Last Tuesday, I left for a long sojourn in Banning, California, home to my parents. My dad is receiving a long-awaited and much anticipated hip replacement, which promises to relieve some considerable pain he's experienced for far too long. I'm on deck to assist with groceries, light errands, transportation of the mother to and from visiting hours, and other duties as needed.
I apprised Jack of my impending departure, and he was scandalized.
"Really? Where?"
I vaguely explained California and hip replacements.
"I'll be gone two weeks."
Two weeks, of course, means nothing to a five-year-old. He's currently certain we're smack in the middle of June, and Halloween is sometime next week. When I tried to explain exactly how long two weeks was, he looked stricken and vaguely confused.
Upon the day of my departure, I arose early, and was out the door by 7:30 so as to make my 9am flight. As such, I was not able to give my final farewell to young Jack.
Later in the week, Eamon discovered a message left on our voice mail from young Jack. Later investigation revealed that he had wished to say farewell, and so his mother put him on the line. The message followed thusly:
"Bye, Kay. Um. You know, you should know that there's a real, alive werewolf in your basement. So BEWARE."
I am warned.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #131: The part where I realize I am doomed to go through the same thought processes over and over
Today, I'm working on a very fun project for one of my favorite clients, The Teaching Company. They produce video courses for adults on a fun range of academic enrichment courses -- topics such as "Masterpieces of the Louvre," "A Brief History of the World," "Italian City-States," and the like. In my capacity as freelance writer, I'm paid (PAID, mind you) to watch these courses and write long-form catalog copy explaining why these courses are so cool. Thankfully, they usually are, so it's not such a brain teaser.
My latest course is "The History of World Literature." As a result of the watching the course, I've been taking notes on new works I'd like to read and old ones I'd like to come back to and re-read. In the latter category is The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient Babylonian epic purported oldest piece of literature in the world. I read it back in freshmen year in college, but since it didn't depict any saucy maidens, haughty lords, or country cotillions, I wasn't terribly interested at the time. I'm curious to see if my tastes have changed.
So I pull my Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces off the shelf, thinking that, of course, it will have this first of all masterpieces. I check the table of contents, and not only is it not there, in the margin is scratched a little note, in my hand. It reads, "What? No Epic of Gilgamesh?"
Alzheimer's, here I come.
My latest course is "The History of World Literature." As a result of the watching the course, I've been taking notes on new works I'd like to read and old ones I'd like to come back to and re-read. In the latter category is The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient Babylonian epic purported oldest piece of literature in the world. I read it back in freshmen year in college, but since it didn't depict any saucy maidens, haughty lords, or country cotillions, I wasn't terribly interested at the time. I'm curious to see if my tastes have changed.
So I pull my Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces off the shelf, thinking that, of course, it will have this first of all masterpieces. I check the table of contents, and not only is it not there, in the margin is scratched a little note, in my hand. It reads, "What? No Epic of Gilgamesh?"
Alzheimer's, here I come.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #130: The part where there we glimpse the rarest of phenomena
August birthdays abound in our neck of the woods.
Exhibit 1: Megan
Exhibit 2: Sheila
Exhibit 3: Chris
Exhibit 4: Gareth
Exhibit 5: yours truly
We ladies decided to go out and celebrate. And since only the ladies were invited, Chris and Gareth didn't get to come.
Megan, Sheila, Rose, Ann, and I, however, were in full force. We took a rain-sodden stroll down to Viet Bistro, a local asian fusion hot-spot. We arrive, dump our soggy umbrellas in a bucket (including Ann's signature Spider-man parasol), and are shown to a seat.
What to our wondering eyes should appear but our seldom-seen new neighbor Rick, accompanied by his virtually unknown partner.
Megan, immediately recognizing Rick, cries out to him across to the room. "Hello! Neighbor!" He acknowledges our greeting, but make no further move. I check out his partner, all unbeknownst to Rick.
Later in the meal, I look up and notice our neighbors have fled, with nary a parting greeting.
What to make of them?
Exhibit 1: Megan
Exhibit 2: Sheila
Exhibit 3: Chris
Exhibit 4: Gareth
Exhibit 5: yours truly
We ladies decided to go out and celebrate. And since only the ladies were invited, Chris and Gareth didn't get to come.
Megan, Sheila, Rose, Ann, and I, however, were in full force. We took a rain-sodden stroll down to Viet Bistro, a local asian fusion hot-spot. We arrive, dump our soggy umbrellas in a bucket (including Ann's signature Spider-man parasol), and are shown to a seat.
What to our wondering eyes should appear but our seldom-seen new neighbor Rick, accompanied by his virtually unknown partner.
Megan, immediately recognizing Rick, cries out to him across to the room. "Hello! Neighbor!" He acknowledges our greeting, but make no further move. I check out his partner, all unbeknownst to Rick.
Later in the meal, I look up and notice our neighbors have fled, with nary a parting greeting.
What to make of them?
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #129: The part where Kristen takes exception to my discussion with Jack about the monocled cat
(In reference to this post)
(10:57:35) krispe22: please don't ever tell me
(10:57:36) krispe22: again
(10:57:37) krispe22: about this
(10:57:47) krispe22: i cannot hear about sacs
(10:57:52) krispe22: ever ever again
(10:57:59) kaydaly88: hey, i was trapped
(10:58:01) kaydaly88: trapped!!!
(10:58:04) krispe22: um
(10:58:06) krispe22: you have legs
(10:58:08) krispe22: you can run away
(10:57:35) krispe22: please don't ever tell me
(10:57:36) krispe22: again
(10:57:37) krispe22: about this
(10:57:47) krispe22: i cannot hear about sacs
(10:57:52) krispe22: ever ever again
(10:57:59) kaydaly88: hey, i was trapped
(10:58:01) kaydaly88: trapped!!!
(10:58:04) krispe22: um
(10:58:06) krispe22: you have legs
(10:58:08) krispe22: you can run away
Crazy Crap Item #128: The part where I find myself having a conversation I did not intend to have
My lovely neighborhood of Norwood Street boasts many attractions. Not least among them is a one-eyed black cat. I'm not sure where he actually lives; but I suspect he has a home on some other block of Norwood -- perhaps on the 1300 block, or maybe even the much hated 1400 block.
In any event, we know he has an owner. He seems to be well cared for. In addition to his one, jewel-like green eye, he boasts a collar and the kind of shiny, healthy coat of black fur and stocky physique you find only in a cat that eats early and often. He's also very friendly.
At our recent block party, we had occasion to discuss this cat. I'm not sure how it came up; I wasn't present for the start of the discussion. But by the time I came around, Eamon was suggesting that a cat with one eye would need a monocle. This led to speculation about the nature and personality of a one-eyed, monocled cat. It was suggested that his name was Thaddeus J. Churchill III, and that, perhaps, he thought himself a bit good for the likes of us, what with wearing a monocle and all.
Several days afterwards, our monoptic friend came to visit. As I've said, he's a friendly sort, and surprisingly unfazed by children. He minced into my yard and up onto my back steps, where he submitted himself to petting by James, Jack and myself. I recollected that Eamon had given the cat the name Thaddeus J. Churchill III, but that, in fact, said cat was a girl.
"How do you know?" Jack asked.
"I took a peek," I said, deliberately vague.
"A peek at what?" Jack inevitably asked.
"At the parts that tell you whether a cat is a boy or a girl," I answered, still vague.
"What parts?" Jack asked, undogged.
"Well," I hemmed,"Boys and girls have different part back here," gesturing vaguely to Thaddeus. "Boys have sacs. This cat has no sacs. So it's a girl."
Done, I thought.
"What sacs?" Jack asked, a tad horrified.
"Well, you know, sacs," I hawed. "Like you've got..." I trailed off, hoping he'd be distracted by something else.
"Where have I got sacs?"
Pause.
"You know. In your pants."
He twisted to look at the seat of his pants. "Where?"
"On the front."
"Oh, these?"
"Yeah, those."
In any event, we know he has an owner. He seems to be well cared for. In addition to his one, jewel-like green eye, he boasts a collar and the kind of shiny, healthy coat of black fur and stocky physique you find only in a cat that eats early and often. He's also very friendly.
At our recent block party, we had occasion to discuss this cat. I'm not sure how it came up; I wasn't present for the start of the discussion. But by the time I came around, Eamon was suggesting that a cat with one eye would need a monocle. This led to speculation about the nature and personality of a one-eyed, monocled cat. It was suggested that his name was Thaddeus J. Churchill III, and that, perhaps, he thought himself a bit good for the likes of us, what with wearing a monocle and all.
Several days afterwards, our monoptic friend came to visit. As I've said, he's a friendly sort, and surprisingly unfazed by children. He minced into my yard and up onto my back steps, where he submitted himself to petting by James, Jack and myself. I recollected that Eamon had given the cat the name Thaddeus J. Churchill III, but that, in fact, said cat was a girl.
"How do you know?" Jack asked.
"I took a peek," I said, deliberately vague.
"A peek at what?" Jack inevitably asked.
"At the parts that tell you whether a cat is a boy or a girl," I answered, still vague.
"What parts?" Jack asked, undogged.
"Well," I hemmed,"Boys and girls have different part back here," gesturing vaguely to Thaddeus. "Boys have sacs. This cat has no sacs. So it's a girl."
Done, I thought.
"What sacs?" Jack asked, a tad horrified.
"Well, you know, sacs," I hawed. "Like you've got..." I trailed off, hoping he'd be distracted by something else.
"Where have I got sacs?"
Pause.
"You know. In your pants."
He twisted to look at the seat of his pants. "Where?"
"On the front."
"Oh, these?"
"Yeah, those."
Crazy Crap Item #127: The part where I surprise myself be being able to spell a hard word
"Mediterranean." Got it right on the first try, even. Man, I rock.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #126: The part where my dad tells me a very amusing story
This, from Sailor Jack:
Mike was telling me a story the other day I want to share with you. His wild, high school, pal, Alan, is now a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. On patrol the other day, he spotted a stake bed truck, driving suspiciously, so he pulled it over. When he looked in the back he discovered a Mariachi band in full costume and with instruments.
He checked out the driver, who seemed to have had a drink, was on the safe edge of a DUI. He thought it over and said to the band, "I won't run in if you play me a song". At this, they climbed out and started playing. As he was enjoying the music, he got a call on his radio of a disturbing the peace complaint saying, "Somebody is playing Mexican music in the street !"
Sounds like Mike's bunch.
Love to both,
Dad
Mike was telling me a story the other day I want to share with you. His wild, high school, pal, Alan, is now a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. On patrol the other day, he spotted a stake bed truck, driving suspiciously, so he pulled it over. When he looked in the back he discovered a Mariachi band in full costume and with instruments.
He checked out the driver, who seemed to have had a drink, was on the safe edge of a DUI. He thought it over and said to the band, "I won't run in if you play me a song". At this, they climbed out and started playing. As he was enjoying the music, he got a call on his radio of a disturbing the peace complaint saying, "Somebody is playing Mexican music in the street !"
Sounds like Mike's bunch.
Love to both,
Dad
Crazy Crap Item #125: The part where 1500 Norwood bids 'Aloha'
It's that time again. Summer block party time. As is well known, we at 1500 Norwood thrive on the themed block party. Last summer, it was the Olympics. In the fall, it was the Old West. Previous themes include Christmas in July, Oktoberfest, and Mini-Golf. Festive.
This year, we had many hot contenders for the honor of block party theme. Bastille Day. Venetian Night. Star Wars. Around the World Tour. But the far-and-away winner was .... Hawaiian Luau.
In the spirit of island languor, this was a relatively low-key block party. The general tenor seemed to be, "Meh, it will be fun. Let's drink beer."
The day started at 9am, with a sumptuous breakfast of island and not-so-island treats. Ann Casey had the brilliant of idea of foisting upon us all "Hawaiian names," and provided a key so we could translate our names using the Hawaiian alphabet, plus name tags to promote said island names.
The morning was mostly taken up with low-key fun: the eating of pastries, the riding of small vehicles, the gyration of hula hoops, the drinking of coffee, the drinking of coffee, and the drinking of coffee.
I should also mention that in some instances, costumes were worn.
The most surprising source of ongoing fun, I believe, were some inflatable decoration I had purchased: a tiki statue and a large hollow pineapple to be used as an ice chest. Amusing, I thought. They will just sit there on my lawn, being attractive and Hawaiian. I was wrong. The tiki statue, I found, could variously be used as a hat, as a sort of faux train, and as a chaise lounge. It can also just be rolled upon.
The pineapple ice chest held equal wonders. It was used for one-person sack races, as a means to trap unassuming neighbors, and, of course, for rolling, rolling, and more rolling. Needless to say, it was popped long before it could be used as an ice chest.
We'd also arranged some deliberate island-themed fun, including:
* the stringing of sea shells to make lovely island necklaces
* a seashell hunt in the Cancilla sandbox, during which the marine booty could be traded for toys and candy at the Daly Outpost
* a volcano demonstration, headed by Eamon, involving small "pocket volcanos" and bottles of diet Pepsi spiked with Menthos
* island floral photo opps
At noon, we broke for lunch, a tasty repast of hotdogs, donated by Patio Beef and lovingly prepared by Megan and John Calto. Alfresco dining was enjoyed by all.
We also indulged in some non-island fun, including a visit from our beloved firemen and the unparalleled opportunity to swarm the firetruck. And of course, whether on the islands or the mainland, nothing can beat the joy of digging, digging and more digging, made all the more accessible by a recent visit from People's Gas (which entailed plowing up sections of all our parkways).
For the grown-ups, daytime fun (when it didn't include managing the aforementioned activities) consisted of dandling babies on knees, sitting on lawn furniture (sometimes joined by smaller folk), strolling, chillaxing, standing around, jawing, waxing sentimental, and, occasionally, scowling.
Things picked up again in the afternoon, with a performance by a local a cappella group (yes, my a cappella group), a fiddle serenade by Jim Casey, and of course, a lavish pot-luck dinner. As always, Eamon and I served our patented Louisiana whiskey slush, of which John O'Connor partook, perhaps to excess. I was proud to serve a much lauded Hawaiian meatball dish, which to me was the perfect typification of Hawaii by way of the 1950s Midwest. Jim Casey offered his supremely good pulled pork (which allowed for many jokes about how Jim had been pulling his pork all day. Ah, pork humor. Always fun.).
After dinner, competition heated up with a hula hoop contest and several coconut "broomball" bouts. Later, tiki torches were lit, a firepit was stoked, a guitar jam session played, and "Finding Nemo" was viewed on the big, middle-of-the-street movied screen, propped up against the one lone parked car on the street -- the leavings of some unlawfully parked and inconsiderate resident. Ruth decorated the malparked car with battery-operated tiki lights to striking effect.
The party cranked 'til midnight, at which point, we re-opened the street to more pedestrian pedestrian behavior.
A final note: Rick did not attend.
This year, we had many hot contenders for the honor of block party theme. Bastille Day. Venetian Night. Star Wars. Around the World Tour. But the far-and-away winner was .... Hawaiian Luau.
In the spirit of island languor, this was a relatively low-key block party. The general tenor seemed to be, "Meh, it will be fun. Let's drink beer."
The day started at 9am, with a sumptuous breakfast of island and not-so-island treats. Ann Casey had the brilliant of idea of foisting upon us all "Hawaiian names," and provided a key so we could translate our names using the Hawaiian alphabet, plus name tags to promote said island names.
The morning was mostly taken up with low-key fun: the eating of pastries, the riding of small vehicles, the gyration of hula hoops, the drinking of coffee, the drinking of coffee, and the drinking of coffee.
I should also mention that in some instances, costumes were worn.
The most surprising source of ongoing fun, I believe, were some inflatable decoration I had purchased: a tiki statue and a large hollow pineapple to be used as an ice chest. Amusing, I thought. They will just sit there on my lawn, being attractive and Hawaiian. I was wrong. The tiki statue, I found, could variously be used as a hat, as a sort of faux train, and as a chaise lounge. It can also just be rolled upon.
The pineapple ice chest held equal wonders. It was used for one-person sack races, as a means to trap unassuming neighbors, and, of course, for rolling, rolling, and more rolling. Needless to say, it was popped long before it could be used as an ice chest.
We'd also arranged some deliberate island-themed fun, including:
* the stringing of sea shells to make lovely island necklaces
* a seashell hunt in the Cancilla sandbox, during which the marine booty could be traded for toys and candy at the Daly Outpost
* a volcano demonstration, headed by Eamon, involving small "pocket volcanos" and bottles of diet Pepsi spiked with Menthos
* island floral photo opps
At noon, we broke for lunch, a tasty repast of hotdogs, donated by Patio Beef and lovingly prepared by Megan and John Calto. Alfresco dining was enjoyed by all.
We also indulged in some non-island fun, including a visit from our beloved firemen and the unparalleled opportunity to swarm the firetruck. And of course, whether on the islands or the mainland, nothing can beat the joy of digging, digging and more digging, made all the more accessible by a recent visit from People's Gas (which entailed plowing up sections of all our parkways).
For the grown-ups, daytime fun (when it didn't include managing the aforementioned activities) consisted of dandling babies on knees, sitting on lawn furniture (sometimes joined by smaller folk), strolling, chillaxing, standing around, jawing, waxing sentimental, and, occasionally, scowling.
Things picked up again in the afternoon, with a performance by a local a cappella group (yes, my a cappella group), a fiddle serenade by Jim Casey, and of course, a lavish pot-luck dinner. As always, Eamon and I served our patented Louisiana whiskey slush, of which John O'Connor partook, perhaps to excess. I was proud to serve a much lauded Hawaiian meatball dish, which to me was the perfect typification of Hawaii by way of the 1950s Midwest. Jim Casey offered his supremely good pulled pork (which allowed for many jokes about how Jim had been pulling his pork all day. Ah, pork humor. Always fun.).
After dinner, competition heated up with a hula hoop contest and several coconut "broomball" bouts. Later, tiki torches were lit, a firepit was stoked, a guitar jam session played, and "Finding Nemo" was viewed on the big, middle-of-the-street movied screen, propped up against the one lone parked car on the street -- the leavings of some unlawfully parked and inconsiderate resident. Ruth decorated the malparked car with battery-operated tiki lights to striking effect.
The party cranked 'til midnight, at which point, we re-opened the street to more pedestrian pedestrian behavior.
A final note: Rick did not attend.
Crazy Crap Item #124: The part where 1500 Norwood waits in vigil on the new neighbors
This past March, we at 1500 Norwood suffered an intolerable loss. The O'Connors moved away. To Milwaukee.
Yes, you read right. Milwaukee.
Why, you ask, would anyone leave the sylvan splendor and sophisticated city-style living of 1500 Norwood for the great unknown frontier of some border hinterland? Work, they tell us. Unavoidable. We mourn.
News of the impending move engendered surmises as to our new neighbors. Would they be fun-loving folk, eager to partake of our many hijinks? Would we get to screen prospective neighbors, ensuring only the best and brightest could join our ranks?
The answer to the latter was no. Apparently, the O'Connors were being "relocated," which means they sell their house to their employer, who takes it from there.
As to the former ... the jury is still, alas, out.
Not that we don't have new neighbors. At first, it seemed promising. A same-sex couple, we are told. A soon-to-be retired Army dentist. His partner, rumored to be a physical therapist. We keep our eyes peeled for activity.
A moving truck arrives. Items are delivered. Shutters remain shuttered.
I hear tell my neighbor Florence has delivered a gift of shortbread to welcome them. So they are, we are to understand, moved in. I bake a loaf of bread and purchase olive oil as a welcome. But the new neighbors make no appearance, so I am forced to eat the bread myself.
Livingroom lights are spied, and Eamon strikes up an actual live conversation with one of the new neighbors while mowing the lawn. Rick is his name -- the Army dentist. A pleasant fellow, Eamon tells me. They speak of lawn maintenance and the superiority of push mowers. Eamon describes the annual block party, and suggests coconut bras may be involved. Rick registers enthusiasm.
So I bake loaf #2, based on Eamon's report that neighbors are stateside. I deliver said loaf, and chat with Rick, as pleasant and enthusiastic as Eamon had reported. He can't wait for the block party, he tells me. I tell him of the afternoon gatherings of mothers at Ruth's benches, and invite him to join us any time. He seems pleased and eager.
And then I never see him again. Shutters remain shuttered. There are occasional lights on. Delores reports they are out of town often. Megan theorizes they are avoiding us. Rick's partner is still unnamed, unmet.
I deliver flyers for the block party planning meeting. Rick and unnamed partner do not attend.
But still, through it all, Eamon and I maintain our faith that Rick lurks within, just waiting to be coaxed out of doors. As we gather at Ruth's benches, we occasionally cast a rueful eye at the former O'Connor home, longing for contact. We plaintively cry out, "Rick, Rick!"
Our cries are unanswered.
Yes, you read right. Milwaukee.
Why, you ask, would anyone leave the sylvan splendor and sophisticated city-style living of 1500 Norwood for the great unknown frontier of some border hinterland? Work, they tell us. Unavoidable. We mourn.
News of the impending move engendered surmises as to our new neighbors. Would they be fun-loving folk, eager to partake of our many hijinks? Would we get to screen prospective neighbors, ensuring only the best and brightest could join our ranks?
The answer to the latter was no. Apparently, the O'Connors were being "relocated," which means they sell their house to their employer, who takes it from there.
As to the former ... the jury is still, alas, out.
Not that we don't have new neighbors. At first, it seemed promising. A same-sex couple, we are told. A soon-to-be retired Army dentist. His partner, rumored to be a physical therapist. We keep our eyes peeled for activity.
A moving truck arrives. Items are delivered. Shutters remain shuttered.
I hear tell my neighbor Florence has delivered a gift of shortbread to welcome them. So they are, we are to understand, moved in. I bake a loaf of bread and purchase olive oil as a welcome. But the new neighbors make no appearance, so I am forced to eat the bread myself.
Livingroom lights are spied, and Eamon strikes up an actual live conversation with one of the new neighbors while mowing the lawn. Rick is his name -- the Army dentist. A pleasant fellow, Eamon tells me. They speak of lawn maintenance and the superiority of push mowers. Eamon describes the annual block party, and suggests coconut bras may be involved. Rick registers enthusiasm.
So I bake loaf #2, based on Eamon's report that neighbors are stateside. I deliver said loaf, and chat with Rick, as pleasant and enthusiastic as Eamon had reported. He can't wait for the block party, he tells me. I tell him of the afternoon gatherings of mothers at Ruth's benches, and invite him to join us any time. He seems pleased and eager.
And then I never see him again. Shutters remain shuttered. There are occasional lights on. Delores reports they are out of town often. Megan theorizes they are avoiding us. Rick's partner is still unnamed, unmet.
I deliver flyers for the block party planning meeting. Rick and unnamed partner do not attend.
But still, through it all, Eamon and I maintain our faith that Rick lurks within, just waiting to be coaxed out of doors. As we gather at Ruth's benches, we occasionally cast a rueful eye at the former O'Connor home, longing for contact. We plaintively cry out, "Rick, Rick!"
Our cries are unanswered.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #123: The part where Jack and I ponder immeasurables.
Jack: What is 3,000 plus 3,000?
Kay: 6,000.
Jack: What is 6,000 plus 6,000?
Kay: 12,000.
Jack: What is 12,000 plus 12,000?
Kay: 24,000.
Jack: What is 24,000 plus 24,000?
Kay: 48,000.
Jack: What is 48,000 plus 48,000?
Kay: 96,000.
Jack: What is 96,000 plus 96,000?
Kay: Um. [Pause.] 192,000.
Jack: What is 192,000 plus 192,000?
Kay: Oh, man. Let me think. [Jottings in air with finger.] 384,000.
Jack: What is 384,000 plus 384,000?
Kay: It'll take me a minute to figure that out.
Jack: I know. It's got to be infinity. 384,000 plus 384,000 is so big, it has to be infinity.
Kay: That can't be right, because infinity is bigger than anything you can add together.
Jack: What? What do you mean?
Kay: Infinity is everything. It just keeps going. Because you can always add one.
Jack: Add one what?
Kay: I mean, you can always add the number one. Like, one plus one is two; two plus one is three, and so on. Since you can always add one, you can never get to the end. Infinity means you can never get to the end, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: Is infinity everything?
Kay: Yes. It's everything. It's bigger than everything, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: So God is infinity.
Kay: Yes, God is infinity. He's everything. Plus one. God is everything, plus one.
Jack: So is God you?
Kay: Yes, God is me. God is bigger than me.
Jack: So God is me?
Kay: Yes, God is you and me and everything.
Jack: [ponders]
Kay: God is everything you ever thought, plus one.
Jack: So what about the devil.
Kay: That's another story.
Kay: 6,000.
Jack: What is 6,000 plus 6,000?
Kay: 12,000.
Jack: What is 12,000 plus 12,000?
Kay: 24,000.
Jack: What is 24,000 plus 24,000?
Kay: 48,000.
Jack: What is 48,000 plus 48,000?
Kay: 96,000.
Jack: What is 96,000 plus 96,000?
Kay: Um. [Pause.] 192,000.
Jack: What is 192,000 plus 192,000?
Kay: Oh, man. Let me think. [Jottings in air with finger.] 384,000.
Jack: What is 384,000 plus 384,000?
Kay: It'll take me a minute to figure that out.
Jack: I know. It's got to be infinity. 384,000 plus 384,000 is so big, it has to be infinity.
Kay: That can't be right, because infinity is bigger than anything you can add together.
Jack: What? What do you mean?
Kay: Infinity is everything. It just keeps going. Because you can always add one.
Jack: Add one what?
Kay: I mean, you can always add the number one. Like, one plus one is two; two plus one is three, and so on. Since you can always add one, you can never get to the end. Infinity means you can never get to the end, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: Is infinity everything?
Kay: Yes. It's everything. It's bigger than everything, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: So God is infinity.
Kay: Yes, God is infinity. He's everything. Plus one. God is everything, plus one.
Jack: So is God you?
Kay: Yes, God is me. God is bigger than me.
Jack: So God is me?
Kay: Yes, God is you and me and everything.
Jack: [ponders]
Kay: God is everything you ever thought, plus one.
Jack: So what about the devil.
Kay: That's another story.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #122: The part where Kristen goes to Dickens World, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. Also, this lovely description.
A report, from Kristen Freilich, on her recent trip to England's premiere new tourist attraction, Dickens World:
So on July 3 in the year of our Lord 2007, Shaun and I made passage to Dickens World, the premier vacation destination in the county of Kent (other than the historic docks of Chatham, which for all I can tell are...docks....but, older).
We hopped the tube to Char Crossing (or Crossing Char, I can never remember) and switched to the National Rail for an hour long ride to Chatham Station. The London suburbs looked a lot like the average burbs outside any other major American city. Than we took a one pound bus to Dickens World.I wasn't sure which bus to take as none of them said DICKENS WORLD on them, the way buses at the Magic Kingdom do. A bit of advertising *might* help. Each time a bus pulled up to the Chatham stop I would run up to it and ask the driver if their bus stopped at Dicken's World.
(door opens)
(Kristen runs up to bus)
Kristen: Does this bus stop at Dicken's World?
Bus Driver: (heavy sigh) No.
After the third try, we found the right bus! Finally a sign on the way there. Shaun and I agreed that Dicken's World should use the Wall Drug advertising schema...(Just 20 more Kilometres to Dicken's World!!). This would have prevented me from asking the driver (at each stop) if this was the Dicken's World stop. After 1.5 hours of traveling through English Countryside by rail and road, I was NOT about to miss Dicken's World because of poor signage.
Finally, we arrived at the historic docks of Chatham, where there were docks, a discount mall, and (trumpet sound effect) Dickens World, which promises the time of their lives! What did I think it would be like? I was hoping for an Oliver! sing along, or Oliver! singing contest!Tickets were $25 for adults, which is certainly less than Disney! Please note fabulous marketing flyer, which features Dickens in a boat with some of his beloved characters:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/706731447/in/photostream/
We climbed a staircase from the very modern looking lobby and were then transported (through a door) to a very Dickensian world where everything was dark and wooden looking. We were greeted by a costumed wench who asked if we would like our photographs taken in Dickens garb. Dickens garb, for a man, means a chimney sweep costume and prop, which prompted Shaun to ask if Charles Dickens had written Mary Poppins.
I was FAR more excited about the photo than Shaun was.Then we were transported (through another door) into a very Dickensian world. Please note warning sign. This door opened into what looked like an extremely large Christmas Carol set, complete with alleys and shops:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731164094/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731163726/in/photostream/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731157264/in/photostream/
Two wenches (costumed characters) greeted us. I was hoping they would be all Dickensian and I could do my British dialect with them, and complain about that mean old Bill Sykes, but instead they just told us were the bathrooms and exits were. Then a costumed man ran up to Shaun and started drawing what looked like a beard on his face with a ball point pen. We asked what he was doing and he didn't answer- he just laughed and ran away.
Dicken's World has 2 floors. The first floor is the town and has a boat ride, a school room, and a haunted house. The second floor has a restaurant and a 4-D exhibit.
We first ventured on the boat ride which takes you around the entire theme park. There was no wait for the boat ride, but we passed signs that read "1 hour wait from this point, 30 minute wait for this point", etc. I bet they were DREAMING of the day were those signs come are appropriate.
The boat ride took us through the filthy Thames, where we witnessed an anamotronic boy urinating in an alley. There were no big splashes, no falls. During the final moments of the ride, spotlights came up on some really scary mannequins: Bill Sykes, Madame DeFarge, and finally Wet/Dry Vac. OH NO THE CURSED WET DRY VAC!
Next a visit to the Haunted House. It featured four stops, and at each stop a group of about 20 visitors peered from a hallway into a room where projections appeared via mirrors. There was no guide for the groups, so after the narration ended, we all kind of looked at each other awkwardly and shuffled to the next exhibit. We saw glimpses of characters from all novels in the projections. And they had about 100 fire extinguishers that were not masked at all. Is Dickens World really that flammable? How can it be that I have never noticed a fire extinguisher at Disney?
At the School House, we were finally spoken to by a real character. School Master, wearing a graduation robe and cap, yelled at us for being late and made us take our seats. I was horrified to find out that at each seat in the room there were TOUCH SCREENS where we could play SNAKES and LADDERS, a Dickens trivia game. TOUCH SCREENS? REALLY?? Then the school master yelled at us when we left, but I didn't care. The touch screens had broken my spirit.
Our last stop was the gift shop, where they had run out of adult sized t shirts. Apparently they didn't realize how popular Dickens t shirts would be, so I was forced to buy a Dickens World pencil. A Dickens World Pencil has Dickens World written on it and has a metal Dickens bust on the top where the eraser should be.
Upon leaving we were caught in a horrible thunderstorm, so we ran to the outlet mall for Burger King. Then Shaun bought some underwear at Marks and Spencer and I bought a 3lb bag of Misshapen chocolate at the Cadbury Outlet.
I had fun at Dickens World, but only because I think things that are kind of lame can also be fun. I'm not a fan of the Tony and Tina's interactive theater-type world, but Dickens World might be cooler if there were actual Dickens characters running around.
Cheers!
Kristen
So on July 3 in the year of our Lord 2007, Shaun and I made passage to Dickens World, the premier vacation destination in the county of Kent (other than the historic docks of Chatham, which for all I can tell are...docks....but, older).
We hopped the tube to Char Crossing (or Crossing Char, I can never remember) and switched to the National Rail for an hour long ride to Chatham Station. The London suburbs looked a lot like the average burbs outside any other major American city. Than we took a one pound bus to Dickens World.I wasn't sure which bus to take as none of them said DICKENS WORLD on them, the way buses at the Magic Kingdom do. A bit of advertising *might* help. Each time a bus pulled up to the Chatham stop I would run up to it and ask the driver if their bus stopped at Dicken's World.
(door opens)
(Kristen runs up to bus)
Kristen: Does this bus stop at Dicken's World?
Bus Driver: (heavy sigh) No.
After the third try, we found the right bus! Finally a sign on the way there. Shaun and I agreed that Dicken's World should use the Wall Drug advertising schema...(Just 20 more Kilometres to Dicken's World!!). This would have prevented me from asking the driver (at each stop) if this was the Dicken's World stop. After 1.5 hours of traveling through English Countryside by rail and road, I was NOT about to miss Dicken's World because of poor signage.
Finally, we arrived at the historic docks of Chatham, where there were docks, a discount mall, and (trumpet sound effect) Dickens World, which promises the time of their lives! What did I think it would be like? I was hoping for an Oliver! sing along, or Oliver! singing contest!Tickets were $25 for adults, which is certainly less than Disney! Please note fabulous marketing flyer, which features Dickens in a boat with some of his beloved characters:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/706731447/in/photostream/
We climbed a staircase from the very modern looking lobby and were then transported (through a door) to a very Dickensian world where everything was dark and wooden looking. We were greeted by a costumed wench who asked if we would like our photographs taken in Dickens garb. Dickens garb, for a man, means a chimney sweep costume and prop, which prompted Shaun to ask if Charles Dickens had written Mary Poppins.
I was FAR more excited about the photo than Shaun was.Then we were transported (through another door) into a very Dickensian world. Please note warning sign. This door opened into what looked like an extremely large Christmas Carol set, complete with alleys and shops:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731164094/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731163726/in/photostream/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731157264/in/photostream/
Two wenches (costumed characters) greeted us. I was hoping they would be all Dickensian and I could do my British dialect with them, and complain about that mean old Bill Sykes, but instead they just told us were the bathrooms and exits were. Then a costumed man ran up to Shaun and started drawing what looked like a beard on his face with a ball point pen. We asked what he was doing and he didn't answer- he just laughed and ran away.
Dicken's World has 2 floors. The first floor is the town and has a boat ride, a school room, and a haunted house. The second floor has a restaurant and a 4-D exhibit.
We first ventured on the boat ride which takes you around the entire theme park. There was no wait for the boat ride, but we passed signs that read "1 hour wait from this point, 30 minute wait for this point", etc. I bet they were DREAMING of the day were those signs come are appropriate.
The boat ride took us through the filthy Thames, where we witnessed an anamotronic boy urinating in an alley. There were no big splashes, no falls. During the final moments of the ride, spotlights came up on some really scary mannequins: Bill Sykes, Madame DeFarge, and finally Wet/Dry Vac. OH NO THE CURSED WET DRY VAC!
Next a visit to the Haunted House. It featured four stops, and at each stop a group of about 20 visitors peered from a hallway into a room where projections appeared via mirrors. There was no guide for the groups, so after the narration ended, we all kind of looked at each other awkwardly and shuffled to the next exhibit. We saw glimpses of characters from all novels in the projections. And they had about 100 fire extinguishers that were not masked at all. Is Dickens World really that flammable? How can it be that I have never noticed a fire extinguisher at Disney?
At the School House, we were finally spoken to by a real character. School Master, wearing a graduation robe and cap, yelled at us for being late and made us take our seats. I was horrified to find out that at each seat in the room there were TOUCH SCREENS where we could play SNAKES and LADDERS, a Dickens trivia game. TOUCH SCREENS? REALLY?? Then the school master yelled at us when we left, but I didn't care. The touch screens had broken my spirit.
Our last stop was the gift shop, where they had run out of adult sized t shirts. Apparently they didn't realize how popular Dickens t shirts would be, so I was forced to buy a Dickens World pencil. A Dickens World Pencil has Dickens World written on it and has a metal Dickens bust on the top where the eraser should be.
Upon leaving we were caught in a horrible thunderstorm, so we ran to the outlet mall for Burger King. Then Shaun bought some underwear at Marks and Spencer and I bought a 3lb bag of Misshapen chocolate at the Cadbury Outlet.
I had fun at Dickens World, but only because I think things that are kind of lame can also be fun. I'm not a fan of the Tony and Tina's interactive theater-type world, but Dickens World might be cooler if there were actual Dickens characters running around.
Cheers!
Kristen
Crazy Crap Item #121: The part where I am ashamed
I just discovered i have no idea how to spell "Ophthalmology." It has way more letters than I thought.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #120: The part where Sailor Jack shows his silver screen roots
It is well known that my father is a Casablanca fanatic. It is useless to count the number of times he has seen this fine film. Hundreds of times?, you ask. Nay, I say, most likely thousands.
As an illustration, it should be noted that there was an extended period during which every day my dad would come home at 2pm from his post-retirement gig working at my cousin's plumbing supply store, pop in his well-worn video tape of Casablanca, and watch till dinner. At dinner time, he'd hit stop, then start it up the next day, post-plumbing. When the tape ended, he'd hit rewind and start over.
And thus it went, every afternoon, for years. One summer, I worked with him at the plumbing store, and often joined him in his Bogey-fest. I reckon I'd seen the movie several times over by the end of the summer, but never in sequence.
That little illustration serves as a prelude to my most recent email from Dad:
"The other day I got the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to quote Casablanca. We were at the motel about to take a cab to the airport when I decided to use the men's room. It was poorly marked, with just a tiny outline of a man. Mom thought I had gone that way to the cab and tried to follow. There was a rattling of the door knob and knocking. To this I said '...Where I'm going you can't follow. What I'll be doing, you can't be any part of...'"
An excellent use of all his Casablanca expertise, I say.
As an illustration, it should be noted that there was an extended period during which every day my dad would come home at 2pm from his post-retirement gig working at my cousin's plumbing supply store, pop in his well-worn video tape of Casablanca, and watch till dinner. At dinner time, he'd hit stop, then start it up the next day, post-plumbing. When the tape ended, he'd hit rewind and start over.
And thus it went, every afternoon, for years. One summer, I worked with him at the plumbing store, and often joined him in his Bogey-fest. I reckon I'd seen the movie several times over by the end of the summer, but never in sequence.
That little illustration serves as a prelude to my most recent email from Dad:
"The other day I got the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to quote Casablanca. We were at the motel about to take a cab to the airport when I decided to use the men's room. It was poorly marked, with just a tiny outline of a man. Mom thought I had gone that way to the cab and tried to follow. There was a rattling of the door knob and knocking. To this I said '...Where I'm going you can't follow. What I'll be doing, you can't be any part of...'"
An excellent use of all his Casablanca expertise, I say.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #119: The part where I have arrived
A few weeks ago, in my capacity as freelance theater critic for Time Out Chicago, I was sent to a horrible, horrible show. You can hear more about it here.
Today, my dear editor wrote me this: "Did I mention your refugee review has warranted not one but TWO letters from disgruntled readers? We never get letters. It's thrilling for us..."
Dig it. I disgruntled readers. I have arrived.
Today, my dear editor wrote me this: "Did I mention your refugee review has warranted not one but TWO letters from disgruntled readers? We never get letters. It's thrilling for us..."
Dig it. I disgruntled readers. I have arrived.
Crazy Crap Item #119: The part where I have arrived
So a few weeks ago, I was sent--in my capacity of freelance theater critic for Time Out Chicago--to a heinous original musical parody. I did not enjoy myself here. You can find out why here.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #118: The part where I once again demonstrate the strength of my marriage
I've noted before the unusual strength of my marriage, in particular when my husband told me a joined an online dating service. Here it is, not two weeks later, and my husband informs me he's marching in Chicago's Gay Pride Parade.
Again, some wives may feel such a revelation would give them pause. But me, I'm unflappable.
Roller Derby, you see. The ladies are marching. The theme is outer space. He is to be ... a robot.
As many know, Eamon is not one to do things half-way. So, of course, there was the special trip to Home Depot for supplies. Hours of planning. Hours more of construction. Muttered curses. Personal realizations that one tends to bite off more than one can chew.
But when the Derby calls for a robot, a robot it shall have. Check out the fantastic video of the derby robot, in action. Or this photo.
Afterwards, I asked Eamon how it was, and he told me it was hours of being humped by countless men, all unwitting (as his robot body impeded any sensation).
As a side note, after Eamon had completed the helmet, I took some small friends into the house to see the work in progress. I modeled the head, and allowed young Gavin to strut his stuff.
Again, some wives may feel such a revelation would give them pause. But me, I'm unflappable.
Roller Derby, you see. The ladies are marching. The theme is outer space. He is to be ... a robot.
As many know, Eamon is not one to do things half-way. So, of course, there was the special trip to Home Depot for supplies. Hours of planning. Hours more of construction. Muttered curses. Personal realizations that one tends to bite off more than one can chew.
But when the Derby calls for a robot, a robot it shall have. Check out the fantastic video of the derby robot, in action. Or this photo.
Afterwards, I asked Eamon how it was, and he told me it was hours of being humped by countless men, all unwitting (as his robot body impeded any sensation).
As a side note, after Eamon had completed the helmet, I took some small friends into the house to see the work in progress. I modeled the head, and allowed young Gavin to strut his stuff.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #117: The part where I alerted to a surprising resemblance
My dear friend Mr. Shattner addressed me with this arresting query:
(21:57:24) shattynyc: you know the guy from the daily show?
(21:57:28) shattynyc: and the mac commercials?
I indicated that, yes, I did, that I admired his work, and that his name is John Hodgeman.
He agreed he is very funny, and added:
(21:57:50) shattynyc: but is he not the living incarnation of that one muppet?
I think if you compare the image of John Hodgeman with that of said muppet, you will see the startling resemblance.
(21:57:24) shattynyc: you know the guy from the daily show?
(21:57:28) shattynyc: and the mac commercials?
I indicated that, yes, I did, that I admired his work, and that his name is John Hodgeman.
He agreed he is very funny, and added:
(21:57:50) shattynyc: but is he not the living incarnation of that one muppet?
I think if you compare the image of John Hodgeman with that of said muppet, you will see the startling resemblance.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #116: The part where I discover that I am a hot little number
Recently, my dear husband approached me with this rather dubious announcement:
"I'm registering with some online dating services, but don't be worried."
I think it's a testament to the strength of our marriage that I paused to hear more.
Work-related, you see. Under-cover research. Very hush hush. To make it all square, he even sent me his profile on one of the sites.
I was pleased to see that he registered himself as "married," and indicated this was just for "hanging out." In fact, it never entered my mind that one could register as married. What a strange option.
Shortly thereafter, he complained that his photo was getting none-too-impressive ratings from either men or women on the site. A "1", he was rated by one jaded viewer. This must be rectified, I decided.
Trouble is, one must be registered to participate in the ratings. But, I thought, Eamon registered as "married," just looking to "hang out." I could as well. I could lurk, undetected, a boring old married housewife, wildly adding "10"s to her husband's photo rating. Fantastic.
So I filled out the profile. I checked "married." I wrote a vague but amusing self-description. I added a cute but not stunning photo. I sent the profile to Eamon. He rated my photo, and added me as a "favorite" of his. I sent him a "rose." He reciprocated. All very amusing.
Then a message arrived in my profile in-box. Not from Eamon.
Subject: u sound interesting
hi im keith how r u?......im married also..........im a carpenter....care to chat?
What an odd fluke.
Then another:
Subject: hi wee
i'm john. i saw your profile and i think we have several things in common...
and another:
Subject: Hello Wee
Hi My name is Frank. I'll keep this simple for now but if you can break away during the day then I'd love to meet for lunch and get to know you. Let me know and I'll send a photo and my reg email addy. Hope to hear from you soon. xoxo
And so forth.
The messages are generally short, vague and introductory. One fellow thinks I'm a nice lady (smiley face). Another noticed I was looking for someone discreet.
I also find I get email notices daily to tell me some new fellow has added me as a "favorite." And just now ... AS I WRITE THIS ... I get a pop-up notice that no fewer than 2 random fellows want to IM me!
Eamon bemoans that he has had no such attention lavished on him. He complains that I'm one of "them" -- the pretty people -- who don't get "1"s on their photo rating.
But I think I have a better theory to explain why I suddenly seem like a nice hunk of ribeye tossed in the dog pound. I'm a woman, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, I want anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes me a hot prospect to men.
While Eamon is a man, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, he wants anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes him more bitter than poison to women.
Mars and Venus, folks. Mars and Venus.
"I'm registering with some online dating services, but don't be worried."
I think it's a testament to the strength of our marriage that I paused to hear more.
Work-related, you see. Under-cover research. Very hush hush. To make it all square, he even sent me his profile on one of the sites.
I was pleased to see that he registered himself as "married," and indicated this was just for "hanging out." In fact, it never entered my mind that one could register as married. What a strange option.
Shortly thereafter, he complained that his photo was getting none-too-impressive ratings from either men or women on the site. A "1", he was rated by one jaded viewer. This must be rectified, I decided.
Trouble is, one must be registered to participate in the ratings. But, I thought, Eamon registered as "married," just looking to "hang out." I could as well. I could lurk, undetected, a boring old married housewife, wildly adding "10"s to her husband's photo rating. Fantastic.
So I filled out the profile. I checked "married." I wrote a vague but amusing self-description. I added a cute but not stunning photo. I sent the profile to Eamon. He rated my photo, and added me as a "favorite" of his. I sent him a "rose." He reciprocated. All very amusing.
Then a message arrived in my profile in-box. Not from Eamon.
Subject: u sound interesting
hi im keith how r u?......im married also..........im a carpenter....care to chat?
What an odd fluke.
Then another:
Subject: hi wee
i'm john. i saw your profile and i think we have several things in common...
and another:
Subject: Hello Wee
Hi My name is Frank. I'll keep this simple for now but if you can break away during the day then I'd love to meet for lunch and get to know you. Let me know and I'll send a photo and my reg email addy. Hope to hear from you soon. xoxo
And so forth.
The messages are generally short, vague and introductory. One fellow thinks I'm a nice lady (smiley face). Another noticed I was looking for someone discreet.
I also find I get email notices daily to tell me some new fellow has added me as a "favorite." And just now ... AS I WRITE THIS ... I get a pop-up notice that no fewer than 2 random fellows want to IM me!
Eamon bemoans that he has had no such attention lavished on him. He complains that I'm one of "them" -- the pretty people -- who don't get "1"s on their photo rating.
But I think I have a better theory to explain why I suddenly seem like a nice hunk of ribeye tossed in the dog pound. I'm a woman, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, I want anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes me a hot prospect to men.
While Eamon is a man, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, he wants anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes him more bitter than poison to women.
Mars and Venus, folks. Mars and Venus.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring
I've spoken before of Delores, our neighbor whose appearance in her perch on a lawn chair stands in as the first robin of spring in our neighborhood.
Now, here for posterity, I've recorded a glimpse of this fabled harbinger, as seen from my office window.
Now, here for posterity, I've recorded a glimpse of this fabled harbinger, as seen from my office window.
Crazy Crap Item #114: The part where I update the poop story
Since posting the story of how a man pooped in my yard, I have had many follow-up queries. "Did the 311 guy ever arrive?" "Is the poop still in my yard?" "Did the mad pooper return?" So I figured I should post a follow-up.
Upon returning home from the grocery store, I heaped a healthy helping of litter upon the stinking and fly-covered pile of poop. If the 311 guy comes, I thought, the litter would mark the spot for him, plus all the renegade splatters he might miss. And if he never comes, at least I will have this nice litter to solidify the pile.
Off I went then to enjoy my lunch and put in a load of laundry.
An hour or two passed, and there were still no signs of any sort of government back-up for my poop disaster. It was time, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I realized that this was not the sort of job one wants to get halfway through and discover one has gone about all wrong. I had visions of mad scrambles to maneuver shovels-full of poop into a garbage bag that has folded over upon itself, and mis-aimed scoops that do more damage than good. So I planned it out.
Thinking it through, I realized I really wanted to minimized the amount of contact of the scooping implement with the poop. And since I didn't wish to retain the ground and grass directly beneath the poop, it did not make sense to use a snow shovel or some such flimsy implement. Only a sturdy real-man's shovel would do.
Thankfully, we have many such implements on hand. The previous occupant, Mr. O'Malley, worked for many years for the Streets and Sanitation Department, and left behind a whole passel of ancient contruction tools, all tellingly stamped "City of Chicago." Among these was an old, rusty, sturdy shovel. This would do the trick.
Next, I fetched my floor scrubbing bucket, a large rectangular affair. I lined with a garbage bag.
As I brought these items out front, I caught site of Ruth, who (as you'll recall) learned of my plight from my grocery store announcement. I informed her it was poop scooping time, as I had waited 2 hours and there was still no sign of the mythical 311 crew. She indicated she was impressed with my industry, and offered to help. This, I told her, was a one-person job, and I saw no reason to enlist another in such a nasty task to no good purpose.
Could she watch, then? I assented, and she pulled a lawn chair up to get a good view.
There's not much more to report. My carefully plotted plan worked to perfection. I wedged the shovel in about 2 inches below the surface, and scooped up grass, poop, litter and all in just a few quick swipes. The bucket provided stability; the garbage bag, hygiene. I tied it up quick as a wink, and haulted it to the garbage.
The poop is gone, but not forgotten. As a token, we still have the bald spot in the grass where the poop once was.
Upon returning home from the grocery store, I heaped a healthy helping of litter upon the stinking and fly-covered pile of poop. If the 311 guy comes, I thought, the litter would mark the spot for him, plus all the renegade splatters he might miss. And if he never comes, at least I will have this nice litter to solidify the pile.
Off I went then to enjoy my lunch and put in a load of laundry.
An hour or two passed, and there were still no signs of any sort of government back-up for my poop disaster. It was time, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I realized that this was not the sort of job one wants to get halfway through and discover one has gone about all wrong. I had visions of mad scrambles to maneuver shovels-full of poop into a garbage bag that has folded over upon itself, and mis-aimed scoops that do more damage than good. So I planned it out.
Thinking it through, I realized I really wanted to minimized the amount of contact of the scooping implement with the poop. And since I didn't wish to retain the ground and grass directly beneath the poop, it did not make sense to use a snow shovel or some such flimsy implement. Only a sturdy real-man's shovel would do.
Thankfully, we have many such implements on hand. The previous occupant, Mr. O'Malley, worked for many years for the Streets and Sanitation Department, and left behind a whole passel of ancient contruction tools, all tellingly stamped "City of Chicago." Among these was an old, rusty, sturdy shovel. This would do the trick.
Next, I fetched my floor scrubbing bucket, a large rectangular affair. I lined with a garbage bag.
As I brought these items out front, I caught site of Ruth, who (as you'll recall) learned of my plight from my grocery store announcement. I informed her it was poop scooping time, as I had waited 2 hours and there was still no sign of the mythical 311 crew. She indicated she was impressed with my industry, and offered to help. This, I told her, was a one-person job, and I saw no reason to enlist another in such a nasty task to no good purpose.
Could she watch, then? I assented, and she pulled a lawn chair up to get a good view.
There's not much more to report. My carefully plotted plan worked to perfection. I wedged the shovel in about 2 inches below the surface, and scooped up grass, poop, litter and all in just a few quick swipes. The bucket provided stability; the garbage bag, hygiene. I tied it up quick as a wink, and haulted it to the garbage.
The poop is gone, but not forgotten. As a token, we still have the bald spot in the grass where the poop once was.
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