Some things you just can't unsee

Actual conversation between Regina and myself while takeing a leisurely stroll down Gay Street.

Me: What is that sound?
Regina: Hmm?
Me (stopping in my tracks): That sound. That buzzing sound. Don't you hear it?
Regina (not stopping and now a few steps away): I don't hear anything.
Me (looking around): Oh! It's that bee! On the ground! It's... oh my god a spider is biting- OH MY GOD IT'S A FUCKING BLACK WIDOW.
Regina (approaches warily, backs away in horror): Ohhhhhh, get away from it, Megan!
Me (kneeling down as close as I dare to go): REGINA. THAT BLACK WIDOW IS BITING THAT POOR BEE TO DEATH. BITE! BITE! BITE! THAT IS ONE BITEY SPIDER.
Regina (paling): It is making me sick to look at it, Megan, get away from it.
Me (now jumping up in down in horrified fascination): THAT SPIDER IS KILLING THE SHIT OUT OF THAT BEE.
Regina (at a total loss of words, but standing staring at the morbid scene from a safe distance)
Me (seeing approaching pack of five college age men walking a dog on Gay Street) (and yes, now I am shrieking at them so the understand the gravity of the situation as quickly as possible): GUYS. THERE IS A BLACK WIDOW SPIDER KILLING A BEE ON GAY STREET RIGHT THERE.
(College men all approach hysterical me and finally see the murder scene at their feet)
College man 1: Oh man... that spider is killing the shit out of that bee.
Me: I KNOW, RIGHT?
College man 2: Should we kill it?
College man 3: There's a black widow on Gay Street? What the hell, man?
Me: I am cashing in all of my girlie chips on this one. One of you kill that spider.
College man 4: You know what? I'm just going to keep walking.
(College man 5 just sat in horrified silence during this whole exchange.)



i was too terrified to go in for a closer shot

And that is how I came to see a black widow spider killing a bee on Gay Street.

Co-worker Cathy and I have a game we like to play called "Google Image Search Gross Things." Basically, when I visit her cube, we take a moment to Google something yucky, like "head lice," or "warts," or something equally icky so we can go "EEWWWWW" real loud and feel good that we don't have head lice or warts. Recently, she sent me a picture of a fish with human teeth. She did preface it with "you cannot unsee this" but I clicked the first picture. And thought, eh. That ain't so bad. So I clicked the second picture.

And that's when things went horribly wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

I texted and shamed her when I started thinking about that fish tooth abnormality on Saturday. In the middle of the night last night our neighbors (for the third time in three weeks) came home from the bars boisterous and loud and woke both Regina and me up from our beauty sleep forcing me to get out of my cuddly bed and leave a nastygram on their door at 3 AM.

 hee hee i'm even funny in my sleep. i like the duct tape effect. heather pointed out that it may just be some pent up angst about my upcoming divorce, but she's crackers and i never listen to her.

 

But I of course could not go back to sleep and almost texted Cathy another shaming text message at 3 AM because I COULD NOT GET THAT CREEPY FISH MOUTH OUT OF MY BRAIN.

 

Then I was greeted this morning by a very repentant Cathy who told me she had a nightmare with a dead frozen fish with teeth. Some  kid was toting it around scraping its teeth on everything. Cathy now avows: "No more fish, NO MORE TEETH, EVER." And I'm holding her to it.

 

So I will not post that picture of that creepy fish head, because I'm kind and caring and Hitler's dog doesn't deserve that image in its head. I also like to do favors for people (see note above), so you're welcome. But if you chose to Google it, then fine. You're on your own.

 

But don't say I didn't warn  you.



Ways my loft is like Downton Abbey

we have a library

 

AND a small library - between a librarian and a booklover we have a lot of books

we have the complete, autographed, first edition works of an accomplished author

 



we have original artwork - "oliveyboo" by tc smith

we have a cottage on the estate

and we even have a staff - here we have our butler and footman displaying their gracious concern for our delicate lady skin.

 



we also have a gardener (thanks, mama!)

and dinner parties galore are our milieu. here we are right before we go through.

And lastly, and most importantly in my book, is that when faced with tough decisions (Where should the rug go? What should we have for supper? Should I have another glass of wine?) we always have a discussion and consult on what would Lady Sybil have wanted. Because we want to do what Lady Sybil would have wanted.

Currently we are looking for a new cook and scullery maid. And chauffer. And really we should have another footman - one can't do it all for heaven's sake. And a lady's maid. And some housemaids. And a dowager countess.

You know what? Forget it. I didn't say it was ALL like Downton Abbey.

And just like that, I don't have a mouse. I HAVE A ROOMMATE.

Many years ago, when I was a wee lass (heee, that just sounds funny) my mother always made homemade bread. Consistently. Over the years, she graduated to frozen bread dough, then to a bread maker, but 99% of the time, the bread in the house was baked in an oven. Although I do love Merita (yum-o grilled cheese or PB and J with strawberry J) if the occasion calls for bread, most of the time I pull out the trusty old bread maker of my own and get cracking.

So please, if you will, please allow your imagination to take fancy.

SCENE: 9013 Carlton Circle (where I grew up) circa 1987.
CHARACTERS:
Mama: Megan's mama, a saintly matron; knitter, gardener, church choir member and baker of fine bread.
Daddy: Megan's daddy, an impish rogue, player of pranks, loveable, likeable man, akin to laughing at inappropriate times and lighting poots at inappropriate times.
Clay: Megan's big brother, a quiet, studious lad with rapier-like wit.
Megan: Megan
SETTING: dinnertime

SCENE 1
Mama: Supper! Time for supper everyone! Come and get it!
Daddy: Oh boy! Pass the bread please!
Megan: Here you are dear Father! Hey... someone ate a bite out of this loaf of bread.
Mama: SAM! Did you eat a bite out of this loaf of bread?
Daddy: No! It wasn't me!
Megan: Clay, did you do it?
Clay: (laughing) No, I didn't do it!
Daddy: Well, who did then? Clay, it was you, wasn't it?
Clay: (still laughing) No, I didn't! It wasn't me!
Megan: I WAS you! I can tell!
Clay: (laughing still more) No, no! I didn't do it!
Mama: Clay, if you're going to eat bread, please cut a slice and eat it. HONESTLY. You weren't raised in a barn!
Daddy: Yes, Clay. Use your manners. Like me. (nom nom nom nom)

(The whole family proceeds to eat supper. Including the bread. Clay partakes in all of the items EXCEPT THE BREAD. The Venables should really pay more attention to Clay's silent clues. Again, a quiet lad whose intellect is keen. He obviously knows how the bubonic plague works.)

SCENE 2 (supper time the next day)
Mama: Supper! Time for supper!
Daddy: Oh boy! Pass the bread please!
Megan: Here you are dear Father! Hey... someone ate another bite out of this loaf of bread!
Mama: Clay! Um.... wait. There's.... a hole... in the bread bag.....
Daddy: Clay... I don't suppose you ate a bite of the bread... through the bread bag....
Mama: Sam. Can you please go set a mousetrap in the cupboard. Quickly.
Clay: I told you I didn't do it.

Fast forward to last night. I pulled out my trusty old breadmaker about 8 PM and proceeded to bake. Right before I went to bed, I took the fresh loaf out of the oven, inhaled deeply the lovely aroma and left it to cool on a rack.

This morning I woke up at my usual 5:30, brushed my teeth, grabbed my gym bag but before heading out for the day, I thought I should put the now-cool bread away for tonight's supper.

THEN I FOUND THIS.

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!

Which prompted me, understandably, to leave Regina this note:

in my defense, i was very upset. but not so upset that i went back and proofread my note and realized i misspelled raccoon.

So I spent my morning in the gym planning out my choice words to say to the landlord (I was going to be very kind; after all, who hasn't had a mouse before?) and had told no less that three people that I had a mouse, and I was late to work because I obviously HAD to stop and write Regina a tome about the mouse, and was hoping that the maintenance man used a trap, and not a sticky board because I do NOT want to have to deal with a live mouse on a sticky board at 5:30 AM, WHEN I GOT THIS TEXT MESSAGE FROM REGINA:

Regina: It was me! Am I in big trouble?

Sigh.

I won't go through the whole string, but basically Regina had to convince me that it was her and not a mouse. I then had to convince her that I really wasn't upset about the hunk of bread out of the loaf, that I had a traumatic experience with mouse bread in adolesence that she needed to be aware of. In the end, we both understood where the other was coming from (she said the bread smelled so good, and that she was reading about free will so she just went and grabbed a hunk of bread) and we had a great big laugh about the whole thing.

But I have asked Regina to please learn more about knives and how they work. Apparently, she is not familiar with the phrase "greatest thing since SLICED bread."

I'm really not morose all the time, I promise.

Phone calls from (and to, thanks caller ID) (oh and emails from) my sweet mama these days always start with the same sentance: Are you ok?

And I always answer the same way: I'm ok, I promise, mama.

Yesterday I called home and we had our usual exchange and then she paused and said: you're not ok. I read your blog post and you sounded sad.

And yes. I am sad. I literally sat and cried in my beer to a girlfriend at the corner bar last night. And I'll do that again before this is all over. She told me last night that I was on a walk to the beach, and right now I'm stuck in the mountains without any matches. I believe her. But I'm walking.

But I also laugh a lot too. I still find things funny, and it was only after a business meeting at lunch today (where the business was conducted hastily and we went on to talk about other things) that I found myself lingering after my appointed hour break, because I didn't want to stop laughing so soon.

Actual conversation with lunch companions:

Kristi: I lie to my daughter sometimes. Actually, I do it a lot. I think I might be going to hell for that.
Brandon: what kind of lies? Sometimes parents tell their children lies, you know, like the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.
K: no, not that kind of lies. Bad kinds. Like, when she was little and before she could count, I told her that she had 11 toes. And then when I would count them, I would just count in the 11th toe. She never noticed, and it made her feel special. Then, there was that time we went to Disney World and she kept asking to see Roger Rabbit. There is no Roger Rabbit in Orlando Disney, I checked. So I told her that Roger Rabbit moved to Cuba and we couldn't visit him there because of Fidel Castro and the embargo and stuff. And when she asked why we didn't have an Elf on the Shelf like her other friends I told her that Elves were all allergic to dogs and we couldn't have one in the house because it would get lung disease from dog hair dander but really because I didn't want to have to keep up with moving it every night. And she also calls my nativity set the Baby Jesus Play Table, and I know that's not a lie but it is sacreligious but I think it's funny so I don't tell her otherwise.

This whole conversation led to only one thing:

YEAH IT DID.

 

Dance party ensued. And I also Googled "Did Roger Rabbit move to Cuba?" when I got back to work just to make sure he was still stateside. He is. 

My Own Ground Zero

I haven't ever had to start over like this. My sweet mama keeps saying - it's just like when you moved all those times when you were in your 20s, but it's not. Not even a little bit. Not even the moves that I made myself, not to mention the moves I made with the Mr.

Grocery bills have been crazy high these days, and it's because I'm having to buy things like a pair of scissors to cut up chickens in the kitchen, or a tea kettle, or a dish drainer. Not to mention the food - I was trying to make a meal the other night and realized there's no garlic in the kitchen. When is there no garlic? I always have garlic. It's a strange sensation to walk down every aisle in the grocery store and put things in my cart.

I was out at lunch today and saw an old friend I lost in the divorce. I dropped my gaze and backed out of the store I was in without making eye contact or saying a word. It's really ground zero in more ways than just my pantry.

My roommate was gone all last week, and I spent the week alone for the first time in almost two decades. I tried, and succeeded, in filling the hours of my day, but sooner or later I ended back up at my loft, getting ready for bed in the stillness. Not even a kitty cat around to break up the quiet.

Then, a well-meaning friend said this: If you don't want to be alone, don't. Go someplace. So I did. She suggested coffeeshops, but I'm pretty sure she meant "bars." Around the corner from the loft is an old converted gas station run by three firemen. Other than the three of them, there's no hired personnel; the bar staff are regulars who work for tips. The bathroom is on the side of the building and requires key access. There are no iceboxes; drinks are kept cold in Igloo coolers behind the bar. They serve some food, but mostly it's of the rib/smoked meat variety with very minimal vegetable interaction (peanuts are technically a plant, right?) Smoking inside isn't allowed, but as it is an old gas station, once the bay doors are open on nice days it doesn't make much of a difference if smoking is or isn't allowed inside. All in all, I have to say it's a very strange place.

I fit right in. And I love it.

Twice last week with Regina gone, I packed up my read of the day, which currently is a re-read of the classic Anne of Green Gables. Right now, I can relate to a red-headed orphan girl carving out a new life for herself in a new home, making new friends.

I took off the book jacket so it was less obvious that I was reading a little girls book, but I think the secret is out because the book has lots of pictures in it. In any event, twice last week I slipped down to the corner bar after supper, curled up on the odd double bar stools made from old packing crates, and slowly sipped a Coors Lite while catching up on the latest in Avonlea.

And lo and behold... I became not alone. I'm meeting new people, and if I get uncomfortable or feel like I'm being picked up, I can hide behind Anne of Green Gables. It works like a charm. If I have to become a bar regular, I'd like to be known as the divorcee who comes in once or twice a week, drinks two beers over a two hour time period while reading cutting edge juvenile literature from the 1920s.

Good thing I own the whole series.

My new apartment stinks

It literally stinks, I mean. Other than the smell, it's absolutely fabulous and I love it. I feel a little bad when people come over because I do have a small sense of guilt in a "sorry you don't live here (but I do! *does a happy dance*)" way.

But then... there's the smell.

The first time I walked into the building, I can't be blamed for imagining a smell, because a dog (or human, who knows) took a big ole dump in the elevator lobby. Am I ever glad that I don't live downtown with a dog. Or a human who likes to take dumps in elevator lobbies.

Then I had the thought - maybe it's just the dog dump factor that's clouding my opinion. So I took advantage of my hyper-olfactory-gland and super duper pregnant friend Kristi and had her over to give the place a sniff test. Here's what she came up with:

Lobby smell: Maxi pads. The scented kind, not the unscented.
Hallway with trash chute: Whiskey and pickle juice.
Elevator: no comment. She had her hand over her nose and mouth and refused to breathe during the ride.

Fortunately, my new apartment is mercifully scent-free. Or at least smells like me. Or maybe I stink, who knows.

In other COMPLETELY UNRELATED NEWS, a "friend" (by friend you realize I mean me, right? K, just checking) sent this text to another COMPLETELY UNRELATED BUT ALSO PREGNANT friend:

Friend via text: I just pooted in the bathroom when someone walked in! Pooted LOUD. Then when I got out of the stall I discovered that it was my supervisor!!! My supervisor heard me poot loud!

Other pregnant friend who is not Kristi via text: I puked in the fire lane in front of Bunny's school this morning.

You'll be glad to know it wasn't during drop off. But the janitor (sweeping said fire lane) was less than pleased, according to non-Kristi.

Lastly, I am a super jumpy person. My father calls it "guilty conscious" and likely he's right. But that doesn't stop the fact that I have to be scraped off the ceiling every now and again when I get taken by surprise. And by every now and again I mean at least three times a day.

New apartment has concrete floors (that are glossy and smooth and silky and pretty and beautiful like a glass or a mirror or a pond!) which after years of hardwoods are mercifully slick and quiet. No creaking! Down side? Poor new roommate sneaks up on me all the time. Not her fault, I can't hear her coming.

So I asked her to wear a bell like a cat would to scare off would-be supper birds before they get pounced upon. That's not weird, right?

She agreed to wear a bell. And she does.

That's not weird. Right?

I am never moving again

I say this every time I move. And I inevitably end up moving again. But Regina better end up liking me as a roommate BECAUSE WE ARE LIVING TOGETHER FOREVER. AND NO I WILL NOT GO ALL SINGLE WHITE FEMALE ON HER. Well. I probably won't. I hope I won't? We'll just have to wait and see.

So moving day went a little lot like this: Movers showed up at Regina's to pick up her crap. Movers came to my house to pick up crap. Movers went to Gay Street WHERE THERE IS NO PARKING and started hauling things up from two blocks away.

Regina mentioned this, and she was totally right - these guys had such great attitudes. There was no grumbling about the parking, there was no exasperated sighs, there was only two guys with cheerful dispositions who totally TCB'ed. They even didn't mind my swearing like a sailor and didn't even bat an eye when I asked if a dead dog was in the blanket they were carrying. (It was half of my hanging clothes which I totally meant to take in my car, but they beat me to it).

Did I mention there was a parade? Well there was. And just about three minutes before the parade started two parking spots opened up right in front of our new building, and I'll be damned if I didn't plunk the two stools I was loading out of the truck right down in them and wait for the guys to bring the truck around. When they found me, I was told that truck moving would occur right after the parade went by and to sit tight and not lose those parking spots.

Then it started to snow. What is Take One For The Team, Alex Trebec. So if anyone saw an unbathed-for-48 hours blonde sitting in the street on a stool wearing a Green Lantern sweatshirt clapping maniacally during last weekend's Mardi Growl parade, that was me. Not demonstrating my love of dogs either. I think hysteria set in about the time it started sleeting.

My sweet Mama came over and made chili for the snowy group of happy helpers too. Well. Chili was eventually made, but it took some serious doing. She offered to make chili and I told her to get sandwiches because lord only knew where a pot was in all the box chaos. She picked through what was left in the pantry and found a cheap old pot that Mr. Smith used as a hat when he dressed as Johnny Appleseed for Halloween one year (HAHAHA my idea, I'm hilarious) and determined she could make chili in it. She was sent with an apartment key to get supplies and came right back when she remembered she forgot the Johnny Appleseed hat. She called right after and told me she lost the key. She made it to the apartment with chili supplies, and no can opener. She made me stop after I stabbed a can of beans for five minutes with a little knife on a wine opener and all it did was make a hole big enough for half a bean to get out of it. I finally found a new neighbor (thank you Matt from the 9th floor) to lend me a can opener, and chili was had by all. But I don't think she knew that the movers were real movers we were paying because she hugged them both when they left HAHAHA my Mama is so sweet.

In any event, moved in we are, and yes, I love it. I love being downtown, I love being close to work, and I love that I am taking the first steps in making a whole new life. It's scary, but it's also exciting. It's cliche, but when the door closed God opened a window. But, as one of my favorite bloggers pointed out so aptly, God must also waste a lot of money on his light bill if he's leaving windows open left and right. Not to mention the door. And what if a squirrel comes in or a bird? I one time had to chase a HUGE cicada out of a dorm room and that was some work, I can't imagine what a bird in the house would do. Oh - and good roommate plan of action in place already: Regina scared of all bugs in the house. I am not, and have been known to kill roaches with my hand when needed. I am scared to death of spiders, Regina is not. So - I'm the bug remover (a fan of catch and release in spite of occasionally killing a roach with my hand) and she's the spider killer (because those mother fuckers are evil and deserve to die).

Where was I? Oh, God and the drafty house. ANYWAY. Point is, I'm learning. Learning to not text Regina ridiculous things that a husband, not a roommate, needs to know (like, "I'm going to move the car now," or "What nights are you home this week?" or "Oh God, I totally blew it up in the bathroom at work.")

I totally never sent that last one to Regina. I erased it before hitting send. See? LEARNING.