Baby scorpions are hilarious! Who knew? They run around waving their little pincers, trying to catch crickets, but they haven't quite gotten the finesse of hunting down completely. They must succeed at times, though, because the other day Azrael had what looked like a whole cricket head (I didn't examine it too closely) hanging out of his mouth while he raced around chasing other crickets. And the prey numbers seem to be diminishing--crickets no longer leap out every time I open the lid--so I guess he and Nightshade do manage to best the little Jiminys some of the time.
Sebastian Dickens K.Itten is at that age where you want to smack him for being obnoxious, except he's so adorable. He can't jump up to the bathroom counter yet, but he's figured how to scramble up, using the drawer edges as a ladder. He likes to take flying leaps at anything that moves, including his Auntie Isis (with whom he shares a suite). Auntie Isis tends to watch warily whenever he's out of view and smack him quite a bit when he is (which isn't as bad as it sounds--an important part of kitten socialization is being around another cat who can let it know when it's behaving inappropriately. That's how they learn not to bite HARD when they're playing, that it hurts to be scratched, etc. And being the most timid of my adult cats, Isis could benefit from having a playmate she has helped raise and therefore isn't afraid of, if it works out that way...). I often worry that she gets the raw end of the deal, but this morning I woke up to see them both stretched out on the mattress beside me, and his tail was over her back, just as if it was an extra arm that he had put around her. It was ever so sweet.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
And the other store, too...
I went to that other store last night, the one I've been boycotting for awhile, just to see if I could stand to shop there. The answer is still no.
Apart from the too-bright lights and the cloying Christian music,* the desperate plastering of ads for their discount card on every shelf and the obvious discontent of the staff were not terribly useful in convincing me to shop here. I should become a mystery shopper, huh?
Seriously, though, I have worked in failing bookstores, and this one has all the hallmarks, and because I am a vulture I'll keep watching for sales when and if the store is forced to close. I don't know if it's a problem with the whole chain or with this particular store, although this store has never been terribly busy and doesn't, I think, market or position itself well locally. It has a much better horror selection than its competitor, which quite nearly induced me to spend money. The reason I didn't was because after browsing for a half hour, I'd had enough of the annoying employees.
Example 1: Middle-aged man, clearly demoralized, being comforted by friends? coworkers? who tell him, "You just have to think about it as a temporary job. You're not going to be here forever. That's the only way you can stand it." Fine, I understand this isn't where you wanted to be at this stage, but you don't need to have this conversation with customers around, right? He says something about how he really hates it but he totally sees himself still being there in 20 years. Oy.
Example 2: Middle-aged woman talking to younger woman, both of them Far-Side social reject types. (Kind of me, I know.) "I hate it when people criticize my husband because I have to have this job. He is a good provider! It's not his fault that I have to work right now! But because he is such a good provider, I hand over my entire paycheck to him. It goes in his account and I don't even have access to withdraw that money. Some people have a problem with that, but he is a good provider! He handles money well!"
I interrupt this diatribe to ask about the 3-for-2 sale advertised on the door, because I've walked through the entire store and seen evidence (promo stickers) only on a few books in the art history section. Yeah, they are setting out the sales books now. It's only on art history and Christian fiction. I know lots of my relatives like Christian fiction, but I...don't. Mostly. That's really a subject for a whole 'nother entry. So my face falls. They tell me, trying to be nice but clearly also looking down their noses, that the sale has been going on for three months and it has featured different books at different times. So they're sorry, but it's really mainly Christian fiction now.
I meander around for a little longer, holding my horror paperbacks, listening to the madwoman who thinks it is acceptable that she doesn't have access to her own paycheck. Do I want to spend part of mine here? My mind is made up for me by a group of loud, fat, obnoxious girls giggling over a guy who isn't all that funny, who is reading aloud blurbs on new hardcovers and making fun of them. I do that too, and I don't mind other people doing it, but I really was over the annoying and pathetic people in this store. So I left my little stack of books on the floor and walked out.
*Christian music is fine in its place, but this is the kind I couldn't stand even when I believed I had a moral obligation to listen to Christian music. I don't need music in a bookstore, but if you're going to have it, why not play some soothing classical guitar or piano, something quiet and unobtrusive that isn't likely to annoy anyone?
Apart from the too-bright lights and the cloying Christian music,* the desperate plastering of ads for their discount card on every shelf and the obvious discontent of the staff were not terribly useful in convincing me to shop here. I should become a mystery shopper, huh?
Seriously, though, I have worked in failing bookstores, and this one has all the hallmarks, and because I am a vulture I'll keep watching for sales when and if the store is forced to close. I don't know if it's a problem with the whole chain or with this particular store, although this store has never been terribly busy and doesn't, I think, market or position itself well locally. It has a much better horror selection than its competitor, which quite nearly induced me to spend money. The reason I didn't was because after browsing for a half hour, I'd had enough of the annoying employees.
Example 1: Middle-aged man, clearly demoralized, being comforted by friends? coworkers? who tell him, "You just have to think about it as a temporary job. You're not going to be here forever. That's the only way you can stand it." Fine, I understand this isn't where you wanted to be at this stage, but you don't need to have this conversation with customers around, right? He says something about how he really hates it but he totally sees himself still being there in 20 years. Oy.
Example 2: Middle-aged woman talking to younger woman, both of them Far-Side social reject types. (Kind of me, I know.) "I hate it when people criticize my husband because I have to have this job. He is a good provider! It's not his fault that I have to work right now! But because he is such a good provider, I hand over my entire paycheck to him. It goes in his account and I don't even have access to withdraw that money. Some people have a problem with that, but he is a good provider! He handles money well!"
I interrupt this diatribe to ask about the 3-for-2 sale advertised on the door, because I've walked through the entire store and seen evidence (promo stickers) only on a few books in the art history section. Yeah, they are setting out the sales books now. It's only on art history and Christian fiction. I know lots of my relatives like Christian fiction, but I...don't. Mostly. That's really a subject for a whole 'nother entry. So my face falls. They tell me, trying to be nice but clearly also looking down their noses, that the sale has been going on for three months and it has featured different books at different times. So they're sorry, but it's really mainly Christian fiction now.
I meander around for a little longer, holding my horror paperbacks, listening to the madwoman who thinks it is acceptable that she doesn't have access to her own paycheck. Do I want to spend part of mine here? My mind is made up for me by a group of loud, fat, obnoxious girls giggling over a guy who isn't all that funny, who is reading aloud blurbs on new hardcovers and making fun of them. I do that too, and I don't mind other people doing it, but I really was over the annoying and pathetic people in this store. So I left my little stack of books on the floor and walked out.
*Christian music is fine in its place, but this is the kind I couldn't stand even when I believed I had a moral obligation to listen to Christian music. I don't need music in a bookstore, but if you're going to have it, why not play some soothing classical guitar or piano, something quiet and unobtrusive that isn't likely to annoy anyone?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Boycott renewed?
I worked for a large book chain briefly in college. Then I boycotted said chain for years, because working there not only sucked, but they also cheated me out of an entire paycheck by claiming they had no records of the first two weeks I had worked there.
Then I moved to Savannah, where book retail is bleak, and after a bad experience at another chain store, my book addiction proved stronger than my boycott. I again began to patronize that old nemesis.
Friday night I ended up returning a large purchase to that store, as well as another to an arts-and-crafts store I also frequent. At the book retailer, the cashier was nice enough, but things changed when she summoned a manager to sign off on my return.
"Uh, ALL these books?" snapped the manager, looking at my proffered receipt. "Were they ALL the wrong ones, or something?"
Trying to sound jovial, I said I hadn't budgeted very well and needed that money to pay a bill this month. She glared at me and proceeded to make snappish and rude comments throughout the rest of the transaction. First I thought, Well, it IS a pain for them to take back all these books, but then I thought, Still, I do not deserve this. And then, as she continued to be rude and nasty, I thought, Do you realize who I am? I am a customer who has spent a lot of money in your store. Look up my membership account if you don't believe me. Ask your staff how often I'm in here and how many books I buy. I spend more money here than I do at any other single retailer.
I considered telling her off. Then I thought about the bitchy cashier who had been the reason I stopped going to the other book retailer in town and thought, I've been trying to overcome my book-buying addiction with varying degrees of success for years. This rudeness should be more than sufficient reason for me to enact the boycott again, and maybe that, in turn, will help me curtail the book spending.
I went on to the arts and crafts store, steeling myself for a similar experience, but the cashier was the epitome of graciousness. When I explained that I hadn't budgeted very well, she laughed and said, "Oh, we've all been there"--which is the reaction I would have had if I were on the other side of the counter. And, having spent plenty of time on that side of the counter, having walked many a mile in the retailer's shoes, I can say that with full confidence.
So. We'll see how the bookstore boycott goes. I am already planning a road trip to a certain other book retailer in Jacksonville, a retailer at whom I have never had a bad experience, if the book lust overtakes me too badly.
Then I moved to Savannah, where book retail is bleak, and after a bad experience at another chain store, my book addiction proved stronger than my boycott. I again began to patronize that old nemesis.
Friday night I ended up returning a large purchase to that store, as well as another to an arts-and-crafts store I also frequent. At the book retailer, the cashier was nice enough, but things changed when she summoned a manager to sign off on my return.
"Uh, ALL these books?" snapped the manager, looking at my proffered receipt. "Were they ALL the wrong ones, or something?"
Trying to sound jovial, I said I hadn't budgeted very well and needed that money to pay a bill this month. She glared at me and proceeded to make snappish and rude comments throughout the rest of the transaction. First I thought, Well, it IS a pain for them to take back all these books, but then I thought, Still, I do not deserve this. And then, as she continued to be rude and nasty, I thought, Do you realize who I am? I am a customer who has spent a lot of money in your store. Look up my membership account if you don't believe me. Ask your staff how often I'm in here and how many books I buy. I spend more money here than I do at any other single retailer.
I considered telling her off. Then I thought about the bitchy cashier who had been the reason I stopped going to the other book retailer in town and thought, I've been trying to overcome my book-buying addiction with varying degrees of success for years. This rudeness should be more than sufficient reason for me to enact the boycott again, and maybe that, in turn, will help me curtail the book spending.
I went on to the arts and crafts store, steeling myself for a similar experience, but the cashier was the epitome of graciousness. When I explained that I hadn't budgeted very well, she laughed and said, "Oh, we've all been there"--which is the reaction I would have had if I were on the other side of the counter. And, having spent plenty of time on that side of the counter, having walked many a mile in the retailer's shoes, I can say that with full confidence.
So. We'll see how the bookstore boycott goes. I am already planning a road trip to a certain other book retailer in Jacksonville, a retailer at whom I have never had a bad experience, if the book lust overtakes me too badly.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Scorpions!
Yay, they have arrived! I am now in possession of two young emperor scorpions, approximately an inch long each, just past their third molt. I have named them Azrael Abyss and Circe Nightshade, in honor of the SNL "Goth Talk" characters, although I haven't actually determined which is which yet. They are so cute!
Book review: Natural Selection by Dave Freedman
Although this novel had flaws, I decided to post a review of it because after finishing it, I immediately checked Amazon to see if a sequel was out or forthcoming--which means it was pretty enjoyable and I wasn't quite ready to relinquish its world yet.
Natural Selection is the book's premise as well as its title. A group of scientists conducting research about manta rays comes across a new--to humans--species of ray that recently has migrated from the unexplored depths of the ocean and is quickly evolving and adapting to new circumstances. An apex predator, the ray need only encounter new types of prey once to outsmart them, whether they are sharks or dolphins or humans. And the ray isn't content to remain in the oceans; it takes to the air and then to land. Given its massive size, great hunger, and superior intelligence, it naturally poses a growing threat to people, and our intrepid sextuplet of scientists faces the challenge of defeating a predator that no one else believes exists.
My first gripe about the novel is not the fault of author Dave Freedman and in fact may well be something that bothered him too. I hesitate to mention it because it's a spoiler, but that's the problem: The blurb on the back of the novel gives away plot elements that don't come into play until the last hundred pages or later. I HATE it when publishers do this, and it left me wondering whether the person who wrote the blurb had actually read the novel, or if they were just so stupid that they didn't see a problem with killing most of the suspense.
OK, now that's off my chest.
Natural Selection is Freedman's first novel, and it suffers from many typical first-novel flaws. The characters are cardboard, and the technique with which their personalities and interactions are sketched could aptly be called "tell me, don't show me." He has a fair amount of technical information to present to readers, and he isn't sure how to do it. So he alternates between interspersing authorial comments about how evolution works with the CSI-style tendency to present it in dialogue. And like on CSI, this doesn't work so well, because as a reader, I just don't buy someone with a Ph.D. in ichthyology (cool new vocab word--the study of fish) needing to ask a colleague the significance of this predator having a large brain. If I, a person with one college biology class, can figure out why it's a big deal that the rays outsmarted a dolphin, a scientist shouldn't need to ask another scientist what that means. You know?
Granted, it's hard for me to say what assumptions an author can or should make about the general level of intelligence and education of his or her readers. I know publishers regularly insult authors by insisting their target audiences have an 8th-grade comprehension level. (Frankly, given what publishers define as 8th-grade comprehension, I think this is also an insult to most readers, including the 8th graders who actually choose to read books on their own.) Natural Selection is being marketed as a cross between Jaws! and Jurassic Park, so clearly the publisher wants to appeal to a broad readership that doesn't have much specialized knowledge or education. (Whether Freedman also wants that or whether he was forced to adapt an original manuscript along those lines, I don't know.) It's also obvious that the novel is a hopeful contender for film adaptation.
Despite the sometimes clumsy writing and one-dimensional characters, the book works. It didn't give me nightmares, but it definitely kept me turning pages and wanting more. Freedman's drawing of his predatory rays is consistent enough, and he provides enough background about the deep ocean, to make the existence of this type of creature seem perfectly plausible. He does endow the characters with enough humanity that I cared what happened to them. And that, to me, is what matters most in a novel like this: You have to have a stake in the characters' fates, and/or you have to believe in the monster. A novel that can do both is rare and satisfying, and that's why, despite its flaws, Natural Selection succeeds.
Natural Selection is the book's premise as well as its title. A group of scientists conducting research about manta rays comes across a new--to humans--species of ray that recently has migrated from the unexplored depths of the ocean and is quickly evolving and adapting to new circumstances. An apex predator, the ray need only encounter new types of prey once to outsmart them, whether they are sharks or dolphins or humans. And the ray isn't content to remain in the oceans; it takes to the air and then to land. Given its massive size, great hunger, and superior intelligence, it naturally poses a growing threat to people, and our intrepid sextuplet of scientists faces the challenge of defeating a predator that no one else believes exists.
My first gripe about the novel is not the fault of author Dave Freedman and in fact may well be something that bothered him too. I hesitate to mention it because it's a spoiler, but that's the problem: The blurb on the back of the novel gives away plot elements that don't come into play until the last hundred pages or later. I HATE it when publishers do this, and it left me wondering whether the person who wrote the blurb had actually read the novel, or if they were just so stupid that they didn't see a problem with killing most of the suspense.
OK, now that's off my chest.
Natural Selection is Freedman's first novel, and it suffers from many typical first-novel flaws. The characters are cardboard, and the technique with which their personalities and interactions are sketched could aptly be called "tell me, don't show me." He has a fair amount of technical information to present to readers, and he isn't sure how to do it. So he alternates between interspersing authorial comments about how evolution works with the CSI-style tendency to present it in dialogue. And like on CSI, this doesn't work so well, because as a reader, I just don't buy someone with a Ph.D. in ichthyology (cool new vocab word--the study of fish) needing to ask a colleague the significance of this predator having a large brain. If I, a person with one college biology class, can figure out why it's a big deal that the rays outsmarted a dolphin, a scientist shouldn't need to ask another scientist what that means. You know?
Granted, it's hard for me to say what assumptions an author can or should make about the general level of intelligence and education of his or her readers. I know publishers regularly insult authors by insisting their target audiences have an 8th-grade comprehension level. (Frankly, given what publishers define as 8th-grade comprehension, I think this is also an insult to most readers, including the 8th graders who actually choose to read books on their own.) Natural Selection is being marketed as a cross between Jaws! and Jurassic Park, so clearly the publisher wants to appeal to a broad readership that doesn't have much specialized knowledge or education. (Whether Freedman also wants that or whether he was forced to adapt an original manuscript along those lines, I don't know.) It's also obvious that the novel is a hopeful contender for film adaptation.
Despite the sometimes clumsy writing and one-dimensional characters, the book works. It didn't give me nightmares, but it definitely kept me turning pages and wanting more. Freedman's drawing of his predatory rays is consistent enough, and he provides enough background about the deep ocean, to make the existence of this type of creature seem perfectly plausible. He does endow the characters with enough humanity that I cared what happened to them. And that, to me, is what matters most in a novel like this: You have to have a stake in the characters' fates, and/or you have to believe in the monster. A novel that can do both is rare and satisfying, and that's why, despite its flaws, Natural Selection succeeds.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Blasphemous rumors
During the past year, I have gone through some difficult experiences and had to make the single most anguishing decision of my life. I've experienced extremely painful (although arguably necessary) losses. In many ways, I've emerged OK. I now own a house. I have a few good friends and an affordable number of cats. I'm not holding out hope for a relationship with someone who isn't remotely suitable (or interested), and I don't have to wonder why my so-called best friend won't answer or return my calls.
I think I feel less than I did before the events of 8-12 months ago. I think the open, raw place in my psyche that oozed constant pain and confusion finally was stabbed so deeply that it actually scabbed over and started not to hurt so much anymore. This is probably good. Antidepressants are effective unguents only up to a point.
Re-reading, the "open, raw place in my psyche that oozed constant pain and confusion" sounds very melodramatic. But depression, to me, IS melodramatic, or perhaps melodrama is simply the most apt way to express the almost physical pain that penetrates to your bones, your marrow, your soul. And sometimes hyperbole and melodrama even bring you laughter when nothing else does.
Along with the sadness, I've lost some of the joy and the laughter and the sense of unconditional love that I was beginning to equate, tentatively, with God. God's love to me has always been a troubling concept, elusive when I sought it, a threat when I didn't (maybe my mom told me a few too many times, "God is going to do whatever it takes to bring you back, even if that means something really horrible happening to you"). I've always had the sneaking uneasiness that if I ever decide to really trust God, the first thing that will happen is something truly awful, because God will have to test the sincerity of my trust. Because that's how God works, right? the vindictive God of the Old Testament and the Puritans, the God of Colorado Springs Calvinists who scorn the idea of a touchy-feely-loving God and instead make statements like, "We love homosexuals by letting them know that what they do is an abomination in the sight of God and will land them in the fires of hell forever." Love isn't just a feeling, but if what you feel is hatred or condemnation or superiority, no twist of semantics or definitions can make it love.
And, more than the wrong things people told me about God (at least I hope they're wrong), what I keep running up against is my own sense of betrayal: all those very, very bleak times when no one was home to answer my calls, God sent me nothing--no sign, no sense of peace or presence--and I was completely alone with my own damage and a razor or scissors or a piece of broken glass. Even then it was a dare, defiance: Fine, if my body really is a temple of the holy spirit, if you, God, care at all, then stop me from desecrating this temple. Help me, darn it. But maybe that isn't how God works. It certainly wasn't how God worked for me; I have the scars to prove it.
So when I do go to church, when I open the Bible, when I make any sort of tentative attempt to connect with God or develop my spirituality, I run up against that wall. And the events of the past year in some ways make it worse: more unconditional love that's gone from my life; more damage I might have done to beings I loved, in trying to do the right thing. A capacity to care that I don't seem to have anymore, at least right now. A sense of hope, which I've never had in abundance. A belief in anything other than the profound absence of God in my life.
This absence in many ways shapes The Nightmares of Lost Ghosts, my novel in progress. There is a line from a Sisters of Mercy song, "No Time to Cry," that sums it up perfectly: "It's ... just like Jesus never came."
A few weeks ago, I was at my mom's family reunion. I had a good time, but I kept thinking about what would happen if these people--people I care about and who, I am beginning to realize, care far more about me than I ever fathomed--were to read my novel. I think they would be hurt. I doubt most of them would understand, although perhaps I am underestimating them. Mostly, they seem happy; they love Jesus, and it works for them. They are confident enough in their faith that they want to share it with other people. Me? I struggle all the time. I struggle mightily with the idea that God is good and loves me. My experience of faith, of God, of Christians is not such that I want to lead anyone else to it. The most accurate reflection of my theology is the refrain from Stephen King's novel "Desperation": God is cruel, and His cruelty refines. I wish this wasn't my theology, but it absolutely nails the sense I've had since I was a teenager.
Several of my cousins exchanged blog URLs. I am still undecided about whether to share mine. So, if you are a Bierma connection and you are reading this, know the risk I am taking with you. Don't judge me, try not to be offended, and treat me gently.
I think I feel less than I did before the events of 8-12 months ago. I think the open, raw place in my psyche that oozed constant pain and confusion finally was stabbed so deeply that it actually scabbed over and started not to hurt so much anymore. This is probably good. Antidepressants are effective unguents only up to a point.
Re-reading, the "open, raw place in my psyche that oozed constant pain and confusion" sounds very melodramatic. But depression, to me, IS melodramatic, or perhaps melodrama is simply the most apt way to express the almost physical pain that penetrates to your bones, your marrow, your soul. And sometimes hyperbole and melodrama even bring you laughter when nothing else does.
Along with the sadness, I've lost some of the joy and the laughter and the sense of unconditional love that I was beginning to equate, tentatively, with God. God's love to me has always been a troubling concept, elusive when I sought it, a threat when I didn't (maybe my mom told me a few too many times, "God is going to do whatever it takes to bring you back, even if that means something really horrible happening to you"). I've always had the sneaking uneasiness that if I ever decide to really trust God, the first thing that will happen is something truly awful, because God will have to test the sincerity of my trust. Because that's how God works, right? the vindictive God of the Old Testament and the Puritans, the God of Colorado Springs Calvinists who scorn the idea of a touchy-feely-loving God and instead make statements like, "We love homosexuals by letting them know that what they do is an abomination in the sight of God and will land them in the fires of hell forever." Love isn't just a feeling, but if what you feel is hatred or condemnation or superiority, no twist of semantics or definitions can make it love.
And, more than the wrong things people told me about God (at least I hope they're wrong), what I keep running up against is my own sense of betrayal: all those very, very bleak times when no one was home to answer my calls, God sent me nothing--no sign, no sense of peace or presence--and I was completely alone with my own damage and a razor or scissors or a piece of broken glass. Even then it was a dare, defiance: Fine, if my body really is a temple of the holy spirit, if you, God, care at all, then stop me from desecrating this temple. Help me, darn it. But maybe that isn't how God works. It certainly wasn't how God worked for me; I have the scars to prove it.
So when I do go to church, when I open the Bible, when I make any sort of tentative attempt to connect with God or develop my spirituality, I run up against that wall. And the events of the past year in some ways make it worse: more unconditional love that's gone from my life; more damage I might have done to beings I loved, in trying to do the right thing. A capacity to care that I don't seem to have anymore, at least right now. A sense of hope, which I've never had in abundance. A belief in anything other than the profound absence of God in my life.
This absence in many ways shapes The Nightmares of Lost Ghosts, my novel in progress. There is a line from a Sisters of Mercy song, "No Time to Cry," that sums it up perfectly: "It's ... just like Jesus never came."
A few weeks ago, I was at my mom's family reunion. I had a good time, but I kept thinking about what would happen if these people--people I care about and who, I am beginning to realize, care far more about me than I ever fathomed--were to read my novel. I think they would be hurt. I doubt most of them would understand, although perhaps I am underestimating them. Mostly, they seem happy; they love Jesus, and it works for them. They are confident enough in their faith that they want to share it with other people. Me? I struggle all the time. I struggle mightily with the idea that God is good and loves me. My experience of faith, of God, of Christians is not such that I want to lead anyone else to it. The most accurate reflection of my theology is the refrain from Stephen King's novel "Desperation": God is cruel, and His cruelty refines. I wish this wasn't my theology, but it absolutely nails the sense I've had since I was a teenager.
Several of my cousins exchanged blog URLs. I am still undecided about whether to share mine. So, if you are a Bierma connection and you are reading this, know the risk I am taking with you. Don't judge me, try not to be offended, and treat me gently.
Serpent is a lovely word
Saturday I went to the Edisto Island Serpentarium in South Carolina. Someday, in about a year, I will get my photos developed (I used disposable cameras with zoom, rather than my digital) and post them. In the meantime, here's the written rundown:
It was a gorgeous afternoon for a drive, although it ended up being a bit longer than I expected. Much of it was on two-lane highways through rural areas with the kind of old, falling-down buildings (everything from houses, trailers, and barns to an ancient packing plant) that I love to photograph, although I didn't stop much to shoot. The serpentarium was mostly cool. I was a little disappointed that in the venomous snake habitat (an outside island with a moat and a wall) there were only rattlesnakes and copperheads. I have a special interest in cottonmouths and would have loved to see some of them swimming. However, I did get to see some gorgeous diamondbacks swimming and also saw one strike at a mouse.
Everyone else in the place rushed to the gator pond for the 4 p.m. feeding, and I felt jaded for not being very interested. I've seen gators surface to gobble up fish in the wild and fed baby gators at the Crab Shack, so watching a bunch of adults catch slices of chicken that someone tosses to them isn't that exciting. (I would never have foreseen myself reacting this way when I first moved to Savannah!)
I am also sort of getting interested in turtles, which I have never found very compelling. I think it's because as I contemplate possible landscape features for my backyard, I keep returning to the idea of a pond, and turtles in an actual pond would be pretty cool. I had planned to feed the turtles and bought a baggie of turtle snacks in the gift shop to do so, but there were some kids at the turtle pond. I thought I was sharing the snacks with them; I guess they thought I was giving them the entire baggie because they made off with it. Oh, well.
Inside, there was an open area with, the gift shop cashier said, eight large constrictors. I spotted seven. It was cool, but they weren't *that* big; the pet store where I buy rats for Fade (my python) has several that are much larger. Outside, the nonvenomous snake habitat included not only snakes, but also baby gators, an iguana, and turtles. There were snakes everywhere--in the grass, in the water, twined through the tree branches. It was seriously cool (and would have given my serpent-phobic father nightmares).
There also were golden silk orb weavers everywhere. They're beautiful, enormous spiders with vast webs, and often if you notice one and then look up, you will see layers of webs and spiders stretching up to the treetops. I have been trying in vain to get a good photo of one since the first time I saw them (on the Sapelo Island trip four summers ago); we'll see if I at least caught a decent silhouette this time.
I stayed for the 5 p.m. snake show, which was given by a man in his late sixties (he said; I thought he was younger) from Guyana. He had the craggy face and longish, greasy hair of a Scooby Doo villain, spoke with a delightful accent, was missing half of his teeth, and presented some information I didn't know (such as that snakes don't actually have scales--their skin is pleated so it can expand when they eat prey larger than they are). Afterward, I got to meet his wife, also from Guyana, also missing teeth, also with the accent, and they started telling venomous-snake stories.
Driving there, I had passed several road-side stands selling fresh peaches. I wanted to buy some but knew I wouldn't eat them. Instead, I stopped on the way back at a country store and bought a few bottles of locally brewed, nonalcoholic cider and various other fun things, including alligator jerky (which made for a slightly surreal snack after just seeing a bunch of gators, but then, how many times have I eaten a hamburger while watching cows and not even made the connection?).
I also drove through downtown Beaufort, which I had never done before, and realized I have to return sometime with black and white film to shoot the many graveyards in the area. After all of which, I rushed back to Savannah and changed clothes just in time to go out with Kate to Lulu's, a chocolate bar downtown, which was also a fun experience.
It was a gorgeous afternoon for a drive, although it ended up being a bit longer than I expected. Much of it was on two-lane highways through rural areas with the kind of old, falling-down buildings (everything from houses, trailers, and barns to an ancient packing plant) that I love to photograph, although I didn't stop much to shoot. The serpentarium was mostly cool. I was a little disappointed that in the venomous snake habitat (an outside island with a moat and a wall) there were only rattlesnakes and copperheads. I have a special interest in cottonmouths and would have loved to see some of them swimming. However, I did get to see some gorgeous diamondbacks swimming and also saw one strike at a mouse.
Everyone else in the place rushed to the gator pond for the 4 p.m. feeding, and I felt jaded for not being very interested. I've seen gators surface to gobble up fish in the wild and fed baby gators at the Crab Shack, so watching a bunch of adults catch slices of chicken that someone tosses to them isn't that exciting. (I would never have foreseen myself reacting this way when I first moved to Savannah!)
I am also sort of getting interested in turtles, which I have never found very compelling. I think it's because as I contemplate possible landscape features for my backyard, I keep returning to the idea of a pond, and turtles in an actual pond would be pretty cool. I had planned to feed the turtles and bought a baggie of turtle snacks in the gift shop to do so, but there were some kids at the turtle pond. I thought I was sharing the snacks with them; I guess they thought I was giving them the entire baggie because they made off with it. Oh, well.
Inside, there was an open area with, the gift shop cashier said, eight large constrictors. I spotted seven. It was cool, but they weren't *that* big; the pet store where I buy rats for Fade (my python) has several that are much larger. Outside, the nonvenomous snake habitat included not only snakes, but also baby gators, an iguana, and turtles. There were snakes everywhere--in the grass, in the water, twined through the tree branches. It was seriously cool (and would have given my serpent-phobic father nightmares).
There also were golden silk orb weavers everywhere. They're beautiful, enormous spiders with vast webs, and often if you notice one and then look up, you will see layers of webs and spiders stretching up to the treetops. I have been trying in vain to get a good photo of one since the first time I saw them (on the Sapelo Island trip four summers ago); we'll see if I at least caught a decent silhouette this time.
I stayed for the 5 p.m. snake show, which was given by a man in his late sixties (he said; I thought he was younger) from Guyana. He had the craggy face and longish, greasy hair of a Scooby Doo villain, spoke with a delightful accent, was missing half of his teeth, and presented some information I didn't know (such as that snakes don't actually have scales--their skin is pleated so it can expand when they eat prey larger than they are). Afterward, I got to meet his wife, also from Guyana, also missing teeth, also with the accent, and they started telling venomous-snake stories.
Driving there, I had passed several road-side stands selling fresh peaches. I wanted to buy some but knew I wouldn't eat them. Instead, I stopped on the way back at a country store and bought a few bottles of locally brewed, nonalcoholic cider and various other fun things, including alligator jerky (which made for a slightly surreal snack after just seeing a bunch of gators, but then, how many times have I eaten a hamburger while watching cows and not even made the connection?).
I also drove through downtown Beaufort, which I had never done before, and realized I have to return sometime with black and white film to shoot the many graveyards in the area. After all of which, I rushed back to Savannah and changed clothes just in time to go out with Kate to Lulu's, a chocolate bar downtown, which was also a fun experience.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Gargoyle-icious
So I scored the coup of the year yesterday: gargoyles and tombstones (6 inches high, solid plaster, not cheap crap), at the DOLLAR STORE. I cleared out everything they had (10 goyles and 15 or so tombstones). So I now have more home decor and landscaping material, as well as fun things to beautify the terrarium for the two scorpions I'm getting later this week.
I love the dollar store.
I did a lot of yard work this weekend, including pinning up the blackberry creepers onto two trellises. I scratched my leg walking past one of the rose bushes, and I guess at some point I must have scratched my foot on the blackberries. I didn't even notice until I put my work shoes on this morning and they rubbed the cut wrong. I also have, I think, about two mosquito bites per square inch of skin on my arms and lower legs. This is why I don't do yard work more often. Also, I feel bad about cutting all the long grass because the frogs seem to like it so well. I suppose, however, that the neighbors don't.
I love the dollar store.
I did a lot of yard work this weekend, including pinning up the blackberry creepers onto two trellises. I scratched my leg walking past one of the rose bushes, and I guess at some point I must have scratched my foot on the blackberries. I didn't even notice until I put my work shoes on this morning and they rubbed the cut wrong. I also have, I think, about two mosquito bites per square inch of skin on my arms and lower legs. This is why I don't do yard work more often. Also, I feel bad about cutting all the long grass because the frogs seem to like it so well. I suppose, however, that the neighbors don't.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Maybe this is why I'm single, Part II
One place I frequent that is supposed to be great for meeting relationship-eligible people is the bookstore.
***
Playboy ranked the Tattered Cover in Denver one of the top 10 spots in the United States for meeting desirable people.
As a customer, I was hit on once that I recall. The guy tried to start a conversation about my coat. My coat, not the book I was reading, about which he asked nothing whatsoever, nor did he make any reference to the stack of other books I had collected. I may have been a bit harsh, but I felt that anyone too stupid to even mention books when we were IN A BOOKSTORE didn't deserve my time.
As an employee, well, there was a bit of an eligible-guy pool of coworkers, some of them even paralleling my "taking a break between 'real jobs' to do something that is fun but pays peanuts" life phase. But mostly, as in the real world, guys who initially appeared eligible turned out not to be (to me), for one reason or another: too twitchy, secretly taken, cute until he opened his mouth to reveal that he was an obnoxious cretin with a superiority complex, slept with my best friend. (Given who my best friend was, that latter category ate up a large and perpetually increasing slice of the available males. It also meant we knew immediately who the man-whores were and which guys had morals/ethics/wanted more than a quick tumble. Also, she was ferociously loyal to me, so if I liked someone, she'd dig around and get all the info she could but wouldn't mess with him.)
So we amused ourselves most Friday and Saturday nights by scoping the people who were obviously at the Tattered Cover only because of its meet/meat-market reputation. The girls all had long, straight hair and tended to wear clingy turtlenecks. The guys had carefully gelled hair and dressed in what a coworker at my previous job called "Lodo style," sort of muted-palette preppy. They all wore leather coats and too much scent, and they tended to congregate in the self-help section, specifically near the relationship books. The girls usually traveled in pairs, the guys solo. They'd show up around 9 p.m. en route to the club or bar. They had conversations that sounded scripted. They seemed pretty much interchangeable with one another.
***
In the bookstore, I'm an addict. I can barely pry my gaze away from all the titles long enough to make eye contact with the cashier. It's the one time I walk out of a shop to my car without being as aware as I probably should of who's around, whether anyone has followed me or taken an undue interest, etc., because I'm too busy immersing myself in the sight and scent of new books. Oh, and I talk to myself, not a lot, but if I find a bargain title I've been waiting for, or something really amazing has just come out in paperback, I'll exclaim softly or mutter. And I laugh at people who are morons (like the teenage guy who loudly told his friend, "This is a lame store. They don't even have a nonfiction section.").
So I doubt that anyone who notices me would perceive me as either particularly sane or very appealing to know. I am not carefully coiffed and scented. I don't hang out in the self-help section. I don't giggle. I am wild-eyed and excessive, carting around large stacks of books or a laden shopping basket, sitting on the floor and reading a few pages of each selection, carefully adding up amounts in my head, dashing off in another direction as I remember that I wanted to check the travel section or the biography section or the nature section as long as I was here...
***
So there it is. I am wild-eyed and excessive, slightly insane, a raving bibliophile.
Why does that (in my head, if nowhere else) translate so often into unlovable, unworthy of being loved, incapable of attracting love?
***
Playboy ranked the Tattered Cover in Denver one of the top 10 spots in the United States for meeting desirable people.
As a customer, I was hit on once that I recall. The guy tried to start a conversation about my coat. My coat, not the book I was reading, about which he asked nothing whatsoever, nor did he make any reference to the stack of other books I had collected. I may have been a bit harsh, but I felt that anyone too stupid to even mention books when we were IN A BOOKSTORE didn't deserve my time.
As an employee, well, there was a bit of an eligible-guy pool of coworkers, some of them even paralleling my "taking a break between 'real jobs' to do something that is fun but pays peanuts" life phase. But mostly, as in the real world, guys who initially appeared eligible turned out not to be (to me), for one reason or another: too twitchy, secretly taken, cute until he opened his mouth to reveal that he was an obnoxious cretin with a superiority complex, slept with my best friend. (Given who my best friend was, that latter category ate up a large and perpetually increasing slice of the available males. It also meant we knew immediately who the man-whores were and which guys had morals/ethics/wanted more than a quick tumble. Also, she was ferociously loyal to me, so if I liked someone, she'd dig around and get all the info she could but wouldn't mess with him.)
So we amused ourselves most Friday and Saturday nights by scoping the people who were obviously at the Tattered Cover only because of its meet/meat-market reputation. The girls all had long, straight hair and tended to wear clingy turtlenecks. The guys had carefully gelled hair and dressed in what a coworker at my previous job called "Lodo style," sort of muted-palette preppy. They all wore leather coats and too much scent, and they tended to congregate in the self-help section, specifically near the relationship books. The girls usually traveled in pairs, the guys solo. They'd show up around 9 p.m. en route to the club or bar. They had conversations that sounded scripted. They seemed pretty much interchangeable with one another.
***
In the bookstore, I'm an addict. I can barely pry my gaze away from all the titles long enough to make eye contact with the cashier. It's the one time I walk out of a shop to my car without being as aware as I probably should of who's around, whether anyone has followed me or taken an undue interest, etc., because I'm too busy immersing myself in the sight and scent of new books. Oh, and I talk to myself, not a lot, but if I find a bargain title I've been waiting for, or something really amazing has just come out in paperback, I'll exclaim softly or mutter. And I laugh at people who are morons (like the teenage guy who loudly told his friend, "This is a lame store. They don't even have a nonfiction section.").
So I doubt that anyone who notices me would perceive me as either particularly sane or very appealing to know. I am not carefully coiffed and scented. I don't hang out in the self-help section. I don't giggle. I am wild-eyed and excessive, carting around large stacks of books or a laden shopping basket, sitting on the floor and reading a few pages of each selection, carefully adding up amounts in my head, dashing off in another direction as I remember that I wanted to check the travel section or the biography section or the nature section as long as I was here...
***
So there it is. I am wild-eyed and excessive, slightly insane, a raving bibliophile.
Why does that (in my head, if nowhere else) translate so often into unlovable, unworthy of being loved, incapable of attracting love?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Maybe this is why I'm single, Part I
So my mother, who (unlike me) is home on many weekday afternoons and (also unlike me) prefers to counter boredom with Dr. Phil rather than, say, sleep or watching Halloween for the 80th time, saw a show recently on how single women and men can meet each other.
This seems to be a popular theme on both Dr. Phil and Oprah, according to my mother. Nice, eligible single men have as much trouble meeting nice, eligible single women as vice versa, from what she sees on these shows. What are these men like? I ask her. Do they have decent jobs? Do they seem cool to hang out with? Are they cute? Well, she doesn't know if I'd find them cute, but sure, they seem clean-cut and nice. (Anyone who knows me can probably imagine the sound of nails being pounded HARD into a coffin lid at those words. And yeah, I know, that could be part of my problem...)
So this most recent show featured a man who has made a study, and apparently a business, out of identifying (cue up Connie Francis) where the boys are, and how the girls can meet them--in places other than bars and online dating services. His approach: Look for the ring. Don't see one? Move in, with a question designed to break the ice and make him feel like an expert. Because men really, really like that.
Number one spot to meet guys, says this man? The farmer's market! Say something like, "How can you tell what makes a really good tomato?" or "Do you know any recipes that require organic rhubarb?"
Hmmm, I think. The farmer's market. I can see it now...well, actually, I can't, because the only way I'd ever be up early enough to hit the farmer's market is if I hadn't gone to bed yet. Crazy, no-sleep, up-all-night girl meets fresh-faced, organic juice, rise-with-the-sun boy. Not seeing it. Besides, no way could I maneuver amongst stalls of fresh produce without having an apocalyptic bout of sneezing. And that just doesn't make for a really positive icebreaker. "Hi, excuse me? Do you have a hanky I can borrow to clean up this glob of green stuff hanging off the end of my nose?" Yeah. Not so much.
I don't remember the number two place, but number three is the hardware store--your local Lowe's or Home Depot. Brave a section other than the paint aisle, find a ringless man, and ask him, "Can you help me decide on the kind of lumber to use for my new gazebo?" or "Do you know how to install a ceiling fan?"
So I'm thinking yeah...the hardware store...then I hear the "approach him with a question" bit and I think, Wait, back it up a minute. If he's some random shopper, I'm not going to ask him a question like that! I'm not going to assume that just because of his gender, he knows how to install a ceiling fan or recommend lumber. And even if he seems knowledgeable, I'm not going to trust his answer. That's why the hardware store has employees; that's why there's an Internet.
Sunday afternoon, however, I found myself in the position of wanting to be out of my house (thanks to a mold issue) and broke. So I figured I'd go price some stuff and check out some other stuff at the hardware stores. And while I was there, I noticed a guy with a shopping cart, which reminded me of the "meeting single men at the hardware store" idea, so I decided to keep half an eye out.
Here's what I observed over the course of 15 minutes or so: Three men without rings. Dressed, you know, unremarkably--you couldn't tell anything about them from their attire. No visible tats. Shopping carts. Very confused expressions on their faces.
And I think how utterly stupid this approach is, at least for me.
First of all, I'm not going to ask someone for advice when he looks even more clueless than I am. Second of all, the single thing I know about any of these men is that they aren't wearing a wedding ring. Could have a fiance. Could have taken off the ring in the course of their home-improvement project and haven't put it back on yet. Could be gay. Could, for that matter, be a serial killer.
Thinking or even knowing a guy is single just isn't enough. It's why I don't go to and don't like the idea of singles groups. It's why I am not particularly open to the idea of trying to meet someone online. Because there has to be more in common for me, at the outset, or the conversation will never advance beyond sharing the name of a good electrician or saying a tomato looks juicy. I've always believed and hoped that I would meet someone, and that it would happen in the course of me doing what I like doing anyway. Sure, I'd probably meet more guys if I went to Sand Gnats games, but I think baseball is really boring.
The problem is that most of the things I like are pretty solitary, or they're things that you do with people you already know. I don't know how to meet people. I suck at getting from the acquaintance-having-an-interesting-conversation to the making-plans-to-ever-see-this-person-again phase. It isn't even necessarily meeting people that's the challenge; it's meeting people that I wish I knew better, or figuring out how to express interest in getting to know someone better without coming off too strongly or coming on like I'm interested when I might not be. I seem to have a problem with all of the above.
So it isn't that I don't know guys. What I keep coming back to is that none of these is the right guy, and somewhere there IS a right guy, and when I meet him things won't be so complicated. But maybe he doesn't exist. Who knows? All I can conclude is that "trying to find someone" is not my cup of tea. Even if that means I'm sipping alone.
This seems to be a popular theme on both Dr. Phil and Oprah, according to my mother. Nice, eligible single men have as much trouble meeting nice, eligible single women as vice versa, from what she sees on these shows. What are these men like? I ask her. Do they have decent jobs? Do they seem cool to hang out with? Are they cute? Well, she doesn't know if I'd find them cute, but sure, they seem clean-cut and nice. (Anyone who knows me can probably imagine the sound of nails being pounded HARD into a coffin lid at those words. And yeah, I know, that could be part of my problem...)
So this most recent show featured a man who has made a study, and apparently a business, out of identifying (cue up Connie Francis) where the boys are, and how the girls can meet them--in places other than bars and online dating services. His approach: Look for the ring. Don't see one? Move in, with a question designed to break the ice and make him feel like an expert. Because men really, really like that.
Number one spot to meet guys, says this man? The farmer's market! Say something like, "How can you tell what makes a really good tomato?" or "Do you know any recipes that require organic rhubarb?"
Hmmm, I think. The farmer's market. I can see it now...well, actually, I can't, because the only way I'd ever be up early enough to hit the farmer's market is if I hadn't gone to bed yet. Crazy, no-sleep, up-all-night girl meets fresh-faced, organic juice, rise-with-the-sun boy. Not seeing it. Besides, no way could I maneuver amongst stalls of fresh produce without having an apocalyptic bout of sneezing. And that just doesn't make for a really positive icebreaker. "Hi, excuse me? Do you have a hanky I can borrow to clean up this glob of green stuff hanging off the end of my nose?" Yeah. Not so much.
I don't remember the number two place, but number three is the hardware store--your local Lowe's or Home Depot. Brave a section other than the paint aisle, find a ringless man, and ask him, "Can you help me decide on the kind of lumber to use for my new gazebo?" or "Do you know how to install a ceiling fan?"
So I'm thinking yeah...the hardware store...then I hear the "approach him with a question" bit and I think, Wait, back it up a minute. If he's some random shopper, I'm not going to ask him a question like that! I'm not going to assume that just because of his gender, he knows how to install a ceiling fan or recommend lumber. And even if he seems knowledgeable, I'm not going to trust his answer. That's why the hardware store has employees; that's why there's an Internet.
Sunday afternoon, however, I found myself in the position of wanting to be out of my house (thanks to a mold issue) and broke. So I figured I'd go price some stuff and check out some other stuff at the hardware stores. And while I was there, I noticed a guy with a shopping cart, which reminded me of the "meeting single men at the hardware store" idea, so I decided to keep half an eye out.
Here's what I observed over the course of 15 minutes or so: Three men without rings. Dressed, you know, unremarkably--you couldn't tell anything about them from their attire. No visible tats. Shopping carts. Very confused expressions on their faces.
And I think how utterly stupid this approach is, at least for me.
First of all, I'm not going to ask someone for advice when he looks even more clueless than I am. Second of all, the single thing I know about any of these men is that they aren't wearing a wedding ring. Could have a fiance. Could have taken off the ring in the course of their home-improvement project and haven't put it back on yet. Could be gay. Could, for that matter, be a serial killer.
Thinking or even knowing a guy is single just isn't enough. It's why I don't go to and don't like the idea of singles groups. It's why I am not particularly open to the idea of trying to meet someone online. Because there has to be more in common for me, at the outset, or the conversation will never advance beyond sharing the name of a good electrician or saying a tomato looks juicy. I've always believed and hoped that I would meet someone, and that it would happen in the course of me doing what I like doing anyway. Sure, I'd probably meet more guys if I went to Sand Gnats games, but I think baseball is really boring.
The problem is that most of the things I like are pretty solitary, or they're things that you do with people you already know. I don't know how to meet people. I suck at getting from the acquaintance-having-an-interesting-conversation to the making-plans-to-ever-see-this-person-again phase. It isn't even necessarily meeting people that's the challenge; it's meeting people that I wish I knew better, or figuring out how to express interest in getting to know someone better without coming off too strongly or coming on like I'm interested when I might not be. I seem to have a problem with all of the above.
So it isn't that I don't know guys. What I keep coming back to is that none of these is the right guy, and somewhere there IS a right guy, and when I meet him things won't be so complicated. But maybe he doesn't exist. Who knows? All I can conclude is that "trying to find someone" is not my cup of tea. Even if that means I'm sipping alone.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Oh, Mylanta
So I'm here in the A.T.L., in a dorm room outfitted as a guest room, which is interesting. There are things I did not expect--sofa, chair, TV with cable, fridge, microwave--and there are not things I did expect--plastic cup, soap. So I am sitting here all grimy and thirsty, watching some gothy cartoon with a skull. Oooh, and a spider girl, which reminds me of this bizarre anime we rented one time in college, in which these geisha-esque chicks turned out to really be robots, and their faces were the backs of these spiders. This is all I remember of the anime, other than the spiders surging up a wall in pursuit of someone. (Alcohol was involved in the watching of this movie, but I swear I'm not making these details up.)
This day has been surreal. I overslept (of course), drove up here in 100-degree heat (the AC works, but I was still sweating it), got a bit lost trying to find the school, hung out there for a few hours, got REALLY lost trying to get to the dorm, did almost the same traffic loop twice, and after an hour, finally made it to the dorm (two blocks from the school, mind). So far, I don't think badly of the much-maligned Atlanta drivers; traffic is heavy, yes, but on the whole, people were surprisingly polite and not dangerously aggressive. However, the way midtown Atlanta is set up is just confusing. There are all these one-way streets, and if you miss the cross street you need (at least, if you're me), you end up on some highway funneling you far, far from where you are trying to be with no chance to exit for several miles. On the plus side, I now know I can successfully find my way around a good chunk of metro Atlanta without a real map and with surprisingly minimal road rage.
Anyway, I'm starving and headachy. Half of me wants to go home, and half of me is in love with this city already.
This day has been surreal. I overslept (of course), drove up here in 100-degree heat (the AC works, but I was still sweating it), got a bit lost trying to find the school, hung out there for a few hours, got REALLY lost trying to get to the dorm, did almost the same traffic loop twice, and after an hour, finally made it to the dorm (two blocks from the school, mind). So far, I don't think badly of the much-maligned Atlanta drivers; traffic is heavy, yes, but on the whole, people were surprisingly polite and not dangerously aggressive. However, the way midtown Atlanta is set up is just confusing. There are all these one-way streets, and if you miss the cross street you need (at least, if you're me), you end up on some highway funneling you far, far from where you are trying to be with no chance to exit for several miles. On the plus side, I now know I can successfully find my way around a good chunk of metro Atlanta without a real map and with surprisingly minimal road rage.
Anyway, I'm starving and headachy. Half of me wants to go home, and half of me is in love with this city already.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Only in Savannah
This is why I choose to live in Savannah:
On the way home from work a few weeks ago, I pulled up to a red light and idly checked out the bumper stickers on the shiny red Ford 150 pickup just ahead of me--several renditions of the Confederate flag, as well as the "Don't tread on me" rattlesnake logo. I wasn't paying any attention to the rusted-out, ancient but also red, also a Ford 150 pickup next to him until the door opened and an oldish, grizzled black man jumped out. He was wearing saggy pants that stayed up only by virtue of the fact that they were knotted to his shirttail on one side, and as we all waited at the light, he hefted a five-gallon gasoline can out of his truck bed and proceeded to fuel up. (There are gas stations on both sides of this intersection, mind you.)
He then tossed the empty can back into the truck bed--where it joined various rusted lawn mowers and other ancient gardening equipment--and climbed back into the cab, an operation that involved banging the door shut several times before the latch caught and it stayed. Then someone began honking loudly. Both he and I turned to the vehicle next to me and behind him, which belonged to a very coiffed-looking woman with a permit for The Landings on her rear side window. I think we were both ready to flip her off--the light was still red; why honk?--when she lowered her window enough to call out and gesture to the road somewhere to the side of the truck. The grizzled man hopped out, retrieved a cell phone from the asphalt, where it had apparently flown as he entered or exited the cab, and banged the door shut multiple times until the latch caught (again). He gave the coiffed woman a cheery wave of thanks, and she waved back in gracious acknowledgment. Then the light changed, and we all were off on our merry ways.
On the way home from work a few weeks ago, I pulled up to a red light and idly checked out the bumper stickers on the shiny red Ford 150 pickup just ahead of me--several renditions of the Confederate flag, as well as the "Don't tread on me" rattlesnake logo. I wasn't paying any attention to the rusted-out, ancient but also red, also a Ford 150 pickup next to him until the door opened and an oldish, grizzled black man jumped out. He was wearing saggy pants that stayed up only by virtue of the fact that they were knotted to his shirttail on one side, and as we all waited at the light, he hefted a five-gallon gasoline can out of his truck bed and proceeded to fuel up. (There are gas stations on both sides of this intersection, mind you.)
He then tossed the empty can back into the truck bed--where it joined various rusted lawn mowers and other ancient gardening equipment--and climbed back into the cab, an operation that involved banging the door shut several times before the latch caught and it stayed. Then someone began honking loudly. Both he and I turned to the vehicle next to me and behind him, which belonged to a very coiffed-looking woman with a permit for The Landings on her rear side window. I think we were both ready to flip her off--the light was still red; why honk?--when she lowered her window enough to call out and gesture to the road somewhere to the side of the truck. The grizzled man hopped out, retrieved a cell phone from the asphalt, where it had apparently flown as he entered or exited the cab, and banged the door shut multiple times until the latch caught (again). He gave the coiffed woman a cheery wave of thanks, and she waved back in gracious acknowledgment. Then the light changed, and we all were off on our merry ways.
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