Sunday, July 29, 2007

The coast is finally clear. I am free to write.

Lately I see personality traits of my mother bubbling to the surface of my psyche. For example, like my mother, I enjoy waiting for the perfect moment to enjoy a treat. If presented a gift of fine tea or a small box of chocolates, I wait for a quiet pause to savor the experience.

I remember one evening years ago my mother cut her finger on the razors edge of a canned ham. The exact circumstances surrounding the incident are unclear, but I know she was annoyed by either something my father did in his usual oblivion, or by me and/or my siblings in our own unique state of self-involvement. Either way, she just stood there bleeding from one hand and ham in the other – the result of loosing focus on the chore at hand due to aggravation. She did not want stitches, and she sure as hell didn’t want to go to a doctor. She sucked it all in, and with little assistance dressed her own wound. Tough as nails.



The Yoo-hoo bottle was in the sink.
That drink was for me.
I did not consume it.
I did not put the bottle there.
Empty.
Motherfucker.

Bitterness flowed up into my veins. I felt its grip in my jaw. It had been 6 days. It was supposed to be 3 and we were now at 6. Day 6 and my Yoo-hoo was gone.

Fuck hospitality.

I rinsed the bottle and threw it in the pail. It shattered at the bottom. Fucking dishes were in the sink…again. I picked up the cheese slicer at the bottom of the sink, and began to clean it.

Not just for Jarlsburg anymore - apparently cheese slicers are great for fingers as well!

My right ring finger was suddenly spilling blood. No skin remained to fold over the wound – a clear chunk was removed. I ran through the house yelling profanities, and looking for a bandage. Later I would retrace my steps with a paper towel, cleaning up the puddles on the floor.

I called my husband, but I really needed my mother.

After some tears, I realized it was time to find my own “tough as nails” place. I sucked it up, took a breath, and awkwardly dressed my own wound.

Last night, I called my mother. I told her about the last 7 days. We laughed about her 5 days as host, an event that took place long ago with her own husband’s best friend. The one who also overstepped boundaries of time and tact. She was surprised that I had the ability to speak after my own ordeal, but that is my father in me (who also surfaced during the before mentioned swear-laden first-aid-kit search). I told her about the Yoo-hoo, and I didn’t even have to explain – she knew.

“You wanted to savor it, didn’t you”?

Friday, July 13, 2007

Hi. I'm Aj. And I have a cat problem.

No, they are not my cats. They are my neighbor's cats.
No, they do not come out on my property. I don't even see them.
But I can smell them.
They pee on the connecting wall, and it's driving me mad.

My neighbor, Bane McAssHole, has a problem cleaning a litter box, it seems. Either that or he's patching holes in the mortar with litter chucks.

The only time I hear McAssHole is on garbage & recycling day.
No, not because he's taking it out.
He's taking other people's trash in.
He is also conveniently not around when the health department comes by.

The other day he had a blackbird in the front window,
Thrashing around trying to get out.
I heard it later being attached by the cats.
I can see where it got in, and have seen other birds like it.

But the biggest problem for me is the cats.
More than 3 cats requires a kennel license.
"Can you prove he has more than 3"? Health Department Guy says?
"No. He keeps the little peeing machines in the house. But I can smell them
when it gets hot
and the AC is off
and whenever I'm home and health department guy is off duty"

So I'm thinking of breaking a hole in the wall
and saving the cats.
Cause cats don't like living this way,
And I sure as hell don't like living this way.
But I fear the wrath of Bane
Cause he's nasty in smell as well as temperament.

But I'm not to talk about it to anyone.
Cause we're embarrassed to say
that sometimes our guest room smells like stale cat ass.