The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 16

If you’re new to the Foster Chronicles, Tulip’s story starts here.

Day 1

I decide I’m going to do it. I’m going to reintroduce the dogs. We all do the short neighborhood loop (it’s 96 degrees outside). Then I put Violet in the house, let Redford off the leash, and walk Tulip, still tethered, around the yard. Redford saunters in a half-assed way to the middle of the yard but quickly returns to the door and is all, “You know, whatever, but inside is air-conditioned.”

So much for reintroduction.

Day 2

Tulip’s out; Violet and Redford in. My sister comes to visit with her munchkins for a minute. When we go outside, hey, look! It’s mini-poodle! I’m supposed to take pictures and call Animal Control because that family has been warned, so next up is a fine for not containing their dog. But Tulip’s cool with him, and I can’t bring myself to do it.

Naturally, mini-poodle bolts the moment he sees me, but Tulip comes in panting, so they must’ve been frolicking. Or maybe he was making her feel like a natural woman. I don’t know.

Day 3

I keep all the dogs inside for most of the day because

(CCB, I’m a great copy editor! Call me!)

But in the evening, we all need to get our wiggles out—the dogs because they’ve been inside and me because I performed several acts of bravery during the day. (One of them involved a machete.)

We’re walking around the block when a dog whose owner had it off-leash sprints toward us. This will not go well. I call, “Could you call off your dog please?” But the dog does not follow the owner’s commands and runs circles around us. I’m terrified Tulip will flip out, but instead it’s Redford, who does not like to be run at when he’s on the leash, who loses his shit. Of course I have a tight grip on him. He can’t get at the instigator. So he redirects on Violet, and she’s all, “WHAT THE EFF YO?”

Meanwhile, this woman and her dog are playing Duck, Duck, Goose around us, and as if I weren’t sweaty enough already, I’m now drenched. Eventually, I walk far enough away, and the other owner chases her dog back to the yard. The dogs recover in about four seconds. Me, takes a little longer.

The woman later apologizes on the neighborhood listserv.

Day 4

We do a short walk with my neighbor/friend. In this heat, 25 minutes lays the dogs out for a good four hours.

Day 5

Little bit longer walk. So many corrections. I haven’t walked in circles with her forever. There’s my trouble, probably.

Day 6

Tulip and I head to Phydeaux Raleigh for another adoption event. I’m crossing my fingers this goes better than last time.

It’s 104 degrees, so I’m glad to see they’ve decided to set up the table in the store, but another rescue organization has already occupied the space just inside the doors, so we’re kinda smooshed off into a corner out of the line of traffic.

Even worse, the first thing people see when they walk in

is this.

Wait, does that look like a puppy? No, no, that’s not a puppy. That’s

twelve puppies.

Sorry, older dogs. No snugs for you.

The other group leaves about 2:15, and we shift over to the prime real estate, but by then the foot traffic has slowed down. A few people saunter by and dole out a head-scratch now and again. Nobody’s interested in adopting Tulip or the other bullies though.

:(

When I get home, I put an ad on Craig’s List, which immediately gets flagged and removed. I don’t know why because I read the guidelines and I hadn’t broken any of them. So I post another one. Hopefully it’ll stay up.

Day 7

I wake up to two responses from my online ad. Both are spam.

Tulip has a dream she’s a kangaroo.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 17

Yo Soy El Machete

I needed to borrow my sister’s truck to help a friend transport a grill, so I headed up to her place on 4th of July morning and found Wa, brow knitted, picking up yard waste. A few minutes prior, she told me, she had startled a copperhead who was resting underneath a bush, and it had slithered its way across the yard. And now she couldn’t find it.

And I don’t exactly want to French kiss snakes, but my sister— You know how we all have a thing? Snakes are her thing. Last year, a black snake got into her house, and we agreed she pretty much had PTSD for months afterward.

Now, another snake. She called my brother-in-law who was an hour away with the kids, and he reminded her of the machete in the shed, which she fetched. Then she tiptoed around the perimeter of the yard until she called to me that she had found the snake again.

“Right there,” she said, pointing.

I looked. “Right where?” I said.

“Right there, under the fence.”

I moved closer. “I can’t see it,” I said.

“Under the slat with the hole in it.” I squinted. I turned my head. I leaned in. Oh, shit! Right there. If it was a snake, it’d woulda bit me.

As it were.

At first, I was all, Hat tip on your camo, little man. And then I stepped back and was like, why are my knees all gushy?

About then, Wa’s neighbor came over, and we pointed out the viper. Honest, I was kinda hoping he’d jump in and say, “You ladies go put your feet up inside; I’ll handle this varmint.” But he just kept looking at it… and looking at it… and frowning, and I thought, I’ma have to kill this reptile mydamnself.

The animal poked his slithery head out from under the fence, and for a minute, I felt bad for him. He looked kinda skeered. But then I imagined my nieces and nephew, skipping barefoot to the trampoline, and I was all, Oh hell no, you’re gonna die today, little friend.

The neighbor-man put the shovel on one side of the fence and nudged the snake my way. I took a deep breath, lifted the machete, and went all Game of Thrones on his ass (neck).

I wish I could say I got him in one whack, but my hands were shaking and it took two for sure. And then I whacked him again for making my hands shake. Asshole.

Neighbor-man pulled him out from under the fence, laid him on a paving stone, and gave him a chop with the shovel for good measure. Thanks for nothing, neighbor-man.

For reference, that slab is four foot square.*

Naturally,  I had to let Facebook know. (Click for bigger.)

Twice.

On that one, my old boyfriend from Mexico was all “Huh?” so then I had to brag in Spanish.

So there you go. One of my friends commented that, with this act, I earned a place on her speed-dial. Another told me he was going to call me Machete from now on.

You know, whatever. No big. I kill víboras cobrizas con un machete. It’s what I do.

*Give or take 2.5 feet.

On Littering and Natural Disaster Posteriors

I hate litterers. I mean, I really hate them. I know I should hate the sin and not the sinner, but I have a special loathing for the type of person who thinks it’s somebody else’s responsibility to pick up his/her shit.

When I taught in New York, my students were constantly throwing trash on the floor of the classroom, and I’d have talks with them about being responsible and maintaining a nice environment for ourselves. And I’d make signs for the classroom that said things like

Keep it clean! :)

Then one day, I got on the city bus. It was packed, but I could see that the mother of one of my students stood by the back doors, sipping on a cup of coffee. At the next stop, when somebody exited, she pitched her cup unceremoniously into the street.

And I was like, WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER?

Now I live in a neighborhood that’s kind of sketchy—lots of rentals and low-income folks—and for the most part I love it. It’s close to everything. I love my house. My immediate neighbors—minus the crazy lady and her delinquent son—are cool. Our email listserv has pretty solid participation.

But it’s shitty, in the ways that low-income neighborhoods are. People don’t mow their yards regularly. Landscaping is minimal. And there’s trash all over the place all the time. Four or five times a week, I find discarded food/drink containers or wrappers in my yard, often in the front but also in the back, which has a 6-foot privacy fence around it and is set back from the street. That means that the person has to pitch their garbage twenty feet, or walk up to the fence to toss something over. The dogs inevitably shred it, so pieces get distributed all over the yard, which I then pick up.

I get so pissed. And I think about ordering signs for my front yard and fence that say sunshiny things like

Feel free to use my garbage cans there, neighbor! ;)

Or I consider starting a neighborhood education program about littering.

Instead I think about my student’s mom and post passive-aggressive status updates on Facebook. (Click for bigger.)

And sit around being a grumpus.

But then my nephew comes over and says, “Nunu, why is there a CD in your mulch pile?”

And I think something positive might come out of this whole littering business because whose life is not improved by Earthquake Booty Number 4 (especially after the magna opera of Numbers 1-3)?

But no. It’s scratched.

Note to my sister: If I disappear tomorrow, please explain to the authorities that my Google search history doesn’t usually include links to works by “big-dicked entrepreneur B. Pumper” who “showcas[es] thick black girls with enormous asses”. I was just curious about what I was missing by not being able to play the disc. Swear to god, I thought it was a hip hop CD. (And how apropos! Mine could probably be categorized as an earthquake booty, or at least a tremor trunk.)

But no. It’s porn.

So now I don’t know what my sign should say. Maybe

If you’re going to litter porn in my yard, please make sure it’s a fun hip hop CD instead! :/ 

P.S. “These monster asses are causing tragedies and creating major earthquakes.”

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Weeks 14 & 15

If you’re new, Tulip’s story starts here.

Days 1-13

My friend Nelly keeps Tulip while I go on vacation. Tulip’s “mostly good”. Except for chewing up that one bra. I offer to pay for the bra on top of the babysitting fee, but Nelly says, nah, it’s still wearable. Haha! I’ve totally done that!

Day 14

Nelly drops her off at my house, and Tulip TOTALLY GOT CUTER WHILE I WAS GONE.

And she’s real happy to see me.

I missed her.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 16

He Hath Been Adorable and Sweet

It’s also important to note that, when we sat in motherfucking DC traffic and then blazed (way out of our way) west to Manassas to take Route 15 south but then I missed the turn-off to stay on 15, not once but twice, and I threw multiple Grand Tanties (traffic & getting lost being two of my tantrum triggers), my dad seemed surprised every time and said, “Oh. I’m just enjoying my time with you.”

It’s possible my dad’s the sweetest old bastard alive.

The End of the Road

As it did last year, the journey with my father and dogs had a second leg. Here’s some of his wisdom from the vacation and the trip back down south.

Dad: (to my brother-in-law) You’re wearing Levi’s. I have Faded Glory. In more ways than one.

Dad: (paraphrasing Macbeth to my mother when his sciatic nerve started jangling his toes) Oh, full of scorpions are my boots, dear wife!

Dad: (looking into the freezer at the store) What ever happened to strawberry ice cream? Nowadays it’s all “Moose Tracks” and “Bear Turds”.

Dad: (coughing a totally normal-sounding cough) I keep hoping this is hay fever and not the end of the road.

Dad: I’ll buy whatever you want for dinner. We could go to a half-decent place. Even a decent place.

Dad: (as we pass a gas station in Virginia) $2.99 a gallon?!… (holds out his closed hand) That’s worthy of a fist bump.

[If you don’t know him, this one might not be that funny, but my siblings will find it hilarious. Short version: My father has a tremendous loathing for pop culture. (Also, he pronounced every letter in “fist bump”.)]

Dad: You never have to fear when you’re traveling with Leighton Scott’s wallet.

[My dad is not a rich man. And he regularly loses his wallet.]

Dad: (as we listen to the Cool Classics radio station) When are they going to make some music that sounds different? This all sounds the same… ‘Course it all sounds good when you’re stoned.

Dad: I don’t know why I’m doing this. I know where Hartford is. (looks in atlas) Yep, right in the middle of fucking Connecticut.

Dad: I have no problems. Even if I worked for the carnival for $45 a week. Until my clothes rotted off. Then I’d be arrested for indecent exposure.

Dad: (as I look at the GPS on  my phone) What are you doing? Playing Tetris?

Dad: What kind of twerp would buy a Volvo?

Me: Didn’t we have a Volvo?

Dad: Yes, we were that kind of twerp.

Dad: (after eating a plate of bacon [“This stuff is great for you!”] and spicy homefries from the Whole Foods buffet) You don’t suppose they sell any healthy Tums in here, do you?

My kitchen table, which was admittedly rickety before, collapsed after dad got up from it.

Dad: Well, I’ve done a lot of positive things today. I fed your dogs… I let you sleep in… I did wreck your kitchen table though.

Love you, Dad. Even when you wreck my kitchen table.