Dad gets antsy in the evening. “I suppose we ought to go for a drive,” he says. He has traipsed around Durham earlier in the day, so we head to Chapel Hill. Neither of us is hungry yet. We park and stroll down Franklin. Watch people. Look in windows. Survey the scene.
I point. “Wow, look at those azaleas! Gorgeous!”
“Yeah,” Dad says appreciatively, “they have all that floral shit over here.”
Eventually, we get an outside table at Tallula’s, a Turkish place I used to go to back in the day. Dad asks for the lamb kebab. I order the sea bass special.
“Whoa, it looks like somebody drove over your fish,” Dad says.
I eat it quickly. Dad looks at my empty plate. “Must’ve been good, run-over or not.”
“It was delicious,” I say. “How’s your kebab?
“Adequate.”
He keeps eating.
“I’ve had worse.”
A few more bites.
“In England, at a Cypriot restaurant. Tasted like braised donkey butt.”
Five more forkfuls.
“This just might’ve been left over from last night.”
He finishes it.
The check comes. Dad looks at the total. “That’s not bad. The bread was good. So was your crushed fish.”
On the way home, Dad narrates all the changes in the landscape over the last 30-odd years.
“How long has that Red Roof Inn been there?!…
I remember when they were building I-40 through here…
That place used to be a small Volkswagen dealership…
(and then waving his hand toward a sea of headstones) They‘ve been there a while, I guess.”
Rarely does my dad laugh at the things that make me laugh because they’re not jokes to him—they’re just his thoughts. But that last one. That last one made us both crack up.
I’m genetically a whole lot like my mama. Growing up, everyone always said, “You look just like her!” (which was nice because she’s a good-lookin’ lady). I’d pick up the phone, and they’d start asking about Lamaze classes or some Boone UU function, assuming they had my mother’s ear on the other end of the line. Or they’d hear my laugh from another room and come in looking for her. Three years ago, I realized the one thing I didn’t inherit from my mom was her fire hoses.
In my professional life, I’m graded on a rubric. Did you know that? There are six standards upon which teachers are evaluated, and for each we are deemed Developing, Proficient, Accomplished, or Distinguished.
A couple weeks ago, I was out with some friends, one of whom is also a teacher, and we got to talking about the rubric. For shits and giggles, I suggested we use it to rate ourselves in other aspects of our lives.
Honestly, I can’t remember much—we were a couple cocktails in—except that Meg rated herself Distinguished in both Being Alone and Handling Her Shit (a super-accurate self-assessment), but I’ve been thinking about it lately, and here’s my self-evaluation.
Developing
1. Dressing myself. I still don’t know what looks good, what to buy, or how to put it together. It takes a ton of emotional effort for me to dress up. All I want to wear is jeans, my Obama hoodie, and
these guys.
But I’m getting better. I wore skinny jeans, for Christ’s sake.
2. Dating/being in a relationship. You know how everybody’s always like, “Gahd, another Taylor Swift break-up song?! When is she gonna realize that the only constant in all these situations is her?”?
Yeah, I realize it’s me. I do. I’ve done a lot of work and put myself out there, but clearly I need more practice/support/guidance.
To that end, two things:
(1) In a maneuver I’m calling Amy’s Last-Ditch Campaign to Get Inseminated by a Dude She’d Like to Chill with for Awhile/Maybe Forever (ALDCGIDSLCAMF, for short), I joined Match Fucking Dot Com. For one month. ONE MONTH, and end scene—I shall forever abandon my Sisyphean online dating endeavors.
And (2) to quote Homeland Security: If You See Something, Say Something™. Friends, you have to tell me when you see the metaphorical spinach in my teeth, OK? If there’s some invisible-to-myself road block I’m throwing up, let your girl know. For real.
Proficient
1. You know, as recently as a few months ago, I would’ve put cooking in the Developing category, but I’ve had some pretty consistent victories lately. ‘Member those carnitas? <licks chops>
Also, I marinated chicken. (Me, out on the town with friends: “You guys, I’m marinating chicken right now.” Friend: (pause) “Is it… is it in the fridge?” Hahaha. I couldn’t blame her for checking—I’ve made some questionable judgment calls in the past.)
I made Chinese chicken salad with it.
There’s marinated chicken up in there somewhere, swear to god.
That sludgy business in the jelly jar? Homemade sesame-ginger motherfucking salad dressing. Booyah.
I mean, every once in a while, mistakes are made.
In hindsight, there were a number of points at which a different decision could have rendered a more desirable outcome.
But for the most part, I’m feeding myself yummy, healthy things, so I’m gonna go ahead and declare myself Proficient in the cooking department.
Hubris? Probably.
2. CrossFit. Listen, I’m never going to be competitive. That’s OK. But I’ve been lifting heavy objects for nearly three years, and I’ve got pretty skrong, y’all (265-lb deadlift last night—what what!). And my form on most things is solid. Coach Rich watched me doing snatches the other day, and he said, “God, you’re so good at that.” :)
3. Storytelling/hosting storytelling events. If you’ve seen me at the Monti, I think you’d agree I’m getting better and better.
Accomplished
1. Teaching. I’m a good teacher. I’m not an exceptional teacher. I don’t take work home with me, and I don’t blaze any pedagogical trails, but I try to do cool things with my students, and I work hard to improve my practice every year.
2. Fostering dogs/getting them adopted. Git yer dogs here at Amy’s House o’ Pit Bulls!
3. Blogging. I have a readership. It’s small but, based on a pie chart I only sort of understand, I believe very loyal. (Thanks, guys!)
Distinguished
1. Jackshit.
Except one thing that I won’t share here because this is a family show. ;)
**********
Now you go. Don’t be shy. This is not about judgment. It’s about personal growth.
And I felt all right, you know. They’re Calvin Klein (thus reasonable quality, I guess? I don’t know these things) and made of stretchy fabric, so they’re comfortable. And the way they felt, the way they fit, I kind of found myself strutting around like Sandy at the end of Grease, when she’s got all that skin-tight business on.
But looking in the mirror/at the picture…
my torso sits atop twin ice cream cones.
I just don’t dig the shape—so very narrow at the ankles, and so very expansive at the child-birthers. It looks like, if I put my feet together, everything would get wicked precarious wicked fast. The tiniest tectonic movement, and I’d be supine. (Especially in my super-cute, red leather wedge sandals [that, like every other pair of heels, make my feet lose all feeling for 2-5 days].)
This fayshun stuff is hard. (My first-world problems are so hard.)
But the important thing is I’m making progress, right?
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.
Klima: our deodorant is so strong, it’ll eat your bathrobe.
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.)
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
Paco’ll stop by. To say hi.Sometimes he wears his camo sweatshirt with the skulls on it. Tough guy.
Others, he comes over for a game of hide n’ seek.
Where’s Paco?
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
this lil fella.
A wee baby squirrel, most likely fallen out of his nest
way the fuck up there.
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:
Don’t give it food or water.
Put it in a box with towels, but leave it outside near where you found it in case the mom comes back… though she probably won’t—it wouldn’t have been climbing out of its nest if she’d been around; most likely she got et up or smooshed by a car. :(
Bring it in at night. Make sure it’s warm.
Yadda yadda yadda.
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
the world’s nicest squirrel apartment.
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.
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.
