The Magical Wizard of Oz

When I was little, my favorite book was The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum. We had this ratty orange paperback version — nothing special, I’m not even sure if it had the illustrations in it. I must have read that book 5 or 6 times myself during my childhood, and my sisters had all read it too. Its popularity in our household was clearly evident: my sister Jenny and I had drawn pictures on the blank pages at the beginning and end of the book, and the spine had been reinforced several times with masking tape.

When I got into my teens, I got it into my mind that I would be a collector of books: matching sets was my ideal. I had the ambitious goal of owning every single Nancy Drew book in that yellow hard-cover style that was so popular for so long. That goal was never realized, however; do you know how many of those books there are? It’s a lot, lemme tell you.

I also wanted a matching set of the Wizard of Oz books, all thirteen of those that were originally written by L. Frank Baum.

Anyone who is a fan of the series will know that there are far more than thirteen books, as Baum’s family carried on the tradition after his death. I was, however, a purist, and I most wanted those original thirteen.

I finally got my wish, and collected a matching set of paperbacks; they weren’t high-quality collectors’ editions or anything, but they were uniform in height and color, they were polished, shiny, and the pages were pristine; they were even numbered, and seeing them lined up on my bookshelf made me feel I had accomplished something.

I gave the old orange book away.

Several years later, in my early twenties, I was at a second-hand store doing my favorite thing: browsing through the book section.

On a free-standing wire rack of paperbacks, a flash of traffic-cone orange caught my attention. I turned the bookstand, and there in front of me was a familiar orange cover that read Wizard of Oz in faded yellow letters. Dry and cracked masking tape covered the spine.

I picked the book up and opened it. There inside were the pictures that Jenny and I had drawn in purple crayon; there were even our names, and our old phone number—which I still remember because it was the first phone number I ever had to learn.

Suddenly, it became the most important book in the world, and I bought it back for 75 cents.

I just turned 40, and I still have that orange copy of The Wizard of Oz. I don’t have that first matched set any longer, however. I guess I’m still a collector, but the things I choose to collect have changed.

This graphic-story that the below image comes from reminded me of that: of the feeling I got when I rediscovered that old book, when I realized I had not even known I missed having that particular version in my hands. I had missed the comfortable softness of the pages, and the pliant flexibility of the old paper cover, its dusty texture against my fingers.

Be sure to follow the link to read the whole story called Mister Bookseller.

Spam Haiku No. 3 – found poetry

This is the third in a series of quasi-haiku found-poems gleaned from various spam emails I have received.

Notes for Performance:

1. The title of the original spam serves as the title of the poem and should not be read as part of the spam haiku itself.
2. The symbol [--] indicates a place where there was once a hyperlink in the original spam email. It should be read as a significant pause in the haiku, building tension and offering the performer a chance to make meaningful connections with the audience.
3. Punctuation: all punctuation and typographical spacing has been left as it was in the original spam email. The performer can interpret these as he or she sees fit, using the time to gesticulate sorrowfully at the sky, or to grind ones teeth in anguish.

———- Spam Haiku: No. 3 ———–

Re:HelpMedicinesNow

evening nothing
March ,
[--] nature morning ,
each during

received 4/26/2010

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Interpretation and Significance: This spam haiku “Re:HelpMedicinesNow” reflects the Spammer’s views on what he/she perceives as the dangerous over-prescription of anti-depressants by medical providers for the treatment of Seasonal Affective Disorder (or SAD). Probably.

A close-reading of the haiku leads us to understand the ironic nature of its title. The first line, “evening nothing” evokes the feeling of the long, hopeless descent into the season of depression — a depression that lasts not a single evening, but an entire winter, carrying on through “March,” which we see set apart in the second line, like a small beacon of hope. These two lines create a tension for the reader, who feels the inextricable agony of being trapped by the relentless onslaught of uncaring seasons.

The third line, however, is the turning point of the haiku. The line “[--] nature morning ,” shows the reader that there is hope for the future, there is a dawn, and it will come sometime after March, with the spring, unless you happen to live in Alaska, and then it won’t come until May, or even June. In which case you’re probably better off taking the Zoloft, sweetie***.

The final line, “each during” is an acknowledgment of the difficulty one might have in trying to work through such seasonal depression without the help of pharmaceuticals. However, if one remembers the lesson of the seasons, one might be able to remember that SAD, too, is only a seasonal affliction, and that if one were only to get over one’s self already and stop being such a pussy, one would be better off.

***disclaimer: the author of this blog would like to remind her readers that this is the spammer talking, not her, and that the haiku should not be used as a replacement for going to see an actual medical professional to help you with all those fucked up issues you’ve got going on in that brain of yours.

Spam Haiku No. 2 – found poetry

This is the second in a series of quasi-haiku found-poems gleaned from various spam emails I have received since beginning my job hunt more than a year and a half ago.

Notes for Performance:

1. The title of the original spam serves as the title of the poem and should not be read as part of the spam haiku itself.
2. The symbol [--] indicates a place where there was once a hyperlink in the original spam email. It should be read as a significant pause in the haiku, building tension and offering the performer a chance to make meaningful connections with the audience.
3. Punctuation: all punctuation and typographical spacing has been left as it was in the original spam email. The performer can interpret these as he or she sees fit, using the time to gesticulate sorrowfully at the sky, or to grind ones teeth in anguish.

———- Spam Haiku: No. 2 ———–

RE:erectile pills buy here

open probable,
ocean [--] probable,
problem

received 4/2/2010

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Interpretation and Significance: This spam haiku “Re:erectile pills buy here″ reflects the Spammer’s views on Offshore Drilling. Probably.

The opening line “open probable,” almost exactly does not mirror one of President Obama’s election campaign statements that he supported a more modest approach offshore oil exploration and drilling than that of GOP candidate John McCain. Also, the choice of the word “probable” indicates the Spammer feels nervous about the prospect of this, suggesting the spammer has a strong environmentalist stance when it comes to the issue of natural resources.

The pattern repetition of the second line, with just a single word changed and the added tension afforded by the significant pause in between the two words serves to further build the tension that the Spammer feels over the prospect of the beautiful ocean floors being deflowered by the evil offshore oil derricks, which, of course, represent penises.

Finally, the Spammer ends the haiku with the significant single alliterative word: problem. As in, Houston, we’ve got a problem, and it’s offshore oil drilling. The word “problem” also hearkens back to the title of the poem: how the current reality of the erection of oil derricks for offshore drilling is a bitter pill to swallow, indeed. Our spammer appears to have lost all hope because the country appears to have bought into some kind idea that electrical cars are lame because you can’t hear them coming and you might run over blind people, which is totally not a non-sequitor.

Furthermore, the choice of using a single-worded final line indicates just how close the Spammer is to despair. He’s just way far much too full of despair to go on any further. He has to go cut himself now.

And that’s a problem.

Spam Haiku No. 1 – found poetry

This is the first in a series of quasi-haiku poetry I have created using found words from the various spam emails I have received in the last year.

Interesting side-note: I never before had received spam until I started signing up for online job-search sites … coincidence? I think not.

So, if spammers can capitalize on my needs, I can steal their words and turn them into something new … something beautiful …

Notes for Performance:

1. The title of the original spam serves as the title of the poem and should not be read as part of the spam haiku itself.
2. The symbol [--] indicates a place where there was once a hyperlink in the original spam email. It should be read as a significant pause in the haiku, building tension and offering the performer a chance to make meaningful connections with the audience.
3. Punctuation: all punctuation and typographical spacing has been left as it was in the original spam email. The performer can interpret these as he or she sees fit, using the time to gesticulate sorrowfully at the sky, or to grind ones teeth in anguish.

———- Spam Haiku: No. 1 ———–

Re:#MEDICINES#098

difficult fish ‘
dollar [--] field ?
close .

received 4/18/2010

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Interpretation and Significance: This spam haiku “Re:#MEDICINES#098″ reflects the Spammer’s views on Health Care Reform in America. Probably.

Consider the number 098 as an allusion to the popular Jay-Z song “99 Problems” wherein he says:

“I’m from rags to ritches niggas I ain’t dumb
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one
Hit me”

The suggestion becomes that the Spammer has only 98 problems, which means that, for the spammer, neither the bitch, nor health-care is a problem: something that only an evil Socialist Canadian would boast. We must therefore assume this spam comes from Canada.

Or Nigeria.

The Spammer also appears to be belittling America and the “difficult fish” she is trying to land, i.e., health care reform, or perhaps the Spammer is suggesting something larger: something grander, like the ending of all illness and strife altogether, whereupon we might even interpret this spam haiku as a Utopia piece.

The significant pause, [--], in between the words “dollar” and “field” seems to suggest that the American government has a long way to go before the positive effects of health care reform will be felt.

Finally, the ambiguity of the final word “close” — which asks the performer to interpret it for his or herself: is it close as in “near,” or close as in ‘”to shut?” – is shrouded in mystery. To read it as the former suggests the benefits are, perhaps, nearer than originally anticipated. However, this goes against the loss and bitterness felt in the second line: “dollar [--] field.” Is the Spammer, then, trying to appeal to our sense of irony? To read the word close as “to shut,” however, lends a much more somber, nihilistic sense to the poem’s message: that Health Care Reform is, indeed, the beginning of the end of the American Way of Life, and that is a Very Bad Thing.

All told, it is difficult to fully understand the message of this spam haiku within one or two readings. Try reading it aloud to yourself five- or six-hundred times and tell me what you think!

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To the Young Dude I Let Cut in Front of Me at the Supermarket

Dear Young Dude,

I’m sorry I let you cut in front of me at the store. You see, I noticed you only had a can of soda in your hand, and I knew that my overladen basket of groceries would take a while to scan and bag. Also, I had my eye on that giant can of Diet Red Bull in the case near the register, and I thought that letting you go in front of me would give me time to get some of that delicious highly-caffeinated goodness. So I waved you ahead of me, only half noticing how you nervously avoided my eyes as you muttered your thanks.

So when I noticed you reaching for a package of condoms that they display right at eye level right at the register where everyone and god can see you reaching for them, I politely averted my gaze, while smiling secretly to myself knowing that some young person was going to be having some safe sex tonight.

It was because I felt so happy for you that what happened next was so painful to witness; it was the sort of thing that can scar a person for life. It really sucked that those condoms were hung on one of those flimsy plastic strips that never seem to work properly: either they cling to the tiny packages with the claws of an eagle, or they have a tendency to drop every single package at the barest touch of a hand.

And then, there’s the third situation, and I’m really sorry it happened to you.

Sometimes those plastic strips don’t even stay where they’re supposed to. Sometimes those plastic strips come completely off their hooks, clattering noisily to the floor, drawing attention, and spilling packages of condoms everywhere.

So, I’m really sorry, young dude. I didn’t know you were getting condoms … I didn’t know that you would suddenly be surrounded by Moms and their kids and surly looking older men who would all see you knock and entire display of Trojans to the floor of a busy supermarket at 5 p.m. on a Friday.

Sorry dude. I hope you weren’t too embarrassed, and I hope you have the most fantastic safe sex of your entire life tonight.

Sincerely,

Jessica

Poems from the past: Leopard

This image reminds me of a poem I wrote a long time ago, must have been 1990?

===========

If I had a leopard
I’d take him for walks
In the park.

And no one would pester
Or bother or bug me
After dark.

And I would be happy
As free as could be;
I’d be proud.

For I would have no one,
Not no one to fear …
Except my leopard.

Poems from the Past: Clearly Stated

I used to write these goofy little brain-twister poems quite a bit. I thought I’d share one …

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Clearly Stated

What I am is here to be;
What I be is who I am,
And am is I — for where I be
Depends not on yourself, but me.

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Photograph by Lyubomir Bukov, please visit the site!! I borrowed the photo without permission, but am hoping linking to his site makes up for it …

Living With Sean is Hazardous to My Health

After a depressing day of applying for various jobs, I always enjoy stopping by the Etc. section of Craigslist. There, you can find all sorts of odd jobs and money-making opportunities. I’ve even found a few research-study opportunities, for example, I participated in two different research projects on jury selection: a few hours time and a couple questionnaires, and you walk out $50 richer. It’s sweet!! There’s ads wanting to hire dominatrix-trainees; there’s ads seeking out “healthy” heroin addicts. There’s ads offering 8 to 10 thousand dollars for egg-donors. Believe me, if I was younger, I would totally do it—but the cut-off age seems to be 29. Individual couples are even willing to pay more if you fit into a very specific demographic, e.g. Jewish heritage, both paternal and maternal, with a documented family history going back several generations … that kind of stuff.

So today I’m looking through the Etc. section and come upon this listing for a medical study: Been hit on the head? Knocked unconscious?

Hells yeah! I’ve been looking for a medical study for a long time: they pay BANK, like, upwards of $1,000. ! But sadly, I’ve not yet fit into any of their criteria. There were studies for depression—but you can’t already be on anti-depressants; studies for ADD, but you have to be younger than 17; studies for the effects of alcohol and common OTC drugs on certain reactions and behaviors, but you can’t be on hormonal birth-control; studies for restless-legs, but I haven’t had anything resembling an episode of that in half a year … grumble.

So anyway: I was all excited about the Been hit on the head? Knocked unconscious? study. For yes, I have been hit on the head and knocked unconscious not once, but three times in my life!! (Yes, this explains a lot, but back to the story). Once, when I was a baby, I was dropped on my head: I had hairline fractures and everything! They measured my skull to make sure my head wasn’t going to explode like an overripe tomato. The second time it happened I was five; it was a sledding accident, and I woke up draped over a fallen tree, like something out of a cartoon. Luckily, besides being a surefire means of child-destruction, that runner sled was a good medical conveyance which served to drag me home safely to Mom, the couch, and all the hot chocolate I could drink. The third time was at a birthday party and it also involved sleds. I was about 13, and we were sledding down a terrifically exciting but fraught with danger hill that doubled as my friend Darcy’s lawn. It was very steep, very short, and there were lots of trees to dodge around. Being already brain-damaged, apparently, I decided it would be a good idea to ride down this hill backward, with my friend Deanna up front. It happened very fast, I saw her bail off, and before I could react: BLAMMO. Me, meet tree. I woke up staring into the sky, surrounded by a circle of my friends’ faces. I remember thinking at the time that it looked very much like a shot from a movie. Then the pain hit. My mom was quickly called and I spent the next few days resting in bed, trying to sleep but continuously being jarred awake, re-living the crash over and over in my sleep.

So I opened the listing—Been Hit in the Head? Knocked Unconscious?—visions of BANK dancing in my oft-concussed head. I quickly scanned the requirements, eagerly looking for how much my well-dented noggin could bring me in:

Have you suffered from a blow to the head in the past 10 years?
Did you experience loss of consciousness or memory after being hit?
Did you experience excessive sleepiness?
Are you between the ages of 18-65?

If so you may qualify for a clinical research study of an investigational medication.

I was so excited I almost missed the end of the first requirement.

Almost.

“Dammit,” I said to Sean.

He looked up from his computer, “What?”

“There’s a clinical research study I thought I would qualify for, on head-injuries, but they have to have happened within the last ten years,” I said. “Crap, you know how many times I’ve been knocked out!”

“Does it say anything about how recent it can be?”

I was half ignoring him, reading the announcement over more closely. “Hmmm?”

“Does it say anything about how recent it can be?” I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, he’s reaching toward me with a book in his hand. “Hold still, shh-shh-shhh, hold still. This book is kind of small, I’ll probably have to hit you several times with it … no, no, no,” he says, soothingly, “… hoooold stiiiilllll.”

Does anybody have a helmet I can borrow? I have the feeling I should wear one for the next several weeks.

If you don’t hear from me, tell my mother that I love her very much.

Harley and the Firemen

It’s hard not to like firemen. Really: the job of firemen has been romanticized for probably as long as they’ve been driving around in those big, giant, shiny red trucks. They have all the gadgets and muscles of a policeman, without the billy-clubs and pepper-spray: what’s not to love? But if you look past the rubber-suited, fire-hose-totin’ glamour, firemen really have kind of crappy jobs. Think about it, they’re either hanging around the firehouse for endless hours, playing cards, listening to music, maybe lifting weights … shirtless … perhaps taking long, hot saunas with other muscular firemen, roughly rubbing scented oil into each other’s rippling pectorals … *ahem* … sorry, got off track. Where was I?

Oh yes, talking about how lame the job of being a fireman must really be. Either they’re waiting around for a really terrible fire to happen, or they’re putting out a really terrible fire, which boils down to: really boring, or really depressing. I imagine the greatest perk for a fireman must be saving things. Sometimes they get to save a home, sometimes they save people, and sometimes they even save people’s pets.

Like many people, I’d been raised on books in which naughty puppies got lost and found, and foolish kittens had gotten stuck in trees. More often than not, a cheerful, smiling fireman was on hand to save the day. I mention this because I have my own personal Golden Book memory, wherein my dear cat Harley was stuck–not in a tree, but in an apartment–and I called upon some wonderful firemen to save him.

Our story unfolds in Seattle. I was watching a friend’s house while he was out of town, not actually staying there, just watering the plants, and bringing in the mail; he was going to be out of town for a while. It was winter, and in the Pacific Northwest, that means temperatures in the 40s and 50s, and rain: lots and lots of rain. This particular winter, however, Seattle experienced one of its rare snow storms.

Now, in Alaska, when 6 or so inches of snow falls, people might talk about it, and say: “Boy, it’s sure snowing!!” Then they’ll go outside, sweep off their car, and drive to work, or to church, or the grocery store. Shoot Alaskans get a FOOT of snow, and people will STILL say, “Boy, it’s sure snowing!!” And they’ll go out, brush off their car, and drive to work, church, etc. … we ain’t phased by snow.

Not so, Seattle. If an inch of snow falls, the city slams to a stop. Cars are in ditches. It’s national news. People are stocking up on canned goods, writing their wills, and surreptitiously eyeing the family dog, wondering how he might taste.

So, it was snowing in Seattle. I was at work, and they decided to send us all home because it was so dangerous out there. “Ha ha!” I chuckled to myself, and cheerfully walked the 2 miles home in a bare 2 inches of snow. The busses were all snarled up in traffic, Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi?) skidded recklessly, and it made me feel self-righteously smug about my finely honed winter-survival skills; having been raised in Alaska, I wasn’t going to let this piddling excuse for precipitation stop me. I laughed at the snow, “Ha HAH!” I went happily to my apartment, then, faced with the potential of a long gray afternoon inside with nothing to do but housework, I decided to go see a movie instead. About two hours later I came home, and realized that since I had even more afternoon to kill that I might as well take advantage of the time and do some much-needed organizing. I had a tiny studio apartment on the side of Queen Anne Hill, overlooking the Space Needle and Mt. Rainer. It was miniscule, but it was mine; I and my fat cat were quite content there. I grabbed my keys and headed downstairs to my storage unit.

The apartment building where I lived at the time had been built during the World’s Fair in the 1960s. Each apartment had a nice, efficient layout that included a pint-sized kitchen, a full bathroom. In spite of its miniscule size, however, and its official title of studio, the floor-plan was quite clever, so there was some actual privacy between the living room and the bedroom. The bedroom overlooked an interior courtyard/parking-lot for the apartments; the front door and window were connected to an outside hallway/balcony of sorts. The building’ original purpose was to be a high-end extended-stay Motel for happy and wealthy World’s Fair attendees.

Did I mention the front door locked automatically?

So, in a frenzy of organizational-good-intent, I shuffled, I organized, I rearranged, I grabbed keys, and I hauled myself downstairs to my storage unit to store some extra bulky stuff that didn’t really need to be in my place. When I got downstairs, however, I discovered I had grabbed my friend’s keys and not my own. Fuck. So there I was, locked out of my apartment, wearing only jeans and a sweater in the middle of a Seattle snowstorm, outside an apartment located halfway up one of the steepest hills in Seattle. This wouldn’t have mattered to me so much except for one thing: Harley. Harley was a diabetic kitty.

I had only recently discovered the diabetes, having taken him to the vet in a panic when I realized he’d been eating just as much yet still losing weight. He was also drinking and peeing an awful lot. I was going through cat litter like crazy. After going through the guilt and remorse over having let him get so fat in the first place–which played a pivotal role in his acquiring the diabetes, just as it does for humans–I steeled myself and decided I had to continue taking care of him. The vet told me that maintenance and management of diabetes in cats isn’t quite as difficult as one might imagine, and that diabetic cats can live quite comfortably for a long time; plus, cats are the only animals who can actually recover from diabetes, so there was still hope for the future. I was still, however, learning the intricacies of denying him all the food he wanted–the bad habits of an over-indulgent Mommy were hard to break for both of us–and giving him insulin shots twice a day. So as I stood outside my front door, looking bleakly at the impostor-keys clutched in my fist, I realized that it was time for Harley’s shot, and time for his food, and he was stuck all alone inside!! Oh shit. This was a life-or-death situation!! Visions of diabetic comas danced in my head; me watching helplessly through the window as my dear little boy slumped to the floor, eyes locked with mine. Visions of busting out the huge picture window next to the front door also scurried around in my brain for a moment too, but I knew replacing that big old window would cost me more than I paid for rent each month. I could see Harley through the window, wide eyed, staring at me expectantly. I could see his little mouth open and close with each meow although I couldn’t hear him over the whoosh of the wind and the sound of my own heart pounding. What to do??? What to do???

I went knocking on neighbors’ doors, one after the other, trying to find someone who was home and who would let me use their phone. I finally found someone, a nice young gay man who owned a flower shop down the street–really! I apologize if this is starting to sound like a Meg Ryan movie, but I swear this is all true. So anyway, this nice fellow lets me in to use his phone. I try calling the building manager to see if he or she has a key: no answer, no answering machine. I try calling the building management company number. Again: no answer, no answering machine. Apparently, snow in Seattle affects not only the roads and traffic, but the phone lines. I heaved a sigh, and decided to call a locksmith and blow the $80 to get my door unlocked. Amazingly, I reached someone on the first try! I told him my situation and he said “No problem.” Then I told him where I lived, and he laughed, and said, “No way can I get up there, that street’s crazy.”

Dammit!

Each new locksmith I called gave me the same answer. I was getting more and more frustrated, and was also cognizant of the fact that I was tying up this guy’s phone line and still Harley was inside my apartment, hungry, thumbless, and ignorant about what he could do with thumbs to a doorknob if he did have the thumbs and the brains … and the height. Poor Harley.

I was out of ideas and out of options … almost. I decided to do what any reasonable person who had a cat needing rescuing would do: I called the fire department. No, I didn’t call 911, I wasn’t that freakish. I looked in the book and found their non-emergency number; I called up the closest house and explained the situation to them in low, embarrassed tones, ending with: “So, if you’re not busy and there aren’t any real emergencies or anything … do you think you could … maybe … help me out?”

They said they could help me out, those generous, kind people at Seattle’s Queen Anne Fire Department, whose headquarters were mere blocks away from my apartment, and who were known for … well … doing firemen-y things, which presumably included cat-rescuing, and not making fun of the girl who called them to do so: at least, not to her face.

I stepped outside to await my (and Harley’s) rescuers, the snow still falling, falling, “My soul swooned slowly as I heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.” (Ahem … apologies to James Joyce, also dead, for that last bit that I stole from his short story, ‘The Dead,’ but nothing I came up with myself quite invoked the poignancy of the situation … really … *cough*… anywaaay).

I was expecting the firemen to just show up in one of their smaller vehicles, all unobtrusive and such, I mean, they were rescuing a cat. But no, this was apparently an emergency worthy of the full hook-and-ladder truck. I raised my hands to my face as they pulled up, they had the lights flashing and everything. The truck was as red as my face. No less than four firemen got out, dressed in full regalia of yellow rubber slickers, boots, hats, the works. We all stood in front of my building, in front of my door on the third floor exterior walkway, the lights flashing wildly from the street below, my neighbors peering curiously of out their front doors; meanwhile, I’m trying to will myself back in time a few hours to before I had locked myself out of my fucking apartment.

The Captain took a look at my front door; he tried all the same things I had tried, including inspecting the front window to see if we could somehow manage to break in. It was with mixed feelings I discovered that he couldn’t successfully break in either, which meant I had a relatively safe apartment–nice to know–but still, there was Harley inside, anxiously, curiously peering through the window, his little mouth opening and closing in silent meows.

We decided to go around to the back of the building to take a look at my bedroom window as a potential access point. There were no walkways in back and no easy access since I was on the third floor. No access, that is, unless you are a fireman, with one of those cool retractable ladders. We looked at the windows, and saw the hinges were on the outside, so one of those firemen grabbed a couple tools and scurried up, loosened the hinges and managed to get them undone. He slithered through the window into my bedroom, resplendent in his yellow slicker, and planted a big sooty footprint in the middle of my pillow, which I secretly thought was kind of hot.     He went through to the front door, unlocked it, and reunited me and my beloved Harley. The rest of the fellows during this time had been chatting pleasantly with me, asking about my cat, me, talking about the snow, asking about Alaska, they were just really cool about the whole situation. I think they found it rather amusing, and probably a nice change from pulling scared people out of burning buildings.

I was so grateful and so relieved, I wondered if there was some way I could express my thanks; the stupid locksmith would have cost me at least $80, but the only thing I was paying these guys with were my taxes. It actually kind of blew me away that they had been so gracious and so willing to help a dingbat in distress and her obese, insulin-dependent cat. Rescuing people and pets is their job. It’s a hard job, and I really wanted to do something to show them how much I had appreciated their help.

So after they had left, I gave Harley his food and his shot, and we sat down to have a little chat. Yes, I talk with my cats, or rather; I anthropomorphize my cats for comedic effect. Got a problem with that?? So I asked my wise and satiated kitty what he thought I should do for the nice firemen who had rescued him.

“Who?” he asked sleepily.

“You know, the guys in the yellow coats,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” he replied, “those nice boys! They were so helpful! You should feed them.””

“Feed them?” I asked, picturing IAMS for Firemen in a big teal bag.

“Feed them,” he said, “guys like to be fed.” And finished doling out wisdom, Harley curled up and went to sleep on the couch. After I thought about if for a second, though, he had a point: food is always a welcome gift, whether you’re a cat or a fireman.

I walked down to the grocery store a few blocks away, enjoying the still-falling snow and the unusual quiet of the Seattle streets. I bought some apples, disposable pie tins, extra flour, and other necessities, and I baked those nice firemen a couple of apple-pies. I know, it sounds corny, but the whole situation was just so bizarre, and, since it was over, pretty funny too; it was the whole firemen-rescuing-the-cat scenario, combined with the stranded-woman-in-a-snowstorm thing: you’re my only hope, you big hunk of muscle in a yellow slicker, help me big fella … I thought I might as well add my own cliche to the mix and bake ‘em some apple pies. The pies came out of the oven golden-brown and oozing with sweet, sticky juice. I packed them carefully, covering them in foil, then in a box, then in a towel to keep them warm, and then I walked the two blocks to the fire station and knocked on the front door.

The captain himself received my pies with graciousness and more than a hint of laughter in his eyes. He did seem rather touched, though, and I was glad I had done it, though mortified at my own involvement in this embarrassingly wholesome “Andy Griffith Show” scenario. Oh well, it was for a good cause. We shook hands, and I turned and walked back into the snowy night, my hands stuffed securely in my pockets, home to my sweetly sleeping Harley.

Devil Bunnies

Gather ’round, my children, and I shall tell you a tale to make your hair turn white, your bowels tremble, and set your toenails ablaze.

I used to have quite a second career centered around house-sitting, and I have a lot of very boring stories about it. Lots and lots of boring stories. On the flip side of that coin, I have a few interesting stories — or at least less stultifyingly boring — and now that I have you totally confused, I shall begin.

I house-sat for this dude who had what seemed like 80, but were in fact 4, large, smelly dogs. These weren’t meek and mild dogs, these were dogs who come in and make themselves KNOWN. They were large, hairy, smelly, and had the ability to shoot large clumps of hair at least 15 feet in all directions. This particular winter I was 20, and a sucker for big, sad, moist dog eyes staring at me saying “I’s cooold, let meee iiiinnnnn …” It was a damn cold winter, mind — averaging 20-below, NOT including wind-chill, for about 2 weeks. It sucked. The water froze in their dog-dishes outside — except the special electric-one that could plug in and had a heating element to keep it drinkable. Still, that bowl would get an inch rim of ice all the way around by the time I’d gotten home from work. So. The dogs. This blog is not about the dogs, but I can’t write about this house without mentioning the dogs, because they were terrors. These dogs would eat anything within reach. They ate a loaf of cranberry bread a friend had made for me that I had left on the kitchen counter, pushed alllll the way back, mind you; you’d think it was safe. They even ate my fucking toothbrush. What kind of dog eats a toothbrush? The indignity was compounded when said toothbrush showed up the next morning, cozily wrapped in a steaming fresh pile of dog-turds on the living room carpet. That pretty much destroyed the last vestiges of sympathy I had for these critters, so it was out to the back yard with the damn dogs (they had husky in them, don’t fret, so they were perfectly safe and fine in the cold weather, they just weren’t very happy about not being able to be inside, eating my crap off of the counter-tops.)

Anyway.

In this house was also … um … housed … some rabbits. Yes, these are the very rabbits you see in the picture here. Fucking rabbits.

This guy loved him some bunnies, and had turned his downstairs sun-room into a rabbit home. He made a little frame, put down Visquene, and strewed hay around for his little friends to munch upon. My job, as house-sitter and martyr-in-training, was to sweep up the hay once every few days and replace it with fresh hay from a bale conveniently kept in the downstairs office. (yes, in the downstairs office. This guy was a bachelor, can you tell?) This is what he told me before he left: “You can just move the plywood out of the way, let them hop around the basement while you’re sweeping up, they enjoy it. Just don’t let them chew on any cords, and when you’re done changing the hay, just shoo them back in, they’re very docile.”

Yeah.  Docile means “rabid” in certain languages.

So. I let the damn bunnies out. I sweep up the old hay. I lovingly dribble new hay about, being sure to fluff it just the way the dude told me … and I go to get the bunnies.

The two small ones went in without any trouble. They seemed happy to go back home, and to nestle like a Disney character in the sweet-smelling (i.e. dusty, moldy) hay. Happy bunnies. Happy Happy.

The third bunny, the BIG bunny, was harder to find. I found him in the back office, under the desk, wedged into a corner. Big bunny had his taste of freedom, and it was sweet: he would not come quietly.

First, I stupidly tried to pick him up with my hands. He flattened his ears back and bared his long, yellow chompers at me and HISSED — he HISSED, I tell you, just like a cat does, but it was more frightening, because it was all so unreal … and those teeth were mighty yellow and long. Next, I tried shooing and herding him in with my feet, like he was a big, furry soccer ball. He would have none of that nonsense. More hissing ensued, plus a couple feints with the teeth at my ankles. I backed off, understanding that those teeth, should they hit their mark true, could potentially meet in the middle of the flesh of my ankle. I was not anxious to discover if his aim was true. Next, I grabbed the hay sweeping broom, and tried to bully him toward the pen: no rabbit was going to boss ME around …

The broom did not fare well. The rabbit attacked it with all the gusto one would expect out of a Berserker or a Serial killer: with that cold, methodical, yet terrifyingly persistent violence that will rip a body to bloody ribbons in a matter of minutes.

Then, silence.

It was me and the rabbit, looking at each other across the room. I had been trying to out-muscle it for about a half-hour and was frustrated, tearful, and just a tad freaked out. I half-considered letting the dogs in, and coming up with a resonably tragic explanation to the house-owner about the untimely demise of Bunny-bun-bun … but then inspriation came.

I was raised on Warner Brother cartoons, and every good WB fan knows, rabbits love them some carrots. I figured since the dogs were ravenous, food (and other stuff) thieving creatures, the rabbits must be the same. I went to the fridge, grabbed a carrot, and cut it into enticing, orange disks. I went downstairs, and dangled the frothy greens in front of the Bunny, the air redolent with the smell of summer and lazy days spent basking under a tree.

Bunny got interested in negotiating the situation.

I let him have a few nibbles of greens, then offered the BIG prize — the root — the lovely, shimmering carrot disks — glimmering softly in my palm like Spanish gold.

I laid down a slice of carrot.  Bunny hopped forward, dipped his head, and chomped it down quickly …

I laid down another, about a foot away from him.  He hopped forward, again dipped his head, and ate the carrot.

It was working.  Elmer Fudd was not wrong after all …

I continued laying down slices of carrot, and the bunny kept coming. I finally led him into the enclosure, and with a shudder pushed the sheet of plywood into place, artfully trapping my fat and happy nemesis with his more placid fellows. I threw the rest of the carrot in there, reconsidered the letting-in-the-crazy-dogs idea for a moment, then decided I’d rather not clean up that much blood and rabbit-infested dog shit, and went upstairs to have a good cry.

The end.

Rabbits are evil.

Beware.