As I looked back over this blog, I was struck by a few things--my
sense of humor, but also my bitterness, my stasis, and the fact that I've been bitching about my job for more than seven years now. I have a different job as of 2013 but it's the same. I'm still working
as a programmer, which is terribly non-native and painful to me, and
somehow I have failed to pull myself out.
I wonder how this happened, and yet I think I know.
Once, back when I was in college and in my hometown visiting for a few days, two girlfriends and I decided we wanted to go dancing. It was a Wednesday night, not exactly prime bar scene time. One of my friends preferred country music (I did not), but it was well past her turn to decide where we went, so we ended up at a big empty western bar with a dance floor, and a disco ball, and strobe lights bouncing off of the gleaming wood floors. It was a decent place by all accounts. Not my kind of place, but clean and non-threatening.
They put on pop songs between the top 40 country. We drank a few drinks and danced a few dances. A handful of people came and went, mostly just sitting at the bar, watching for a while and making their exits. Two cowboys wandered in--the only western get-ups we saw that night. One was young, the other older with gray peaking out from under his cowboy hat and salting his moustache. We noticed them; they were dressed to be noticed after all. But we ignored them. We were dancing and drinking and trying to make a good time amongst ourselves.
After several minutes watching us dance, they wandered over and asked us out onto the floor. Now note again--two of them; three of us. And one of them way too old. We were hesitant to say the least.
I don't remember exactly how it happened, but smiles were smiled, negotiations were made, and my friends said yes. I made my excuses about not knowing how to dance country and stayed behind. Those cowboys danced my friend in graceful waltzing circles around the floor. After the song was over, they accompanied them back to the table and the younger one took my hand and led me out despite my protests. If you've ever danced with someone who knows how to lead, you'll know what happened next. I was floating out there--moving in wide, graceful circles despite my missteps and hesitations.
The older gentleman had traded partners and he and my friend danced around us, the both of us sweeping across the dance floor and around each other. At the end of the song, they younger man led me back to the table and tipped his hat, and the gentlemen, who were father and son as it turned out, went back to the bar and gave us back to our girls' night.
The three of us had another round of beers, danced a few more dances on our own, and the gentlemen approached again. This time, they found more willing, less guarded partners.
We danced like that off and on for the rest of the evening, the two men changing partners, ensuring that we all got to dance, leaving us for several minutes, and returning to sweep us across the floor again.
At one point, dancing with the father, I broke the rhythm of the dance after a misstep. In truth, it was the third or fourth time in a row I'd done so. Over the loud music, he leaned down and spoke in my ear: "I see how you dance out there when you're listening to your music, all free. Here you tense up every time you take a little wrong step. You got to relax. You can't live your life like that."
I know, I said. I know. But my tensing didn't subside. Sometimes a perfect stranger takes you for just a few spins on the dance floor and nails the essential problem you will fight with all your life. It's just that obvious.
The gentlemen left after a couple of hours, tipping their hats, saying their thank yous and making their exits. They didn't buy us drinks; they didn't make any passes. They just took us out dancing.
So, 2014, let's see if this is the year to learn how to relax and enjoy the dance, missteps and all.
Wednesday, January 01, 2014
Friday, September 12, 2008
Giving a cat liquid meds
Speak soothingly while smooshing cat between stomach and surface of table. Use thumb and forefinger to force jaws open. Place end of dropper as far back as possible in cat’s throat without actually touching any surface that might make cat gag. Quickly squirt out cold, bubble-gum flavored antibiotic liquid (first dose of 2). When cat’s gag reflex kicks in and forces dropper out, squirt half of liquid down cat’s chin and onto table and knock over remaining antibiotic whose convenient dropper-cap suddenly seems less convenient. Quickly force cat’s jaws shut to hold in what remains. Stroke cat’s throat when not busy removing clinging pointy claws from arm flesh or righting bottle of antibiotic. Attempt to gently stroke back in pink drool bubbles that have begun to emerge from cat’s mouth. Inadvertently cover cat with pink drool when cat begins to struggle and hands must double as forcible restraint devices. Smear cat’s front paws through spilled liquid. Curse…in a soothing tone.
Repeat. Try to temporarily ignore pink drool streams emerging from cat’s mouth. Take calculated look at sink and roll of paper towels halfway across room. Make a lunge for it. Notice pink stains on freshly pressed (and ever so hairy) white shirt as cat leaps from table and runs to safety under bed, shaking head all the while and scattering drooly pink antibiotic across furniture, walls, floors, fireplaces and other items you foolishly failed to cover in plastic sheeting. Spend several minutes attempting to lure cat out from under bed. Notice the time and give up. Clean up quickly and race to workplace. Use full roll of scotch tape to remove most hair from shirt. Slump in chair and/or carry around notepad to mask pink stains. Return home and discover pink panther paw-prints leading from bedroom to computer. Notice paw-prints on keyboard and mouse. Wonder what cat was using the computer for. Try not to think about the fact that “hit men” came up in recent saved searches just before “tuna delivery.”
Repeat.
Foolishly believe you’ll have your revenge later when you bathe the cat.
Repeat. Try to temporarily ignore pink drool streams emerging from cat’s mouth. Take calculated look at sink and roll of paper towels halfway across room. Make a lunge for it. Notice pink stains on freshly pressed (and ever so hairy) white shirt as cat leaps from table and runs to safety under bed, shaking head all the while and scattering drooly pink antibiotic across furniture, walls, floors, fireplaces and other items you foolishly failed to cover in plastic sheeting. Spend several minutes attempting to lure cat out from under bed. Notice the time and give up. Clean up quickly and race to workplace. Use full roll of scotch tape to remove most hair from shirt. Slump in chair and/or carry around notepad to mask pink stains. Return home and discover pink panther paw-prints leading from bedroom to computer. Notice paw-prints on keyboard and mouse. Wonder what cat was using the computer for. Try not to think about the fact that “hit men” came up in recent saved searches just before “tuna delivery.”
Repeat.
Foolishly believe you’ll have your revenge later when you bathe the cat.
Monday, February 11, 2008
How to traumatize small children with a piñata
I went to my niece's 6th birthday party on Saturday. My brother and his wife are big fans of the party piñata, and it's a fun tradition. Little kids heaving a stick (ever-so-lightly) against bamboo shelled papier mache candy-holding goodness. Julia's party had a puppy theme this year, so they ended up w/ a Blue's Clues piñata or something vaguely resembling that.
I was talking to one of the guests' moms as my brother was stringing up ol' Blue. She was Irish--not sure how many years in this country--but fresh enough to still have a fresh viewpoint. We were talking about the more disturbing aspects of the piñata tradition. For her, small children pounding away at a star or something like that was no biggie; small children pounding away at a favorite cartoon character, screaming "Kill it, kill it!" on the other hand...okay, yeah, maybe a little twisted. Of course, she had a sense of humor about it, just also the slightest, um, discomfort.
So we'd only just begun to psychoanalyze and deconstruct the finer points of the white hegemony co-opting Mexican tradition and the history of southern aggression (i.e. I was about to say: "Well, we stole it from Mexico, so I guess you have to blame them, but, um, that sounds bad, er-uh...)
Luckily, I didn't have a chance to open my mouth, so everything went just fine. The pinata was strung and ready to go, the kids were gathered and herded outside into a line, little kids first, bigger kids last. Everyone under the age of 9 or so gets to take a whack.
Ol' Blue proved a worthy adversary. Whoever built him made him well. Finally, after much swinging and cries of "Stop! Little toddler Susie's wandered up right behind you!" and all the assorted drama that go with piñata-destroying, a 7-year-old got a solid enough hit in to just bust the gut. I few pieces of candy dropped. One or two more thwacks and Blue was good to go. My brother did that thing that piñata-wranglers do and began to yank the rope to shake out the candy--a gesture usually followed by showers of sweetness, greedy scrambling and squeals of delight.
But this day, it was not to be.
Whoever made Blue's body did a great job. Whoever made his neck...eh, little bit of a slacker. After just a shake or two, Blue's head popped off his body and shot up as the body descended, finally tangling in the rope about 4 feet above the body and lolling there helplessly.
In fairness, this didn't actually traumatize anyone. Mostly people were just trying not to pee themselves from laughter. My brother in-law, in-law (my sister-in-law's brother) did threaten to send my brother the therapy bills for his son. I was happy to see the Irish woman also doubled over with tears coming out of her eyes (in a good way).
And all was captured on camera. Ah, it's good to have some home movies that you can really look forward to.
I was talking to one of the guests' moms as my brother was stringing up ol' Blue. She was Irish--not sure how many years in this country--but fresh enough to still have a fresh viewpoint. We were talking about the more disturbing aspects of the piñata tradition. For her, small children pounding away at a star or something like that was no biggie; small children pounding away at a favorite cartoon character, screaming "Kill it, kill it!" on the other hand...okay, yeah, maybe a little twisted. Of course, she had a sense of humor about it, just also the slightest, um, discomfort.
So we'd only just begun to psychoanalyze and deconstruct the finer points of the white hegemony co-opting Mexican tradition and the history of southern aggression (i.e. I was about to say: "Well, we stole it from Mexico, so I guess you have to blame them, but, um, that sounds bad, er-uh...)
Luckily, I didn't have a chance to open my mouth, so everything went just fine. The pinata was strung and ready to go, the kids were gathered and herded outside into a line, little kids first, bigger kids last. Everyone under the age of 9 or so gets to take a whack.
Ol' Blue proved a worthy adversary. Whoever built him made him well. Finally, after much swinging and cries of "Stop! Little toddler Susie's wandered up right behind you!" and all the assorted drama that go with piñata-destroying, a 7-year-old got a solid enough hit in to just bust the gut. I few pieces of candy dropped. One or two more thwacks and Blue was good to go. My brother did that thing that piñata-wranglers do and began to yank the rope to shake out the candy--a gesture usually followed by showers of sweetness, greedy scrambling and squeals of delight.
But this day, it was not to be.
Whoever made Blue's body did a great job. Whoever made his neck...eh, little bit of a slacker. After just a shake or two, Blue's head popped off his body and shot up as the body descended, finally tangling in the rope about 4 feet above the body and lolling there helplessly.
In fairness, this didn't actually traumatize anyone. Mostly people were just trying not to pee themselves from laughter. My brother in-law, in-law (my sister-in-law's brother) did threaten to send my brother the therapy bills for his son. I was happy to see the Irish woman also doubled over with tears coming out of her eyes (in a good way).
And all was captured on camera. Ah, it's good to have some home movies that you can really look forward to.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
How to get 19 meals out of a $4 chicken
So, money is tight. Not a shocker, being a single home-owner in Austin who works for the university and has student loans to pay off. Lots of them. It's the financial kiss of death.
So I bought this lovely fat chicken from the HEB the other day, on sale, and out of some mix of boredom and culinary curiosity, decided to see how far I could take it while still having tasty, more or less healthy meals. Warning: I'm a little bit of a food snob. Not bad, less picky than some people I know, but almost incapable of eating anything that comes out of a can, and utterly in love w/ cooking from scratch.
Day 1: Roast chicken with rosemary and lemon, stuffed with potatoes spiked with the same plus capers:
Verdict: Seriously yum.
Day 3 (weekend): Some people would advise you to bung the whole lot by now. I'm saying, I've still got 1 to 2 days before things get into anything like a danger zone, so.... Chicken salad with celery and sweet onion and just a touch of smoked paprika.
Verdict: Yum.
Day 3 continued: Through the entire mostly de-meated carcass of the bird (bones, but not the skin) into a pot of water and cook it out until you have a nice broth. Get what little bitty bits of the meat that you can off the bones. Chuck the bones, let the remaining lot chill in the fridge and skim the fat off the top. Reheat, add veggies (a potato, a carrot, some onion, a few green beans, happened to have some ginger, so let's see how that works w/ the flavors already baked into the bird) and finish up the cooking.
Verdict: Not bad and sort of comforting in the way home-made chicken soup would be. Skip the ginger next time. A decent experiment, but not a good fit.
I have to say my verdicts are increasingly dropping in gusto, but I'm still in the survivable mode here. Better than my college days living off of jar-sauce pasta and black beans and rice.
Meanwhile, my moneyed friends bought a deep fryer and made carrot chips dusted with salt and just a touch of smoked paprika, which ranks right up there among the tastiest fried things I've ever eaten. We decided it's the best vegan bacon substitute there could ever be, you know, if you like that kind of thing. Smoked paprika is a gift from the gods. Deep fryers, a gift from the devil. I love the political perks of the corporeal life. Always someone trying to win you over.
So I bought this lovely fat chicken from the HEB the other day, on sale, and out of some mix of boredom and culinary curiosity, decided to see how far I could take it while still having tasty, more or less healthy meals. Warning: I'm a little bit of a food snob. Not bad, less picky than some people I know, but almost incapable of eating anything that comes out of a can, and utterly in love w/ cooking from scratch.
Day 1: Roast chicken with rosemary and lemon, stuffed with potatoes spiked with the same plus capers:
Verdict: Seriously yum.
Day 3 (weekend): Some people would advise you to bung the whole lot by now. I'm saying, I've still got 1 to 2 days before things get into anything like a danger zone, so.... Chicken salad with celery and sweet onion and just a touch of smoked paprika.
Verdict: Yum.
Day 3 continued: Through the entire mostly de-meated carcass of the bird (bones, but not the skin) into a pot of water and cook it out until you have a nice broth. Get what little bitty bits of the meat that you can off the bones. Chuck the bones, let the remaining lot chill in the fridge and skim the fat off the top. Reheat, add veggies (a potato, a carrot, some onion, a few green beans, happened to have some ginger, so let's see how that works w/ the flavors already baked into the bird) and finish up the cooking.
Verdict: Not bad and sort of comforting in the way home-made chicken soup would be. Skip the ginger next time. A decent experiment, but not a good fit.
I have to say my verdicts are increasingly dropping in gusto, but I'm still in the survivable mode here. Better than my college days living off of jar-sauce pasta and black beans and rice.
Meanwhile, my moneyed friends bought a deep fryer and made carrot chips dusted with salt and just a touch of smoked paprika, which ranks right up there among the tastiest fried things I've ever eaten. We decided it's the best vegan bacon substitute there could ever be, you know, if you like that kind of thing. Smoked paprika is a gift from the gods. Deep fryers, a gift from the devil. I love the political perks of the corporeal life. Always someone trying to win you over.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
why am I not writing?
Subtitle "Why am I whining instead of doing something?"
So I've had these bits and pieces of stories that I think are A story waiting to come together and I can't seem to get re-started. Prior to "the bad spring/summer" when work ate every aspect of my life for several months, I had started in on something and was feeling pretty good about it. It was a shitty first draft, but a shitty first draft is the first step on the road to...successively less shitty drafts. If you're a good girl and very patient and keep drafting and eat all your vegetables, you might even end up with something readable in the end. It can happen.
Anyway, it was going to be a challenge. All I had was an image, and that always means the story is going to progress a bit more slowly until the characters start to show their personalities and motivations and situations. Something about a woman who missed her ghost. She'd only just realized it was gone, that she'd neglected it, that she couldn't seem to find it. (Okay, there are obvious psychoanalytic connections here w/ me and my muse or whatever. Nonetheless, something about it feels good and right and I swear by all that is good and holy not to write directly about my own life. Far too boring...).
I started to get the character before work came in with its gaping maw, but haven't been able to go back to the story since. Then a couple of weeks ago, I just got the sense that this story was about betrayal. Self-betrayal? Betrayal of others? Usually the two go hand in hand. So now that's simmering in the back of my head. Goes w/ the ghost image I had. There's an obvious betrayal there. (Stop squirming, you psychoanalysts in the audience. I see it. I do.)
So I think I'm ready to start writing again now. It's funny, and perhaps reasonable, that 5 to 6 months of having to work serious overtime might burn you out and turn you into a couch potato--more like a slightly burned, bitter-tasting hash brown, really--for a few months. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself on that front. Anyway, I think it's time. My loyalty to work has been, um, challenged lately, and it's time to be loyal to myself again. I've been serving a fickle master for too long. So instead I'll follow my own interests a bit more aggressively for a little while.
Much less fickle. Mmm.
So I've had these bits and pieces of stories that I think are A story waiting to come together and I can't seem to get re-started. Prior to "the bad spring/summer" when work ate every aspect of my life for several months, I had started in on something and was feeling pretty good about it. It was a shitty first draft, but a shitty first draft is the first step on the road to...successively less shitty drafts. If you're a good girl and very patient and keep drafting and eat all your vegetables, you might even end up with something readable in the end. It can happen.
Anyway, it was going to be a challenge. All I had was an image, and that always means the story is going to progress a bit more slowly until the characters start to show their personalities and motivations and situations. Something about a woman who missed her ghost. She'd only just realized it was gone, that she'd neglected it, that she couldn't seem to find it. (Okay, there are obvious psychoanalytic connections here w/ me and my muse or whatever. Nonetheless, something about it feels good and right and I swear by all that is good and holy not to write directly about my own life. Far too boring...).
I started to get the character before work came in with its gaping maw, but haven't been able to go back to the story since. Then a couple of weeks ago, I just got the sense that this story was about betrayal. Self-betrayal? Betrayal of others? Usually the two go hand in hand. So now that's simmering in the back of my head. Goes w/ the ghost image I had. There's an obvious betrayal there. (Stop squirming, you psychoanalysts in the audience. I see it. I do.)
So I think I'm ready to start writing again now. It's funny, and perhaps reasonable, that 5 to 6 months of having to work serious overtime might burn you out and turn you into a couch potato--more like a slightly burned, bitter-tasting hash brown, really--for a few months. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself on that front. Anyway, I think it's time. My loyalty to work has been, um, challenged lately, and it's time to be loyal to myself again. I've been serving a fickle master for too long. So instead I'll follow my own interests a bit more aggressively for a little while.
Much less fickle. Mmm.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Could there be Xanax?
So holiday time is upon us again. Last year (a mere 5 or 6 posts ago, how sad), a peeing cat rescued me from Christmas. This year, I go forward, into the family hearth as it were.
My brother, his wife and 3 little ones are staying in Austin to do the family Christmas rather than engaging in the madness of cramming 13 people clown-car style into a house built for 5. This is a house, I should note, w/ seriously fucked up plumbing. You have to use a bucket to flush the toilet 4 out of 5 times, running the washing machine causes sewage to back up into the bathtub and the cold water taps ricochet from "off" back to "on" requiring attention, concentration, multiple twists back to the off position and serious under-the-breath cursing so as not to scare the children or have them piously imply that you have that certain je ne sais quoi that suggests a sinner racing headlong into the fiery pits of hell.
Luckily, you are staying in "The Freezing Back Bedroom of Death" again, where any extra warmth (save your sister's body sleeping next to you) is welcome. Hellfire can be appealing, little ones. Yes, sometimes it can.
Ah well, at least there will be Christmas morning. Mother's cat will run about the house in a panic, chased by a turd that magically grew around the end of a piece of tinsel that now flies out taut behind him, only half-excreted from his sweet fuzzly-wuzzly little bunghole.
God bless the fuzzly-wuzzly ones. I am, and ever shall be, thankful for the joy and laughter they bring.
My brother, his wife and 3 little ones are staying in Austin to do the family Christmas rather than engaging in the madness of cramming 13 people clown-car style into a house built for 5. This is a house, I should note, w/ seriously fucked up plumbing. You have to use a bucket to flush the toilet 4 out of 5 times, running the washing machine causes sewage to back up into the bathtub and the cold water taps ricochet from "off" back to "on" requiring attention, concentration, multiple twists back to the off position and serious under-the-breath cursing so as not to scare the children or have them piously imply that you have that certain je ne sais quoi that suggests a sinner racing headlong into the fiery pits of hell.
Luckily, you are staying in "The Freezing Back Bedroom of Death" again, where any extra warmth (save your sister's body sleeping next to you) is welcome. Hellfire can be appealing, little ones. Yes, sometimes it can.
Ah well, at least there will be Christmas morning. Mother's cat will run about the house in a panic, chased by a turd that magically grew around the end of a piece of tinsel that now flies out taut behind him, only half-excreted from his sweet fuzzly-wuzzly little bunghole.
God bless the fuzzly-wuzzly ones. I am, and ever shall be, thankful for the joy and laughter they bring.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Spring Breaking
The wonderful thing about early spring is that it's the time you can get out on the weekends and really, really work on that garden until your back is ready to snap in half. That's what I've been doing for the past two weekends. Moving dirt from one end of my yard to another to keep my house's foundation from bending slowly in half and adding stone pathways over said dirt and planting tomatoes (please, dear god, let there be tomatoes) and shrubs and such.
In the process, I've verified that my crazy neighbor Brian hates me. I'm not sure why, but then again, he's crazy. I suspected it a few months ago when he decided to stop speaking to me--not returning my neighborly hellos, refusing to look me in the face, etc. Which of course made me all the more determined to figure out what was going on. I have an anti-survival instinct that way.
So the grand confrontation went like this:
Me, happily digging a hole for a pretty, pretty new pineapple guava plant. I hear said neighbor's gate squeak open right beside me. He can't avoid me. He's right there: Hi Brian--hey, just wanted to let you know I'm going to be working on the fence at some point, so if you hear some noise out here, it's me.
Brian, who has been raking leaves or killing cats or something in his back yard: Mmph.
Me, laying on sweet voice. Going to get to the bottom of this: So, how's it going?
Said Neighbor: Terri..mra..blah..rible.
Me: What?
Brian: Terrible.
Me, going into "talking to a crazy person, let's make use of our counseling training, finally" mode: Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What's wrong?
Brian, in a rather nasty tone: You name it.
Me, trying to assess my part in this: I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?
Brian, in an increasingly sneering nasty tone: I seriously doubt that.
Me, realizing I ain't getting to the bottom of anything except possibly a shallow hole in the woods if I keep this up: Well, sorry to hear that. (dig, dig, dig)
(Dexter the cat enters stage left and wander into Brian's garage while I continue brandishing my big protective shovel that could put a dent in someone's head if it needed to. I both fear and hope for a nice spray of cat urine.)
Said Neighbor: Mrahrara. (Goes into garage.) Scat, cat. Scat! (Shoots nasty glare out in the world's general direction, closes garage door.)
So I go on with my little life of planting things and laying down stone pathways and making a peaceful little earth-mother oasis of dirt and tranquility, and I try to ignore this. The unfortunate part of being a homeowner is, of course, that one is stuck. I must live beside and have semi-hostile non-interaction with Mr. Crazy Pants for the next several years. And I'm really not good at that. I am highly trained in the art of making peace with crazy people. It's what I do. I either make peace or, in my failure, grow frustrated and escalate into all-out war. And, as peace seems impossible and we're in the height of growing season, this leads to several interesting passive-aggressive possibilities.
It is with some embarrassment that I admit I started into the phylum plantae warfare dork thing by buying a plant that's supposed to ward off evil and planting it on the side of the house. No, I don't believe in this stuff, but, well, every little symbolic middle finger gesture I can direct over there helps me feel better.
Next, I'll consider sewing some rue (pretty, but downright itchy if you're allergic. I appear not to be too terribly.) right outside the fence near his side of the house. Might cause a rash or two and some good gnashing of teeth. I've also considered a nice border of thorny, thorny roses. Not sunny enough, though. I'll have to think on that one.
Finally, I've encouraged the cat to go pee in his yard. I'm not sure this is happening, but I am sure that the cat is enjoying peeing in all the nice, newly loosened and moved, highly diggable dirt in my yard. You'd think I'd have learned from all those you-reap-what-you-sew lessons in cheesy horror movies and Buffy re-runs.
So when you see me walking down the street in the next few weeks itching my rashy arms, my legs covered in small punctures (but what a great skirt!) and you notice that a vague, yet overpowering smell of cat pee seems to be coming from my left shoe, you'll know what I've been up to. Just don't ask me if there's anything you can do to help. Mrah!
In the process, I've verified that my crazy neighbor Brian hates me. I'm not sure why, but then again, he's crazy. I suspected it a few months ago when he decided to stop speaking to me--not returning my neighborly hellos, refusing to look me in the face, etc. Which of course made me all the more determined to figure out what was going on. I have an anti-survival instinct that way.
So the grand confrontation went like this:
Me, happily digging a hole for a pretty, pretty new pineapple guava plant. I hear said neighbor's gate squeak open right beside me. He can't avoid me. He's right there: Hi Brian--hey, just wanted to let you know I'm going to be working on the fence at some point, so if you hear some noise out here, it's me.
Brian, who has been raking leaves or killing cats or something in his back yard: Mmph.
Me, laying on sweet voice. Going to get to the bottom of this: So, how's it going?
Said Neighbor: Terri..mra..blah..rible.
Me: What?
Brian: Terrible.
Me, going into "talking to a crazy person, let's make use of our counseling training, finally" mode: Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What's wrong?
Brian, in a rather nasty tone: You name it.
Me, trying to assess my part in this: I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?
Brian, in an increasingly sneering nasty tone: I seriously doubt that.
Me, realizing I ain't getting to the bottom of anything except possibly a shallow hole in the woods if I keep this up: Well, sorry to hear that. (dig, dig, dig)
(Dexter the cat enters stage left and wander into Brian's garage while I continue brandishing my big protective shovel that could put a dent in someone's head if it needed to. I both fear and hope for a nice spray of cat urine.)
Said Neighbor: Mrahrara. (Goes into garage.) Scat, cat. Scat! (Shoots nasty glare out in the world's general direction, closes garage door.)
So I go on with my little life of planting things and laying down stone pathways and making a peaceful little earth-mother oasis of dirt and tranquility, and I try to ignore this. The unfortunate part of being a homeowner is, of course, that one is stuck. I must live beside and have semi-hostile non-interaction with Mr. Crazy Pants for the next several years. And I'm really not good at that. I am highly trained in the art of making peace with crazy people. It's what I do. I either make peace or, in my failure, grow frustrated and escalate into all-out war. And, as peace seems impossible and we're in the height of growing season, this leads to several interesting passive-aggressive possibilities.
It is with some embarrassment that I admit I started into the phylum plantae warfare dork thing by buying a plant that's supposed to ward off evil and planting it on the side of the house. No, I don't believe in this stuff, but, well, every little symbolic middle finger gesture I can direct over there helps me feel better.
Next, I'll consider sewing some rue (pretty, but downright itchy if you're allergic. I appear not to be too terribly.) right outside the fence near his side of the house. Might cause a rash or two and some good gnashing of teeth. I've also considered a nice border of thorny, thorny roses. Not sunny enough, though. I'll have to think on that one.
Finally, I've encouraged the cat to go pee in his yard. I'm not sure this is happening, but I am sure that the cat is enjoying peeing in all the nice, newly loosened and moved, highly diggable dirt in my yard. You'd think I'd have learned from all those you-reap-what-you-sew lessons in cheesy horror movies and Buffy re-runs.
So when you see me walking down the street in the next few weeks itching my rashy arms, my legs covered in small punctures (but what a great skirt!) and you notice that a vague, yet overpowering smell of cat pee seems to be coming from my left shoe, you'll know what I've been up to. Just don't ask me if there's anything you can do to help. Mrah!
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