Month: March 2005 (Page 4 of 5)

The apartment building jacked up my rent and so instead of luxuriating in my break-in-able first floor apartment, we moved me up to the 8th floor. (Yes, there was an elevator. It was built, I believe, in 1812 in honor of the War, and Overture, and had lost all its charm, except when it didn’t work, and then it looked peachy compared to the stairwell.)

The Next in the Bat Story Series: We had returned from a big road trip through Iowa, visiting my freshly-divorced parents, separately, of course, so that was fraught with all sorts of excitement and nerves. I will tell you what I remember the most about that trip? James gamely ate potato salad at my mother’s apartment, despite being a person who does not eat mayo-based salads, and then when the a/c went out in my car and we were forced to drive in the summer heat with the windows down, we coped by waving wildly out the window at EVERY SINGLE VEHICLE we passed on the two-lane highway. Anyone waving back made us giddy with delight. But it was hot, and it’s a long drive and so we got back to my apartment and collapsed. The next morning, I trailed behind James towards the kitchen, desperate for coffee, and not wearing glasses. He was making the coffee, and I stood in the dining room, blinking. Something in the corner caught my eye. Way up high. A dark blob on the crown molding.
“James?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s that up there? I don’t have my glasses on.”
James: shuffling, looks up at the corner in question.
“Oh. That’s a bat. Leave it alone and try not to wake it up.”

WHA HA HA HA HA WHAT? Well that was not an adequate solution or answer. I commenced with the Freaking Out Over the Bat Presence. “GET IT OUT OF HERE!” Screw coffee, a live bat in the house is enough to make me get my glasses on and move at speeds ordinarily associated with 2 in the afternoon.

James got his trout net out and stood on a stepstool. Unfortunately, the crown molding posed a problem. And at that moment, the bat woke up, and began hissing at James, showing a lower set of icky teeth.
“Just leave the room, Jennifer.”
And the bat was, unfortunately, sent to the Big Batsoteria in the Sky.

I love bats, when they’re outside and catching bugs and skeeters and flopping about, with their sonar and amazing dips and dives. I’m not afraid of them at all – but when they’re inside, I turn into a shrieking basket case, and that, dear internet, is what happened on an even grander scale with the NEXT Bat Story.

And yes, I did eventually figure out where the hell they were getting in.

“Stupid risks make life worth living.”
You love adventure. You’re quite spontaneous,
and will do anything for a little thrill.
You’re certainly not boring. However, sometimes
you get a bit carried away, and could wind up
doing something incredibly stupid and die. Tone
it down a bit.

Which Advice Quote said by Homer Simpson are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

I figure it’s time to start sharing the Bat stories. Oh yes! I have bat stories. Do you have bat stories? Do you like soft rock the way WE like soft rock? (sorry, some bad 90’s ad for a cd compilation crept in there.)

Let’s start with Bat #1. This one made it out alive, and I’m still convinced, to this day, he flew off and told the entire Bat Colony about me, and that’s why my particular plague of bats continued. I was living in the 1st floor apartment off the Plaza, and had been burgled a month or so earlier. So my paranoia was still on “High”. My bedroom window faced the driveway that went to the basement garage, so it was elevated almost to a second-story level, but that didn’t always leave me feeling safer. One night I woke up and looked at the window sill by my bed. My window was open a couple inches.

There were black-gloved fingers fluttering back and forth along the sill! HOLY SHIT! In the time it took me to get air back into my lungs, it became clear, even without my glasses, that it wasn’t actually a piano-practicing burglar, but the wings of a bat fluttering about. And now? Now it was climbing up the INSIDE of the screen, which meant it would be able to get INSIDE my bedroom through the gap in the window at the top. Apparently the screen had a gap in it. Zoiks, Batman! I’m still not exactly clear on what happened, or how this happened, but as the bat climbed higher, I knew I had to do something. It was almost at the top of the gap. So I slammed the window down. EEEK. I caught a little bat toe in between the two window frames. Did you know bats can scream? They can. EEK EEK EEK! I collapsed and went back to sleep. And the next morning? There was no dead bat, anywhere to be found. I felt a little relief, because I’m basically pro-bat, and I didn’t want to kill the thing – I just didn’t want it in my bedroom.

Just a little smidge of blood on the window and I’m sure if I could read Batglish, it scrawled out, “We’ll be back for you later, bitch.” But I don’t know Batglish, and so I thought, “Whew! That’s the end of that!”

So naive.

Sometimes, it’s the small stuff that’s just very difficult. For instance, right now? I seem to be going through a phase in which I cannot feed myself with regular utensils. Yesterday, we went to Thai 2000 for their Sunday brunch – and let me just pause to say there is nothing like this brunch. And you must say “Thai 200!” in slightly inflected tones with urgency every time you say, “THAI 2000!”. Because that is how we do it. Their brunch is exceptionally authentic, and yet also caters to the 5 Anglo people who go there, unaccompanied by someone of Asian ethnicity. I do draw the line at tripe soup and the beef soup which has been flavored with anise, because licorice beef broth and giant hard-boiled eggs and leathery mushrooms in soup is not my cup o’ – well – soup. But the mussels? On all that is sacred, I swear, these mussels are the best mussels in the city.

But I digress, as usual. I tell you, I am one of those people who start out on a journey and then end up in the ditch, trying to find that shiny object that caught the sunlight. I emerge 12 hours later with many chigger bites, some bits of tin foil in my hair and some garbage I picked up, and a new journey idea. So. Back to it.

I could not feed myself a bite of food yesterday without some portion of it flying on to my shirt, dropping onto the table, etc. I apparently had pad thai sauce all over my mouth. I was beginning to feel like a special needs person, who should not be allowed to use a fork, for fear of quadruple-piercing my nose with a vigorous jab towards my open mouth, and finding myself off by three inches, again. Usually these episodes go away, but today at lunch, I sat at my desk eating a gyro from the deli, and I am not kidding about this, I am wearing tzatziki sauce and gyro juice and every single f’n bite meant something was falling down the side of my face, into my cleavage, onto my desk, onto my shirt, and I’m seriously surprised I didn’t just eat the blasted napkin by accident, as I kept wrapping my pita with a napkin, trying to stem the fountain of flotsam cascading onto me. I went through 6 or 7 napkins, too.

I AM A MESS! I need to be hosed off. I need my co-ordination back! Lord knows I wasn’t given a generous amount to begin with, and if this keeps up my hypochondria will kick in, and I’ll be convinced I have a brain tumor (TU-mah) or some degenerative disease I never even thought to bring up at the doctor’s office this morning. GOOD GRIEF. I must now go wash the tzatziki sauce off my body. Give me a very wide berth, I may trip and crush you.

On Saturday, the doggie girls went to the vet. They were VERY pissed at me, having been promised a spa morning, and instead were victims of an evil bait & switch. Polly weighed in at 42 pounds, Suzy at 84. Both were pronounced in excellent health, despite their roundworms (damn feral cat poo) and now they’re on a regimen that includes regular de-worming on top of their heartworm dosing. They were relieved to leave, and our bank account was just, well, relieved of money. I confess, I gave them an extra milkbone each from the free bowl. Sheesharoo it costs some serious coin to take the dogs to the vet! My friend Shelley was my helper, and we ran a few errands afterwards, the highlight being a stop at Sheridan’s Custard, where they give you a free pupcone if you bring your dog. Polly and Suzy LOVED the pupcones, except for the fact they’re SO SMALL and where is the NEXT ONE?

Then I had my doctor appointment this morning, nothing like starting Monday with an ill-fitting paper shirt & a disposable speculum. Oh yeah, and getting blood drawn. I always request the baby needles, it may take a little longer but it doesn’t hurt as much. I was very impressed with my phlebotomist, she was rapido and got the needle in without any problem. I showered her with compliments, because one of the last times I got my blood drawn (at a different location) the person kept exclaiming, “Your veins are SO RUBBERY!” as she proceeded to poke the needle up, down & around under my skin. That is one visual I never need to see again, because even though I’m pretty sturdy and try not to be wimpy about stuff, I had to say “Hey now. Maybe we should try one of those baby needles?” while looking away and trying not to pass out. I think I even gave her the Hairy Eyeball, which is supposed to strike fear into the hearts of every living thing but mostly makes me look funny.

So all of this means that the ladies of the house have been pronounced healthy & only one of us really needs to start exercising more, so dammit Suzy, get on that treadmill!

I got a Diet Coke at McD’s afterwards, and they screwed up – I knew instantly that it was regular Coke, which always tastes good for the first few swigs? (especially if you’re hungover, but I wasn’t.) Then, as a Diet Coke purist, it just gets to be too much. Have you ever been in those little boutiques? Where they have 800 scents and everything’s sweet and heady and a bit overwhelming? Well, if you could take that environment and make it into a beverage, then that’s what drinking regular Coke tastes like to me. I gave up. As I came into work, I scammed a Diet Coke from a friend who was setting up for a client meeting. Yay! Normalcy is returning.

Knitting update: I’ve got two buttonhole bags ready to felt, and will follow up with before & after pictures tomorrow! I started Anouk from Knitty.com, and then there’s still the Folly. I feel a surge of energy comin’ for the Folly. It must be done while there’s still a remote chance I can wear it before next winter…..

This is the last in the “Denied Driver’s License/Learning to Drive” series. I hope you’ve been more entertained by it than I was at the time (grumble, grumble – do you ever lose that feeling of being 16 and totally hosebagged by your parents?)

I had to wait until I turned 18 to get my license. And then? There was no Judy (mom) or Rick (dad) to dare say stop. They couldn’t. It was my Iowa-God-Given Right at that point. For some crazy reason, though, I didn’t get my license until the middle of winter. (My birthday’s in July. Shop early, shop often!) Probably because I didn’t have a car, or access to one. But then I found out I could be a student driver, and I would HAVE to have a license to do my independent internship in Des Moines the following semester. Being a student driver meant going to pick up visitors at the airport for my college. It paid pretty well, and it meant you could DRIVE to stores along the way instead of, say, riding your bike. So, I ended up borrowing my friend Jon’s car, and my friend Ellen accompanied me to the testing station (because you had to have a licensed driver with you, in case you FAILED.)
We’d had a small-ish ice storm the night before. Fab-u. We get inside, and there’s a handful of people waiting for the driving test. Some dickwad stands up in front of us all like a drill sergeant and proceeds to shout out the rules and pitfalls of the driving test. “YOU WILL FAIL IF AT ANY TIME – BLAH BLAH BLAH -” but what broke through my fogbank of nervousness was “WE HAVE ICE ON THE ROADS BUT YOU WILL BE TESTED AS THOUGH THE STREETS ARE CLEAR AND IF YOU SLIDE THROUGH AN INTERSECTION THAT WILL CONSTITUTE FAILURE TO HAVE CONTROL OF THE VEHICLE AND YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY FAIL.”
eep! wild eep!
So I get paired up with a pink-cheeked corn-fed tester named Penny. Penny’s wearing a full body snowsuit. We go out to my borrowed car, and I am petrified of everything, it’s not my car, there’s ice everywhere, holy crapcakes batman, this is what I’ve spent years in battle with my parents over, and it could all swirl the drain over a little ice storm.
We commence with the driving test. I kept my hands on the wheel in such a way that my left thumb and index finger constantly formed the letter “L”, so I wouldn’t have a complete break with reality if she told me “turn left” and I errantly turned right. I did slide a little on one hill, and lost some points, but it wasn’t enough for immediate failure, I thought, as we continued driving around town, signalling, turning, doo-de-doo. I was dreading the three-point turn test, or parallel parking, having heard some horror stories from classmates about their experiences. Ten minutes into my driving test, I notice that Penny is shifting about in her seat. Two minutes after that, she says, “That’s enough. Let’s go back to the testing station.” I’m all “holy fuck, I’ve totally failed, that slip through the four-way stop doomed me.” We get back. Get out. She says, “You scored a 97. I took 3 points off for sliding a little at the stop sign. You passed. Take this in and get your picture taken.”
I’m ecstatic! YIPPEE! No parallel parking! And I passed! Awesome! I collect my license and go back to the car, with my friend. I’m chirping and chattering, so very excited. We start to drive back to campus.
Ellen says, “Can you turn the heat down? I’m boilin’ up in here.”

It was like a crack of lightening on my forehead. Move over, Harry Potter. I’d had the heat blasting the entire way over, because it was cold and we’d scraped & it was quite chilly. I was so nervous and worried, I didn’t touch a single thing when we got back in for the test. I thought my own warmth was nerves. Everything fell into logical place. Corn-fed Penny. In her snowsuit. Bright red cheeks. Trickle of sweat when we got out of the car. Cutting the test short. Passing me with flying colors.

BRILLIANT!

I’d baked her into submission.

However, lest you think I am lacking in parallel-parking skills? I can parallel park like a mo-fo. Spots that look like you’d have to pick the car UP and lower it in with a crane? No problem. Might take me a second attempt, but I can get it in. It’s really almost dazzling, if I may be so egotistical. Many a co-worker has emerged from my car, stunned and amazed I fit the car where I did. So. I’m jus’ sayin’. I may hit a lot of potholes (I do live in Missouri) because I’m short and can’t see ’em comin’, but I would relish a parallel parking Olympics. Winter or Summer, baby, I’d bring home the gold.

Yarn porn & seed porn. We’re just that crazy.

And, it doesn’t even arrive discreetly packaged in a brown wrapper.

My Porn 

James’ Porn 

James has pointed out, several times this week, that last year he planted a big ol’ bed of asparagus, FOR ME, and it was the hardest thing he put in the garden, because the holes had to be really deep. (and of course you can’t even get asparagus the first year you plant it.) So despite it not being HIS favorite veggie, he planted me a great big bunch, because he loves me and he loves to garden.

He is also developing an overwhelming obsession with growing giant pumpkins. He is currently germinating seeds from parent pumpkins that weighed 200#-750#. Perhaps we’ll get one big enough to build into a car, and we’ll drive that until it starts to sag on the sides! (How do you get insurance on that vehicle? Collision would be a bitch. “Hi, uh, American Family? I just drove my pumpkin to work and got broadsided by a Ford Festiva, and uh, it’s all in pieces on the road. Can we salvage for pies? Yes, I’ll hold. No, I’m not Cinderella.”)

File this under “Tourism Information.” I’m only going to tell you, Internet World, that if you like strawberry margaritas (frozen) and you have grown used to the idea that they are foo-foo and not terribly strong? Then you need to salsa dance your Sir Mix-A-Lot ass down to Rudy’s Tenampa Taqueria on Westport Road in Kansas City, and get yo’ ass one of their ‘ritas. Because you, my dear internet friend, will re-write your definition of “foo-foo”. And you will eat a lot of chips.

Let’s all sing the Tequila song now, shall we?

da dot dadadada da da.
da dot dadadada da.
da dot dadadada da da.
dadada dadada
TEQUILA!

In honor of Martha Stewart’s release from prison, my friend Cindy & I are going to have “Martharitas” & Mexican food for lunch today.

Raise your glass & toast our domestic diva’s impending freedom!

Yes, she’s a bit wonkers. And no, it’s not realistic, like, how she decorates those damned cookies, or makes an entire Christmas village out of paper, balsa and boar bristles. But seeing those unrealistic things is still part of the fun, and there are some things worth doing/making/baking/crafting.

I will say that even though I think she was persecuted more because she’s a woman, this whole experience has hopefully given her a greater sense of humility and an appreciation for how the “other 92%” live. When I went to see her introduce her new furniture line at NE Furniture Mart last year, I got her “Weddings” book signed, and I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “We’re behind you 100%.” And the look she gave me really showed the person inside, I think she was honestly grateful. She said “Thank you,” and just looked really hard at me, but hard with appreciation. At least that’s how I saw it. Maybe I was just drunk on being in her atmosphere. Drunk on Martharitas!