A couple years ago, I shared with you my secret magic antiperspirant, which I admitted was probably giving me Alzheimer’s. Well, I re-upped a few months ago, and it smelled stronger. I wondered if they changed the formula.
I think so. There seems to be another side effect now.
And white Ts. And one hoodie.
I looked online and couldn’t find any reviews about Klima shredding the armpits of your clothes. All the same, maaaaaaybe gonna lay off for awhile.
Did you hear the one about the squirrel? (Sometimes when I post at night, people don’t see the link in their Facebook feed, and they don’t read it, but I’m pathologically incapable of delaying gratification, so.)
Three years ago, I had a boyfriend who vacuumed my house. Now… now I have… now I…
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.
I went on a walk last week with a friend who said he likes to crowdsource his life’s problems. Looking back on my archives, it’s clear I do too.
Two years ago, I tried to crowdsource my education, and after some cajoling, it went pretty well!
One year ago, I crowdsourced my motivation to date. It went swimmingly.
Meta-crowdsourcing: What aspect of my life should I crowdsource next?
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
I was just settling down to read my book when I heard Redford doing his there’s-something-I-want-that-I-can’t-get-at bark. Very different from his person-on-the-property bark (a pretty steady stream of friendly but emphatic woofs) or his other-dog-walking-by (“I’M FREAKIN OUT, MAN”). Definitely different from Violet’s let-me-in, which is a single, irritated arf. (Redford doesn’t bark to be let in. He just punches the door.)
Anyway, his there’s-something-I-want-that-I-can’t-get-at bark is very rhythmic, high-pitched bark/pause/high-pitched bark/pause/whine/whine/whine. I put my book down and went out onto the deck. He was in the yard, his attention focused on something on the other side of the fence. Now Mini-Poodle hasn’t been around in six months—I think his family moved away—but sometimes
Others, he comes over for a game of hide n’ seek.
But not that day. No Paco. Redford was barking at a spot on the ground about three feet beyond the slats. I scooted out there, and looky-loo, there was
A wee baby squirrel, most likely fallen out of his nest
Seriously, that pin oak is, like, fifty feet tall. Thank goodness he fell on a bed of leaves, rather than my gravel driveway or one of the railroad ties that boxes it in.
I don’t know how old squirrels are when their eyes open, but he was not however old that was, and he was breathing but not really moving. I bolted inside and asked Facebook what to do, naturally. People sent me links to wildlife rescue organizations, and I read all the stuff online:
I didn’t have a shoebox, so I drove over to Kate’s house. She didn’t have a shoebox either, but she gave me
Back at home, I lined it with pieces of towel and went to capture the little dude. He must’ve recovered from his stunned state because he had some pep in his step.
He jumped out of the box twice; I had to tuck him in with the towel to make him stay. The only place in the house I felt comfortable keeping him was the half-bathroom, whose door I could latch, thereby reducing the likelihood of wild -game dog snacks. I set the box in the sink, put a heating pad on low on one side, and headed back to the internet to see who might have more to offer this guy than the world’s nicest squirrel apartment and probably some close calls with becoming a single-use squeaky toy.
Found some contacts, people who rescue all manner of wayward varmints. Left a message with one and spoke with another, though she just reiterated what the website told me to do and said to call her in the morning if the mother didn’t come scoop him. Then a friend texted, she had an in with a rehabber; she would pass along my number. Woot!
Feeling hopeful, I got up to check on my wee rodent. At the bathroom, I opened the door a crack, slipped inside, and shut the door firmly behind me. I gently lifted up a corner of the towel… a little higher… hm… a little more…
He wasn’t in the fucking box.
I looked around the room, which is, like, 9 square feet—he couldn’t have gone far. Not in the sink. Not behind the toilet. (Not in the toilet—I’m a lid-down gal.) Not in the open bag of dog food on the floor.
My eyes drifted to the 1 1/2-inch crack under the door. Oh fuck. Could he have crawled out? No, the dogs would’ve made a ruckus. And a grease spot on the kitchen floor.
Then I saw the 1 1/2-inch crack under the cabinet that houses the sink. I was on my hands and knees in a jiffy, temple to the floor, and there he was—scooched back underneath, shrugging and nodding. Poor baby, he must’ve fallen off the sink! I mean, only three feet, rather than the goddamn base-jump he took from the pin oak, but still—onto ceramic! :(
I had to get him out of there; it was going to be too cold on the tile all night. Not wanting to risk causing any internal bleeding, I forewent the broomstick and grabbed the fly swatter. It was good enough; it gave me sufficient leverage to sweep him forward. But every time I almost got him out in the open, he scrambled back to the back.
I seriously fly-swatter-wrestled a baby squirrel for ten minutes. That’s something I can say I’ve done with my life.
Finally, on one whisk to the fore, I managed to get him going ass-first, and his tail poked out from under the cabinet. I put my thumb on it, and the deed was done. Good thing I have more strength in my thumb than in a baby squirrel’s whole body. #crossfit #functionalfitness
I tucked him firmly back in the box with the towels but left his manger on the floor in case he decided to go on walkabout again.
Just then, my phone rang. It was the rehab guy! He said he could meet me that night, or my friend could pick the squirrel up in the morning and deliver it to him. I told him I was in his debt so whichever made his life easier. He said, “Well… I just got home from teaching a class… and I’ve got these possums to feed. Let’s do it tomorrow.”
My friend stopped by bright and early the next day, and I said goodbye to my little buddy.
And then I was sad because it occurred to me that it would be fun to train him to ride around on Redford’s neck.
I bet my mom could’ve sewn him a tiny jockey’s uniform too.
I’m keeping my eye on the pin oak for any siblings.
OK, everyone in. Take a knee.
Listen, last night was rough. I woke up at 2:00, fretted for a couple hours, read a chapter of my book, and dozed off 40 minutes before my alarm went off. I put on clean underpants and made it through the day without pitching any sixth graders out a window. I even took 33 of them out to the sunny courtyard during lunch because they had done their work completely and on time.
But now work is over, and we have a problem on our hands. You know and I know that I’m headed for a 3-hour nap, and you know and I know that my 3-hour naps are good for exactly no one. I always wake up feeling like I’m crawling out of the womb (so bright! so loud! so cold!). And then when bedtime hits, I’ve just slept three hours!—there’s no sleeping! No sleeping. Which means two nights of no sleep, which means children definitely get pitched out the window tomorrow. And my classroom’s on the second floor.
So we’re all gonna need to work together to prevent this catastrophe.
Redford and Violet are already pawing at my arms. That’s good. I’ll take them out for a walk, and it’s unlikely I’ll fall asleep during it.
My sister invited me to dinner at 6:00. That’s also good. I’ll have to leave at 5:40, so between dinner and the walk, the 3-hour-nap window is already closed to maybe an hour and twenty.
But listen, everybody’s got to pull his weight. I feel like one of you can probably make a Starbucks run. Others might need to come over for 10-minute shifts and slap me about the face and neck.
I believe in us, you guys. We can do this.
Ready?
Break.
There I was, expressing my wildly swinging emotions about… some topic. I don’t know—this was probably 8 years ago. But I do remember what my friend Cat said: “Well, sometimes possibility is winning, and sometimes your concerns are winning.”
It was such a simple paraphrasing of what I’d been ruminating on. It was as if I had been spinning in circles, rising into the air, and she had grabbed my ankles and given them a toss earthward. Thunk, thunk, my feet were planted. All was steady.
Because they’re both fiction—possibility and concerns. Neither is real. Neither is what’s happening right now in the moment. Neither can be measured. The battle is a fantasy.
Every so often, I’m reminded that this battle between what’s possible and what’s worrisome rages on, but I feel like I’d benefit from keeping this concept closer to the decision-making part of my brain. (Especially since my concerns tend to occur to me not as obstacles to be overcome but instead as immovable barriers.)
Plus, I’ve noticed a predisposition toward one or the other at different times, so in the spirit of knowing thmyself, I’m going to make a list. I should probably post it on the fridge. Or tattoo it onto my forearm.
Historically, when possibility has been winning:
Historically, when my concerns have had the upper hand:
If I can stay aware and recognize when concerns are on top, I’m not saying I’ll be able to wrestle them down, but at least I can say, “Oh, look who showed up. It’s Concerns. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Sure. Gotcha. Thanks for sharing, Concerns. Now fuck off.”
When possibility’s in the lead, that’s when I need to make plans and get shit done.
What about you guys? Do you have certain times when you’re predisposed to letting one or the other win?
Rep. Moore said he’d withdraw the Aggressive Breeds bill if/when it came back to the floor! It was probably my email that did it, don’t you think?
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I can’t believe how much food Redford ate three years ago. These days he gets less than half that! I think he’s still grieving.
Two years ago, I wrote what I thought was a silly throw-away post that nonetheless got real in the comments section.
And here’s yet another post, from a year ago, where the comments section is actually better than the post itself.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
To: rodney.moore@ncleg.net; larry.pittman@ncleg.net
cc: mickey.michaux@ncleg.net
Date: 4/17/13
Dear Sirs:
I read the bill, “Regulate Ownership of Aggressive Dog Breeds,” and my question is what are the requirements for NC gun owners? Must they submit to a criminal background check? Do they have to complete a safety course of no fewer than 4 hours? What about notifying their home insurers? Are they required to get a special permit from the Department of Insurance?
These are not rhetorical questions. I’ve done research online, and I believe the answer to all questions is no. (From what I understand, a permit is required for a handgun but not for rifles/shotguns.) Please let me know if I’m mistaken, but if I’m not, you, Mr. Moore and Mr. Pittman, have your priorities vastly out of whack.
I won’t even get into the inanity of profiling dogs by breed.
Sincerely,
Amy Scott
You guys, if you give a crap about this issue even a little tiny bit, please write your legislators. For me and Violet and Redford and Buffy and Tulip and ‘Nita.
Preamble: Sorry for my photography. I’m clearly limited. I have no special lighting or camera or, you know, discernable skill. But I’ll try to teach you what I learned from Kate and Michelle on our jeans excursion. Also, note that these are lessons for me-shaped women, i.e., hobbit-height, dumps like a truck truck truck/thighs like what what what. The rest o’ yous are gonna have to get your own advisors.
BEFORE:
Lesson #1 Whiskers—those horizontal, bleachy stripes on the hips—accentuate the extry-wideness. Not recommended.
Lesson #2 Repeat after me: Uniform dark wash. Any lightening of the fabric along the thighs, however imperceptible to my eye, is totally perceptible to Kate’s eye, and that means it’s a no.
Lesson #3 Gap produces reasonably-priced jeans (unlike, say, 7 for All Mankind—two hundred what now?) and has a “Curvy” line. What that means for a lady with an onion is that there won’t be a 1- to 5-inch gap between her lower back and the waistband.
Supposedly Gap makes Curvy Straight-Leg jeans, which Kate prefers, but all they had in the store was Curvy Boot-Cut and Curvy Skinny. She said get the Boot-Cut (which I did) and have them taken in a little at the ankle so they don’t bell out so much (aaaand we’ll see if I get around to that).
AFTER:
Alas, the Calvin Klein(!) skinny jeans(!!!!!) are still in the bag. They will have to be hemmed. And also they will have to be come-to-terms-with. (I own skinny jeans. I own skinny jeans. I own skinny jeans.) Perhaps I’ll blog about those in a few years months weeks.
In the meantime, bonus lessons for you!
Friday night, I was out with Megalu, one of my makeup teachers and no slouch in the fashion department herself. In fact, now that I think about it, Meg was the one the night of the makeup tutorial who, right before we headed out, said, “Ame… do you have a… different sweater?” And I was all, “Do what?” And then she and Kate bippity-boppity-booed me, and that’s when I realized I didn’t know how to dress myself. Eureka, mofos, she’s the one who started this whole fashion business!
Anyway, Meg noticed my new Curvy Boot-Cuts, and we started talking about my endeavors.
Meg: Are you having any fun with it?
Me: I mean, sometimes I feel good when I know I’m wearing a legit outfit, but a lot of the time I feel really insecure. I just don’t understand how this stuff works. I’m not playing dumb—I seriously don’t get it. Swear to god, it’s renewed my empathy for my special ed kids. Kate and Michelle were explaining why I couldn’t wear my skinny jeans with short boots, and I just could. not. get it. And some of the outfits Kate laid out for me break rules that I learned when I was a kid. Like, she put the white and polka-dot camisole and the cream sweater together, but I was always told you’re not supposed to wear white and cream together.
Meg: Yeah, that’s OK now. So is black and brown.
Me: What about black and navy?
Meg: That’s OK too.
Me: (aghast) NO.
Meg: And don’t match your purse to your shoes.
Me: But should I still match my scrunchy socks to my oversize t-shirt?
Me & Meg: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
So many lessons.
Last lesson: Salesgirls at Nordstrom are snotty. [That’s one for women of any shape. You’re welcome.]
On Wednesday, after three days of finding it extremely easy to be nice to my students without even faking it, which is what I had been having to do, and this despite having to get up at stupid:30 a.m. after a long and luxurious spring break, I realized something:
A whole bunch of people said they could relate to that statement, which made me wonder, how I/we might deal with this problem in the future.
Things that might help:
Things that don’t help:
I was telling a friend about this problem today, and he says he uses a light—wait for it—VISOR. Like a light box, but FOR YOUR HEAD. Hahahaha.
Other thoughts?
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Three years ago, I was writing a lot about my students, so it’s all password-protected, but here’s a good one if you have the password.
Two years ago, I offered you all an obscene sum for a simple, simple task, and you FAILED. YOU’RE ALL FAILURES.
One year ago, I bought a new car! I love it. It is covered in dog hair and nose prints.
Apropos of nothing, you guys would tell me if you thought I had nose cancer, right? I seem to have a growth on the left side of my nose that’s been getting bigger for a few years. Probably just a wort, right? Because I’m a spinster, and spinsters get those.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Durham, N.C. – A chilling scene greeted local police when they arrived at the home of Agnes McDonald, wife of famed Old McDonald, after a frantic 911 call from the woman on Friday evening. Three visually impaired rodents were found to have been maimed with a Ginso carving knife, their tails severed, allegedly at the hands of Mrs. McDonald herself.
Worst of all, the incident seems to have been a result of a misunderstanding. When they heard the footsteps of a human coming into the kitchen, the mice, all of whom are legally blind, ran in the direction of their mouse hole. Having been on a two-week vacation in a neighboring home, however, the mice were unaware that the McDonalds had recently remodeled their kitchen. An obstacle (the new center island) blocked their path and forced them to run along its edge, directly toward the woman of the house.
Upon seeing the rodents, Mrs. McDonald became frightened. “I saw this gang of pests running toward me,” she told the investigator. “I didn’t know they were blind. I just thought they had a crazy look in their eyes.”
Fearing for her safety, she pulled a knife out of the knife block and whacked off each mouse’s tail. “I didn’t want to kill them,” she said further, “but I wasn’t about to let a gang of varmints overrun my house.”
The mice were rushed to a local veterinary hospital, where their tails were reattached successfully. The authorities have deemed the incident a case of self-defense. Upon hearing that no charges were filed against Mrs. McDonald and that they themselves might be charged with trespassing, the mice responded, “Of course we don’t think justice has been served!” They intend to sue the McDonalds in civil court.
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I assigned the kids to write a newspaper article based on a nursery rhyme or folk song. That’s the example I wrote for them.
To help them get started, I came up with headlines for other nursery rhymes and folk songs. First person to identify them all gets the grand prize: a cyber high-five from me.
Bonus cyber high-five to anyone who writes an article.
