It’s been a terrible day. In fact, it’s been a terrible week.
So I did what anyone would do: I googled ‘Amy Scott mugshots’ and reveled for a moment in the notion that, as bad as shit is right now, at least I’m not one of those Amy Scotts.
Girl, I’d call yours a *smug*shot. <high-five>Dying to know what her shirt says… If it weren’t for WHAT, then WHAT?!OH LORD JESUS.
I started Retrobruxist Friday a year ago, and now I’m done. This was fun, but I don’t think I have more than one good post per week in the archives, so.
This last round is all good ones though:
Three years ago, I wrote a letter to my grandma, one heck of a woman.
Two years ago, I learned in a very difficult way exactly what fight-or-flight meant.
What you might have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I wrote what I thought was a funny story about how I became a stark-raving-mad, premenstrual mess who made histrionic mountain insults out of perfectly reasonable, helpful, and well-intentioned molehill comments, but it got interpreted by people I care about in a whole nother way, so I took down the post.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t write about people anymore—not my students because I’ll get fired, or people I know because I might hurt their feelings, or online dating prospects because I’m never putting myself through that bullshit again. So I think we all know what that means.
I should probably get another foster dog.
Comparatively (and by that I mean, at least we’re not in prison) happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Your Avid Bruxist has been throwing herself a really lavish multi-day Pity Party, kind of like a Jay Gatsby shindig except instead of booze-guzzling/the Charleston/general mischief, it’s been more like compulsive eating/”Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms”/general crying.
I almost just flung myself on the bed and pulled the covers over my head.
On the way to my boudoir, I figured I’d just check to see if there was anything worthwhile during the second week of July in previous years, but there probably wouldn’t be because I’m a terrible writer and Everything’s the Worst (stomp stomp stomp).
I wish I could say I found Greatness, but I didn’t (of course). I found when my boyfriend and I broke upthree years ago. That was fun.
I found a few dating guidelines I drafted, and some really amazing comments by readers, from two years ago. You guys should just write this blog.
I will sell it. on the corner. in order to avoid driving I-95 anywhere between DC and Boston, so on my trip south—sans Dad :( —I took a wide sweeping swing west down I-81 and Route 29.
I pretty quickly grew sick of my podcasts and turned to scanning through local radio stations, which is always a joy. Nothing’s better than when WARM 103.3 Today’s Hits & Yesterday’s Favorites busts out “Take On Me” by A-ha.
By the way, I just learned he’s saying “I’ll be gone in a day or two“, which makes more sense than “I’ll be gone doo doot doo doooooooo“. Also, “steadily learning the piper’s OK” (whew, I was concerned about him) is actually “slowly learning that life is OK”. Also too, “you’re all the things I’ve got to remember”. I always understood that’s what the line was, but I never got until Saturday that it’s the fucking loveliest song lyric ever.
You’re all the things I’ve got to remember.
Wow.
Onward! Why are my local radio stations so lame and everywhere else’s so hilariousand/orawesome?
Since I was trundling through Pennsylvania, you might guess Track 1 of our Road Trip Soundtrack: Stanley Pulaski and His Orchestra’s “May June July Polka”, a very jaunty little number. I can’t find a video for it, but it’s available on Polka Party Volume 2 on eBay. (Don’t make a mistake and order Polka Party Volume 1 or you’ll be disappointed!)
Track 2:
Aw, YEAH. Ramble ON, man.
Reminded me of my days riding shotgun in the old Sube, my brother at the helm. All his Led Zeppelin cassettes case-less and kicking about in my footwell, the writing worn off—we had no way of knowing what album it was until we threw it in the tape deck. And then we’d just ROCK OUT. And then we’d go to school.
Track 3:
“Just What I Needed” is in the top ten greatest pop songs ever. Debate me.
Track 4:
Fun fact: My sister is a Bee Gees fan. Like, not ironically or anything. Loathes the Beach Boys, but genuinelyenjoys the Bee Gees.
For future reference, you can have Retrobruxist ANYDAY, you know. Scroll down a little. See that heading on the right that says Archives? Click the drop-down menu, make a selection, and—bippity boppity boo—a month’s worth of old classic posts. That’s what I do every week! Now you know the magic behind Retrobruxist Fridays!
[Disclaimer: I wasn’t that good at blogging when I started, so maybe skip the first year. Or two, or three. Basically, don’t bother.]
This last Friday, I was busy driving from New England to Queens to see a play that my friends wrote, directed, and produced (I’m biased, but it was objectively EXCELLENT), and I had to get the dogs to their uncle-in-law’s place in Brooklyn for babysitting, and traffic, and what-have-you. It was all very complicated. Forgive me.
I didn’t write anything a year ago because I was on vacation.
What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I cobbled together a WOD with the resources available to me, namely a picnic bench, a rock, and a Walker-Bay. By the way, I started Fat CrossFitter six weeks ago, and it already has more Facebook Likers than Avid Bruxist, which I began in August 2009. Granted, some are the same people, but still. Maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree this whole time—people don’t want to hear about dogs or dates or lawn mowers, they want EXERCISE.
Which reminds me, my birthday’s coming up (in 3 months), and I want this shirt.
Anywhoodle, I got home from vacation last night. My fridge held an onion, some tahini, and a container of moldy lunchmeat, so I went Krogering this morning, and the cash register spit out these coupons with my receipt—you know, the ones for products similar to what you’ve purchased in the past?
Pampers.
Pampers and wipes.
You know where I’ve never bought a product for a baby? Ever? Like ever-ever?
Kroger.
The whimsical-faerie-who-believes-in-a-speaking-Universe part of me wanted to believe it was a sign—a sign. About the time being right. About my capability to parent a child. I must procreate! The coupons decree it!
I drove up the mountain to pick up my Dad for our annual pilgrimage. The first night as we ate dinner, he said, “Earthfare’s pork chops can definitely use some seasoning. (muttering) Tofu-fed hogs.”
There was a pause, and then his eyes lit up. “There’s one for your blog!” he exclaimed.
I was concerned that this self-awareness might ruin things, that he might start trying to say things for your benefit. I needn’t have worried. He quickly fell back into his usual stream-of-whatever.
…
“I used to think I wanted to retire to Florida. Now I think I want to retire to Bosnia. I think I terrified my beautician yesterday when I told her I just want to go where the bullets fly.”
My favorite part of this is that Dad calls the lady at Supercuts his beautician.
…
(to Redford, who was nosing the garbage can) “Get outta there! (contrite) I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
…
(as he was packing) “Look at this organized guy!” (This one’s funny if you recall how he packs.)
…
It sprinkled for the first hour of our trip, but when the rains started in earnest, he said, “Who would’ve predicted?!… Well, a meteorologist.”
…
Me, around lunchtime: “I’m hungry. All I had this morning was a banana and some grapes.”
Dad: “I’m hungry too! I didn’t have anything for breakfast, except a banana… and lots of ice cream.”
…
“You always pick the most interesting places. I would never think to stop here.”
I had pulled into Burger King.
“Last year, you stopped at Taco Bell, and we had a fine meal.”
…
I turned on So You Think You Can Dance in the motel room. Mary Murphy was fist-pumping and wooing. “I wonder why Americans have the reputation of being dumb.”
After the second time Nigel made a dubious joke: “Is that guy funny, or is there a sign up above his head that says ‘Laugh’?”
We watched five routines, then: “What is this inane show about, and why does the audience keep clapping?”
…
Dad: “I don’t want to dull these scissors by cutting plastic. I might need them sharp later.”
Me: “What will you need them sharp for?”
Dad: “I don’t know. Cutting hair out of nostrils or something.”
…
Dad wanted to stop at Walmart or Kmart to buy “some $2.98 Chinese canvas shoes”. “A couple of years ago, I bought some Keen’s. They cost about $65. I got them wet once, and they smelled like a bucket of dead worms.”
…
“I was thinking, as a hobby, I should learn a couple hundred jokes and tell them to people. ‘Man and a monkey walked into a bar’—that kind of thing.”
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.
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.
