The Great Trash Capor

September 3, 2013

The neighbor lady phoned into the police station to report a woman tossing loose garbage into her private trash can. She wanted to “shout out” to the neighborhood encouraging them to place their cans inside the fences, to prevent the onslaught of people, unwilling or unable to have their personal company cans to fill. She claims to not be able to determine just what kind of perilous rubbish is being housed in her receptacle. Who does that? I predict a future when we will no longer have a place to throw “away” to and then what-hoarding our smelly compost in the back yards, building sheds on top of the piles, to prevent them from taking control? Maybe having to figure out a way to eat our refuse, in order to diminish the mountain.

I have bigger things to worry about in my household. Have to take a sponge bath since I do not have tepid, let alone hot water from the showerhead, bathroom sink nor the kitchen. Do not have the courage to wet my back or stomach with ice cold water. The falls in Hawaii are warmer than this. I get concerned thinking about those frigid winter mornings when my nostril hair will freeze in contempt. Sent a pleading note with my rent this month, to fix the heater, pipes or feed the starving elves in the basement who keep the coal stove lit.

The woman who used to torture me through the ceiling shows up looking for her son today. Apparently he takes the school bus to our corner stop and she will collect him. He is nowhere to be found. Changing the route is probably under swapping the postal address on her To Do List. It sounds as though she has a lot on her mind these days so I simply give her the go ahead to have her nine year old come here and wait, if need be. No sense having him in a panic on the street corner after the bus drops him off. He can hang out with me, the dog and cat, have a cookie and glass of rice milk while we wait.    

Fare Day

September 2, 2013

“We already spent $180 today so I have to go back to the cash machine line,” she belted as I passed, on the way to the Fairgrounds exit. Another woman admitted they were out a mere $80 and has to take the bus home immediately, before she has to file bankruptcy. I am shocked and dragging my left foot more than a bit, while juggling an apple caramel malt from the Dairy Barn, three cow face masks for Taelor and her roomies, and my sack full of snacks from before the parade. Rode in my good friend’s fairy car, didn’t manage the “wave,” very well, however.  I succumbed to the Queen Wave, in the end, whatever that is. Should have gotten “elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist” lessons prior to the event. Drat.

The dude in the yellow corvette claimed to be waiting for the darling tall blonde to ride in the back of his car. My girlfriend and I exchanged a “loser” look and continued to pretend we cared whether she appeared in his life to save the day, prior to the parade send-off. I declined his lame half-hearted offer to sit in the back of his fancy sports car after the beauty queen failed to grace our presence. Too bad for him. I had a grand time in the fairy car, declaring little children can turn into fairies, with the wave of my magic, glittery branch wand.

Don’t do mobs well. The last time I was in a crowd of over 60,000 bodies was in Seattle at the anti-war march. It was a moving and powerful attraction, though didn’t give me much fuel for confidence in the White House members, who fell short in listening to the general public’s wishes.

I shuffled along at the Fair for a few hours, got several flat tires on my bad ankle. I am reluctant to “give way” though I never quite certain I was headed in the right direction. The people watching is always good but seeing the newborn piglets made my day. I am good for another year or five.

"NO!"

September 1, 2013

One in every four women is a survivor of sexual assault. A woman is raped every two minutes. I am shocked by the alarming statistics as I watch “Until Someone Wakes Up,” in which eight performers (one of whom is my wonderfully successful actor daughter) at Hamline’s auditorium. The show consists of 20 vignettes that depict true stories of women and men who have been victimized by their attacker. It is a charged performance that made me squirm in my chair in the dark room, while I consider the people closest to me whom have experienced parallel stories.

Incoming Freshman at Hamline and students at campuses across the country will watch this play, learn about how to stand up to protect themselves, scream if they have to, or communicate with clarity what has happened, if it does. No does actually mean no. One in four will continue to be a survivor of a sexual assault, unless we decrease those figures, by taking a stand on education, talking to our children about sex, and being more aware.

Thank you, my precious Taelor, for helping the cause, spreading the word, and being a courageous, and fabulous actor. 

"Like" the Lynx

August 31, 2013

It’s like bringing sand to the beach. I am overjoyed to be at the Lynx game with my good friend, who surprised me with tickets. A ride on the LightRail and beers downtown, then joining the masses to watch the women play. What a blast! My High School and college basketball experiences came whooshing in and I got into the groove of clapping, bopping to the tunes on the loud speakers, stood to cheer every five minutes, made lewd comments about the many entertaining acts the marketers came up with in between quarters and waved off the cotton candy, beer, peanuts, kettlecorn, coffee, massive sodas and slushies that paraded by. Impressed with the crowd of four seated in front of us since they were cheering the Seattle Sonics with gusto. They had won the trip in Washington state, which included airline tickets, fancy room at the downtown Marriot and their well appointed seats at the game (Lynx stomped them.)

One day I am groping a woman from behind to steal the ball on the court, the next I am sitting in the stands, watching women half my age or more, play like their lives depend upon it. Looks like the Lynx may very well head to the Championship.

World Cup Shackles

August 30, 2013

Some of my old Puma soccer teammates want to go to the World Cup next April. I could easily arrange to chaperone a group, to the preferred city of Natal, one of the smallest venues. However, my Brasilian friends are already protesting my participation, disturbed by the defamation of the black people (in Salvador, for example, the overwhelmingly black city, has chosen Ivete Sangalo, a white singer, to perform the national anthem for the inauguration,) destruction of many homes and local businesses, erecting masses of new spaces, injurious to the country, to create a more culturally appealing scheme. In the marketing pieces, large chunks of green space are dubbed-in to amputate the scarred and real impoverished segments of the cities. I am in doubt as to whether I want to contribute to this humiliation. The estimated cost to Brasil, to host these events, amounts to $33 million. Like South Africa and the UK, they will most likely lose their shirt and have years of recovery. Companies like Coca-Cola and McDonalds will represent the food venues in the stadiums, leaving out the local sources, even banning them from up to two kilometers from the stadium walls. Homes, albeit windowless cracker boxes, are being stripped from the areas, displacing so many. New transportation fares caused massive riots in my old home town and across the South American country not long ago. My heart bleeds for my kindred spirits, the grief and loss they are already experiencing. Just under a year prior to the kick-off and I mourn the changes, for Brasil and her people. 

Rest Haven

August 29, 2013

Should have withered away to nothing by now, downsized to size zero or something as chic but, no such luck. Sweating is contagious, I’m afraid, and the worker bees upstairs have caught it from me, or vice versa. They are gulping iced tea from weeping glasses by the hour and I cannot get past the next few steps on my project without stopping to pour another shot, like a German barmaid, sans a handful of coin for a tip. I sit in the blazing heat, glistening, while the ceiling fan mocks my progress, or lack thereof.  I am wearing as little clothing as I can get away with, aside from being arrested for indecent exposure while the two helpers have on jeans, clunky pleather boots, most likely sensible absorbent cotton socks with a few holes, and white undershirts beneath their button-down short sleeves!

The Nursing Home (usually they are named things like Rest Haven or something so far removed from the reality of the joint, it is crazy) is situated on acreage, seems more like a golf course or conference center than a nursing home/rehabilitation/assisted living spot. The halls are soothing and luxurious. I couldn’t even strain to view the residents saturated into their hospital beds, and believe me, I tried, as I sashayed down the corridor. Was in to visit with my new client and her son, discussing the ins and outs of her care, once she arrives home again. We calmly talked about meal options, my hours, swabbing the deck and other rooms in the apartment, the details of the laundry situated in the basement and finding things the senior lady wants to do in her spare time. She is a mere 88 and in a bad way, at the moment. Once she is shipped home, I will pitch in to take care of her. I draw the line at making and serving lime jello, however, so I insisted they put that in the contract.

I look forward to hearing about little Lacey, my good friend (who is now 52) and her shenanigans while staying at my client’s place when she was a child. All of those family memories that get rearranged in the mind, expanding and contracting with time. Something to look forward to. It comes with the aging territory, whether we like it or not. 

Special on Half and Half

August 28, 2013

The clerk at the West Side Grocery store had no clue how much the pint of half and half should be. He asked me if I had bought it before and how much was it the last time. I didn’t have any idea so we made up the price of $1.79 and he counted out the change with a doubtful expression across his heavy, yet obviously youthful face, and doled it out in a clump. We shared a good chuckle and a “Have a great night,” the stranger mathematician and I, as I made my way out the double doors to collect Tyrus. He was tied to the metal pole out front, impatiently waiting for me to return, ignoring the gang of boys smoking and exchanging remarks about this and that. One louder voice comments about the size of the dog, guesses his breed as a tough Pit, another cheerful tone claims Golden, yet another, Yellow Mellow Lab or the brazen and dangerous tone suggests a mixed breed of sorts. Only one man, about a year ago, commented with certainty, that he is a Bull Mastiff. I tell the motley crew that he is a guard dog and leave them hanging.

Two men came to the door with their black tool boxes and extension cords, a drill, Gorilla Glue and various other supplies carted in a plastic Walmart bag, just to piss me off. They came to bang and un-wedge, spray fine dust over the furniture and pets, break a window and depart, with chai tea sloshing around in their bellies. I had to hydrate them or I was afraid they would keel over in the house and be here for days on end. The black moldy spot on the bathroom ceiling is patched over again, not sure how they resolved the mildly functioning stovetop and the shower still runs cold. Claim they will be back tomorrow to finish up.

A few break-in reports are scattered across the neighborhood web page. Someone was hit last night between 10pm and 1:00am, while they were at home, asleep in their beds. The electronics were targeted. Close the windows in the night, the message urged me and my unsuspecting neighbors. Another woman suggested they are moving sooner than later since she discovered the motion-detector lights had been unscrewed from their sockets, most likely in preparation for a hit. It is terrible that people are frightened in their homes. We should feel safe and secure during our REM sleep. I am tired and hope the thieves keep their hands to themselves tonight because I just do not have the patience.