who was afraid to be noticed?. But did I let my natural avoidance of the spotlight and fear of overt attention stop me? Good Lord I wish I had. I was finally cast the next year in a bit part for a musical called "Carnival" as a siamese twin. My twin was one of the school's cheerleaders, a good 3-4 inches taller than me and a completely different body type (I had at least 2 cup sizes on her). The only possible similarity was that our hair was both blonde, and eyes blue. We were connected by velcro, and embarrassment. Still, I had fun with the other actors and remember the carnie training fondly. We learned how to swallow fire, juggle (a little), ride a unicycle, and handle a 10-foot python named Khan. For those wanting to know how one handles a 10-foot python, the trick is to find where he/she pees out of (not as easy as it sounds) and avoid that area at all costs. Snake pee is one of the most disgusting liquids you will ever encounter in your life.
Another role was as Balin the Dwarf in our production of "The Hobbit". Yes, a tiny aged MALE mythical creature. I had a beard made of blue yarn and pillows that attempted to make me portly. We drew thick lines where we approximated wrinkles should be, and the other 10 or so high school girls cross-dressing with me all worked together to try and make our voices sound as deep as possible. I remember specifically one school assembly that we did as a preview to the show. I was rushing to the table along with my fellow dwarfettes and my friend Annemarie and I tried to sit on the same bench with our over-amplified behinds. I slipped in before she could get purchase, and unwillingly bumped her sideways off the bench and sprawled her on the floor with a very unmanly "eeep!". Her yarn wig slipped almost completely off, and we had to duck behind some fellow performers to realign her disguise (luckily that part was easy, as we were all padded out to elephantine proportions).
The next dramatic turn was one that signified the beginning of a troubling batch of possible typecasting in which I got three separate roles that were defined as "Crazy Mother". The high school one was a woman in "The Curious Savage" who imagined a rag doll was her lost son, and was perhaps the worst acting I have ever done. I didn't "get" the role at all, and lost many of the intended jokes with my confused delivery. I get chills thinking about one line that was supposed to cap a madcap scene and draw huge laughs. It was "Parcheesi! The Royal Game of India!". Come to think of it, I still don't get it. Every show I dreaded the moments leading up to the line, and no matter how I said it, NOBODY laughed. It was eerie. "Parcheesi" in itself is a funny word, deserving of at the very least a courtesy laugh from the old biddies that laughed at every OTHER unfunny moment. Yes I'm still bitter. Mostly because I spray painted my hair with white frost crap that didn't wash off for 3 shampoos and didn't even get a friggin' chuckle with my friggin' abstract board game humor.
Crazy Mother #2 was the Mom in "True West", another performance that I should have never gotten into. The only difficulty in that part (besides once again drawing wrinkles and spray frosting my hair) was that my sons were fellow actors in the program and the younger in particular was quite handsome. It's hard to yell at a boy you find attractive, no matter how many eyeliner wrinkles you try to hide underneath.
Crazy Mother #3 I turned down once I realized that was the role description. A girl's gotta draw a line somewhere, and I wasn't quite sure if they saw the beginnings of a crazy mother in me already or were trying to force my personality in that direction. Theatrical conspiracy, totally.
I also performed as:
"Grumpy Old Woman" in our theater club's pep assembly based off of Saturday Night Live. That one actually worked out pretty well, thanks to the practice at playing old people I'd had in previous plays.
"Announcer Voice" in a couple different skits in college. Thanks to radio training, I can out-smarm just about everybody. Plus this is the kind of acting I can do - OFFstage, in another room entirely.
"Smokey The Bear" and "Sparky The Fire Dog" in various parades in southwest WA. This was unfortunately part of the job when firefighting, and wearing those smelly, stuffy, sized-for-6'0"-men, costumes was a challenge. I stepped on at least a couple of kids while trying to manuever in my oversized bear/dog feet and widely spaced eye holes, and almost passed out during the Winlock Egg Days parade when the temperature got over 90 and my strategically placed ice packs had all melted. Still, that was some good actin' - again hiding from everyone, not being allowed to speak this time, and with the only required activity being a semi-manly wave and nod.
I think I'll build 2005 a cake or something.
The New Year's was very happily rung in sprawled on my couch with dog contentedly snoring besides me as I paused "Napoleon Dynamite" to watch the ball drop (on mute, so Regis wouldn't disturb my groove). I woke Monkey up with my Auld Lang Syneing, particularly since I sing loud when I don't know the words, and gave her a celebratory bacon snack to defeat her stink-eye. Good times were had by all.
Last night I went to a dinner served by Gloria and Celia (see "GLOOO-RIA" entry for more info on those two) and cracked up often at their bantering back and forth. Gloria was complaining at one point that Celia had never made her dal puuri (bread with yellow lentils baked in) and Celia said that she'd offered and Gloria always changed her mind whenever she started making it. Gloria came back with a largely nonsensical rambling excuse about how that couldn't be true (something about diets, riding the bus... sometimes I need a tape recorder). Celia grumbled like only a 4-foot-tall 90+ year-old Indian woman can and said "Some day I am just going to make the dal puuri and shove it down your throat." It's even better with the accent.
They also served Chandon champagne with mango nectar mixed in ("like a mimosa!") and red wine and a dessert with brandy sauce. Indian food with a buzz, what a great way to start off the new year!
Happy 2005!
