And That Stinks!
I have a beef, or complaint, to pick with the garbage men and their trucks that roll down my street at five in the morning. During the week, I am awake by 5 a.m., so I’m not usually bothered by something or someone interrupting my sleep that I don’t mind or welcome.
I’m somewhat of a heavy sleeper. I can sleep through bombings, wars, and thunderstorms, but I can’t sleep through dripping water, idling trucks and garbage cans being dragged across the pavement. Every time the garbage truck catches me sleeping in, I ask myself: Does the garbage really need to be collected so early in the morning? I don’t think so, but I did a quick search on the web to see if I could find an answer to my question or at least an explanation. Here’s what I unearthed:
“Residential pickup starts at 5 a.m. and goes until the trucks have finished their routes. Commercial pickup starts at 4 a.m. To start trash pickup later would cost more because the process would take longer. Morning trash pickup is safer because fewer people and vehicles are out and about.”
So it’s less expensive, it’s safer and fewer cars are on the street. I get it, but I don’t buy it. Garbage trucks bring the noise because of discrimination! Yep, I figured it out. I’m not going to play the race card, we already know that card has been dealt and played out. I’m referring to the class or social distinctions “between individuals or groups in societies or cultures” card.
As I mentioned before, I live in the shoddier part of a nice town and that’s fine, substance and covering is all I need…and a new car and maybe some clothes, but other than that, I’m good. The houses on my block are closer together than the houses a few blocks up. The further you drive up the hills of Maplewood, the bigger and more spacious the houses become. Just to give you a visual, three to four houses on my block is the equivalent to one house on another block, not including the lawn.
As you navigate down the hill into the valley where the green grass doesn’t grow, the houses get smaller and closer together. What happened? Did a surveyor look at the city lines as architects were building houses and say, “Oh crap, we’re running out of neighborhood! You’re going to have build the last 500 houses on this block a lot closer together and instead of an actual lawn, throw in a patch of grass so they’ll have something to mow on the weekend.”
The houses are close together, but not like where I lived before where I could hear my neighbor flush their toilet. Too many times I thought of reaching out the window and just handing them a roll of toilet tissue, but then they would know I was listening. Not on purpose, but to things that annoy me, and seemed to be magnified tenfold.
Every town has a ghetto. I just wish people didn’t judge you based on where you live, the car you drive, the color of your skin or the clothes you wear. And by people, I mean the Sanitation Department. I think the garbage truck rolls around “up in here” [a line stolen from DMX] at 5 a.m. because they don’t care about waking the lowly am-ha’aretz, that’s Hebrew meaning the people of the land.
The garbage truck is loud, the garbage men drag cans across the pavement, through driveways and they don’t always clean up after themselves. I know this behavior doesn’t go on in other parts of town. I actually witnessed a garbage truck on one of the nicer streets and the experience was totally different. It was like watching a Special Weapons And Tactics operation in action, that’s right, a SWAT team.
First of all, the garbage truck didn’t drive into the neighborhood, but cut the engine a few blocks back and snuck up on the street. Then it hid behind a tree and the trash collectors dispersed onto the street in a tuck and roll fashion like Olympic gymnasts of garbage removal. Signaling the coast was clear, the garbage truck crawled from house to house on its underside as its belly was filled with stolen garbage. Then it left.
Noise? What noise? If garbage was collected at 5 a.m. up the hill, it would cause uproar in the land. Instead, the tooth fairy of garbage mysteriously extracted trash from the garbage can, undetected, and replaced it with a mint on top of the lid.
If garbage removal can be orchestrated into a sneak attack up the hill where the green grass grows, then how come the garbage men can’t be just as quiet and courteous when they are in the valley? Because we’re not worthy. Interestingly enough, when I witnessed this miracle, there were a few things I did take note of: It was around 10:00 a.m., the sanitation workers cleaned up after themselves and no garbage can was harmed during the operation of that mission. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it.
In: Pet Peeve · Tagged with: Garbage Truck, Ghetto, Surburban
I May Be Ignorant
Sunday. Early afternoon.
The phone rings. In the time it takes me to walk to the phone and check the Caller ID, I flip through my mental contact list and try to guess who is calling. It’s a quizzical game I play with myself, just for fun.
I did not recognize the number, but I answer it anyway because I have a feeling who’s calling. Is it me or can anyone else do this? It’s possible when I fell on my head as a kid some of my marbles rolled out, but I picked up a sixth sense while I was down there. Don’t cry for me, Argentina.
Yes, sometimes when the phone rings I know who’s calling, sometimes I know what they want and sometimes someone will throw me a curve ball and I am dead wrong, but not this time.
It’s the adoption agency.
The previous day I went to the pet store to see what cats, if any, they had for adoption. The clerk told me the adoption agency just left but to fill out an application and someone would contact me.
Okay hold on, I know what you’re thinking, that I really don’t have a sixth sense, but I should have been expecting a phone call. I see your point, but that’s not entirely true.
My sixth sense learns behaviors, patterns, and sometimes I can even read minds. The last person’s mind I read was D and since revealing my ability to him, he’s scared to think, hasn’t had a thought in weeks!
Sometimes it just turns itself on. Why just the other day I gave a correct Jeopardy question before seeing the answer. Based on the category alone, I knew the answer would be one of the clues, I just didn’t know it would be the first one, turns out I was right.
The kid asked how I answered before seeing the clue. I wonder if you can ring in on Jeopardy before they show you the answer. In any event, I have references.
But back to my story.
The woman on the phone introduces herself and says she reviewed my application and loved it. How do you love an application? I don’t know, maybe she enjoyed my facetious answers. I thought the application was funny and found humor in the following questions:
Do you have other pets?
Yes, I have fish and a hamster.
Where do you keep them?
In an aquarium. [Not together of course.]
I know they mean cat or dog when they say other pets, but I can’t resist the sarcasm and love leaving my comedic calling cards around town.
This reminds of the time I went to the dentist and one of the questions on the application read “What do you want to do if your treatment exceeds $500?”
First gut reaction? I wrote, pass out. Well it was the truth and the receptionist thought it was funny. No doubt a story she will share with her grandchildren.
After reviewing my application over the phone, she considers me to be a good candidate and tells me that all the cats will be on display until 5:00 p.m.
I ask her how long the adoption process will take, if anyone needs to visit my home and how soon before I can take the cat home. I can tell from her pregnant pause that she’s baffled by my questions. She tells me I can take her home the same day.
What, no blood? No fingerprinting? No background check? Oh wait, she did call my references. I tell her I will be right down and shortly thereafter I leave.
When I arrive at the pet store the cat we want to adopt is gone and I feel a pinch of disappointment that she was adopted by someone else. I’m not certain if adoption is on a first come first serve, so I look for someone to assist me. I tell them that I filled out and application yesterday for Blaise and the woman says, “Oh yeah you’re the one with a hamster and fish.” She then leads me to a room and that’s where I finally meet Blaise.
They tell me what a great cat Blaise is and that she is just starting talk or meow since being dropped off at the shelter two weeks ago. Blaise was surrendered to the shelter because her owner fell ill. I’m guessing allergies, but illness was the reason listed for all of the cats up for adoption.
Blaise is two years old; she has a great personality, healthy looking eyes, teeth and a shiny black coat. She is spayed, has her claws and is up-to-date with her shots. After spending time with her I decided I wanted to adopt Blaise.
The woman from the shelter gives me several coupons and tells me to go shopping and what I need to buy. I start out with the basic stuff, litter box, a few toys and the cat litter and food are free. I hope they are going to give me the free cardboard box to carry her home in but nothing doing, so I purchase a pet carrier.
Blaise didn’t like being stuffed into the pet carrier and voiced her displeasure all the way home. I keep the house quiet so she can explore the new box she will be living in. Crouching down low like the ceilings are 1 foot high, Blaise creeps from room to room until she finds refuge under a bed. My bed.
Eventually Blaise comes out to interact with her new surroundings. I can only imagine what is going through her instinctive mind when she sees the Teddy, the hamster. She probably thinks, oh this is just too easy.
Sometimes Blaise will walk by Teddy’s cage and the hamster will stop all activity and pretend to be a statue. Other times they will hold their ground and have a stare down. Together they are fun and entertaining to watch. Blaise de-stresses from not being able to catch Teddy by plopping down in front of the aquarium to watch the fish swim.
One thing I love about this cat is that she has no interest in store bought things, but finds enjoyment in homemade stuff, like the string on one of my bed pillows. She doesn’t care about hanging out in her kitty condo, but prefers to lounge on my king size bed. Contrary to popular belief, catnip doesn’t excite her either.
It would not surprise me to come home one day to find out she rented the rooms in her condo to stray cats who are hanging out the window smoking catnip. Maybe that’s why I’m saving all of my receipts for her expenses, I expect to be repaid, somehow.
So far it’s been nice having her around. The first thing the lady said to me was: this is a lifelong commitment, etc…and I’m thinking, no it isn’t, one of us will die. Of course, I don’t say that but I nod my head yes.
I am committed to taking care of Blaise. I enrolled in a free e-course to learn more about cat care and behavior. I ask questions from those who have cats.
Periodically, I read cat websites to keep abreast on what’s new. Times have changed though, who knew animals would one day wear clothes, go on play dates, vacation in pet hotels. They even have doctors, psychiatrists and crunch on antidepressants, if need be.
They live like humans and for some, just as well. I didn’t know taking care of a pet was more than just giving it food and water. In the past, I admit I may have been ignorant, but irresponsible, I am not.
In: Animals · Tagged with: Adoption, Ignorant, Pets
Justify My Love
I’m almost afraid to discuss this in public, as I feel like I have been blacklisted.
Here’s what happened.
It was a casual trip to the pet store, I went alone and wasn’t expecting to walk out with an animal, but I was there to look. I asked the woman from the shelter what the procedure was to adopt an animal, particularly a kitten. She handed me a form and said to fill it out and someone would contact me.
Then she asked me a few of the questions on the application such as if I had any experience with cats in the past? I answered in the affirmative that I had a cat many years ago. This is where I messed up. Sometimes when I say I, I mean we.
We had a cat in the house when I was younger. I remember, and I’m almost certain, it was my brother’s idea that we should get a cat. We found an advertisement in the paper for a kitten, a free kitten, so we called the number and made arrangements to pick it up.
I was too young to drive, but my brother had his license. When we got there, the woman showed us the kitten. We met the kitten’s mom, she told us what a sweetheart Punky was, later renamed Pepper, and how she loved being cradled like a baby.
We left with Pepper and drove her home. When my mom arrived home from work, we “surprised” her and said, “Look what we bought you.” Fade to black. I don’t remember what happened after that, but Pepper was allowed to stay.
Fast forward.
I got a job and was financially and emotionally caring for Pepper. She was mine. I was the one who cleaned the litter box, made sure she had food and water. I was the one who stayed up half the night crying and holding her after she was spayed.
Not too many years later, my brother got married and moved out of the house. Pepper was and probably always had been my responsibility. I loved the cat, she hung out with me, slept in my room, in my bed and people even said, in a backhanded compliment kind of way, that she exhibited my personality and temperament. She would often scratch, bite and hiss when she did not want to be bothered, but nevertheless she was lovable.
After having her spayed, that was her last visit to the vet. She was a house cat, in good health and taking her to the vet for shots never crossed my mind. Pepper lived for a long time, but eventually she got sick and had to be put to sleep. This is where all conversation ends regarding Pepper, I won’t discuss her.
So back to the application.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
I told her and she seemed to be pleased with the area. I asked her what happens after I fill out the application. She said someone would give me a call and arrange a home visit.
“Have you had any experience with cats before?”
“Yes, we used to have a cat a long time ago.”
“Well what happened to the cat?”
“She was sick and had to be put to sleep.”
“Where did she go for regular check-ups?”
“I don’t know, the only place I remember her going is somewhere in Hillside. Yes, People for Animals, that’s it.”
“They only spay there and don’t do routine check-ups.”
“Oh, well then, she never went to a veterinarian. How long before someone contacts me?”
“We will review your application and give you a call.”
I’m partially satisfied that I got the ball rolling on the adoption process and I leave the store. Of course, when I get outside I playback -in my mind- bits and pieces of conversations I heard when I was talking to the lady.
I remember hearing someone say that a kitten was adopted this morning and I’m thinking well even though I wasn’t there to adopt on the spot, why am I walking out empty handed? Why do they need to visit my home. I had to go back for some answers.
I asked her again, “How long does the adoption process take? Didn’t I hear someone say earlier that they left with a kitten this morning, why do I have to go through all this red tape.” She said, “That was not me, but the other lady, there are two adoption agencies here.”
I said, “You weren’t going to call me, were you?” She said, “Well I would have called you, but I was a little concerned that you never took your cat to see a vet. Even though she was a house cat and never went outside, they still need to see a vet once a year. You could open a window and something from the outside could come in and make your cat sick.”
I thanked her for her honesty and left. It didn’t occur to me until after I left that I should have further explained the situation instead of walking out like an irresponsible pet owner. I was embarrassed.
I had no idea that adopting a pet would be this involved. People coming out to the house and making routine visits thereafter. They also said if they don’t like what they see on the return trip they would take the cat back.
I don’t know why I’m worried. I’m certain I will pass the cleanliness portion, in fact, I’m insulted if anyone thinks my house is anything but clean, and would fail because I don’t have a safety lock on the toilet and the cat could fall in. How can a home be suitable for humans, but not good enough for an animal?
I’d be crushed if, after a follow up visit, they decided to take the cat back because of something I did wrong. Remember Ellen and the dog she adopted but later gave away. She cried on TV after the dog was removed from the new owner’s home by the adoption agency. Well I don’t have a TV show to boo hoo on, but I’d cry me a river on this blog and be messed up for weeks.
You know what really bugs me about all of this? My daughter is 9 years old and not once has the hospital she was born in called for a follow up visit. Okay so she was not adopted, but it just seems easier for me to give birth to a cat than it is for me to adopt one.
So if you’re with a pet adoption agency and you are running a background check on me, here are some things you should know. I will:
- Put in a request for 6 weeks of family leave to bond with our new adopted family member;
- Schedule yearly vet visits;
- Hire a certified pet sitter if we need to be away from home for more than 24 hours;
- Provide cat with its own kitty condo;
- Give it emotional and physical stimulation;
- Never yell or spank the cat for bad behavior, but try to reason with it;
- Allow it to watch Jeopardy for only 30 minutes a day;
- Allow it to sleep in the family bed until it feels safe enough to sleep in its own room;
- Get pet insurance;
- Never let you see me sweat.
It took all my strength not to go back to the store and justify why Pepper never saw a vet. I didn’t, instead I drove down the street to PetSmart and filled out an application there and this time when I answered the question, Have you ever had any experience with a cat, I added a mental asterisk to my answer:
No. I have not had any experience with a cat, *not as a responsible adult. And that’s my final answer.
In: Animals · Tagged with: Adoption, Confusion, Pets
Staycation
Guess what people? When I leave work on Thursday, I will officially be on vacation for 10 days and I’m not even fired, yet.
Do. The. Macarana.
This is a stay-at-home vacation, or a staycation, you know the place you pay tons of money to maintain, but are never there to enjoy it. Yeah that place.
I’m a homebody and can stay tucked away inside for days on end. I don’t need to go outside – plenty of sunlight filters through the mini blinds – and if the sun’s shining, I’m good.
One thing I will never understand is people who are home, for whatever reason, and say that after a while they become bored. Whatever.
Anywho, I’m looking forward to a relaxing time at home with a few fun activities thrown in once a day, mainly for the kid’s sake.
What relaxes me probably seems like work to most people, but I don’t mind it. I receive a satisfying dose of endorphines when things are organized. “Relax your mind, lay back and groove with mine” why don’t ya? If you can name that tune, the one I’m thinking of, in quotes, I’ll mail you $5.
So, what’s on the agenda?
A coworker gave me some chocolate covered Oreos and now I’m hooked. I found out how to make them from a recipe online and will give it a try. I need to purchase a dipping fork and they all need to be eaten by Sunday.
I’ve been ignoring the lack of organization in my closet. It’s not too unkempt, but I cringe because the pants are partying with the suits, the suits are hanging out with the skirts and the blouses are all over the place. That’s not how I roll, everything has a place and it needs to be in it.
I also need to try on everything in my closet to see what has to be given away. Since losing a few pounds, some of my pants are too big and I need to have them altered. And the pants that no longer reach past my ankle have to be given away. I’m like one of the attractions at an amusement park: You have to be this tall to ride this ride. I wish I had a tailor for my oddly shaped body.
Clothes need to go to the cleaners and buttons need to be sown on clothing. By the way, I hate sewing buttons back on clothes. They should never come off in the first place. It’s only on children’s clothing that buttons live for an eternity, but I’m much too tall for a 8T, so I wear grown-up clothes.
Is it too much to ask that buttons be secured with enough thread to survive a blast? Then the clothing includes a label that says: This blouse was inspected by Inspector No. 435 aka Hope. Yeah I get it, you better hope you see where the button lands when it falls off.
I will exercise, everyday. I’m home, there’s no reason for me not to, right? I’m going to weigh myself on Sunday and then the day before I return to work, I don’t want to come back fatter. There’s a race track down the street from my house so I plan to start my day with a morning run. Then when I get home 100 seated chair dips for my triceps and 100 reps of the Bicycle for my abs. Anything else I do will be extra, but I at least want to do those three things, daily.
I plan to catch up on some reading. I was reading 5 books at once, but that’s just crazy. Each day I’ll set aside a block of time, just for reading and finish one book at a time.
I also plan on taking some pictures. Beginning on Friday, each day, until the end of my vacation, I will upload a photo in my album, Through the Lens, in the Gallery so be sure to check back.
I’m not sure if we’ll do this one, but I would like to hop on a train, go to the City and walk around. The Newark Museum, the Crayola Factory and other activities are also options, but they haven’t quite made it to the Plan A column yet.
I’ll also be having lunch with a friend who’s making me pay, I agreed and I haven’t canceled the appointment. I would say I’m in definite need of a vacation. I know for one thing, I will not be bored. If anything, I should probably unplug the computer if I plan on getting this stuff done.
Anybody who gets bored at home, doesn’t have enough hobbies.
In: Vacation · Tagged with: Fun, Staycation, Vacation
Six Degrees of Seperation
I’m off the wagon, in a manner of speaking.
Isn’t it funny how we can use an expression and associate the correct meaning, but never query its origin, how it came about. As a future Jeopardy hopeful, I like knowing that Pebbles Flintstone was born on February 22, 10,000 B.C. or that Barbie’s (yes the doll) full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts, and she has parents. Who’d thunk it?
So naturally I had to research the expression “off the wagon” and this is what I found: “The origins of this phrase lie in the 1800s, with the temperance movement. During this era, many people felt that alcohol was an extremely harmful substance, and they abstained from alcohol while encouraging others to do the same. The term references the water wagons which were once drawn by horses to water down dirt roads so that they did not become dusty. Members of the temperance movement said that they would sooner drink from a water wagon than touch a drop of alcohol, so when someone failed to keep a temperance pledge, people would say that he or she had fallen from the wagon.” Thank you WiseGeek.
Might I add that while being off the wagon generally refers to a person’s attempt to give up alcohol, it can allude to any number of vices. My vice? Well that’s not important, just know that I relish the monotonous hum of familiarity and don’t fancy change. If I’m on the wagon, I’m on the wagon and will ride until the journey is over. It seems uncharacteristic of me to hop on and off the wagon for the sheer thrill of it – why rock the buggy – but it happened.
Personally, I think I was pushed.
Last week, not only was I on the wagon, but I was steering that bad boy with both hands. So impressed was I, that my eyes admired my arm muscles as they kept the pace with my mental determination, daring not to be the weakest link along the dirt road of triumph.
It was then that overconfidence nudged me on the shoulder, convinced me to run alongside the wagon and do my business, assuring me I’d be able to hop back on, unscathed. So I did, several times. One slip up turned into two, two turned into four and four turned into six. Six degrees of separation between me and the wagon. Is that so bad? Admitting to being off the wagon seems like a letdown, even if for most of the ride, I was straddling the darn thing.
My situation reminded me of an article I read in Psychology Today and the ability to eliminate relationship irritants lies within each of us, it all depends on how we interpret the problem. That is to say, if your mate snores, you choose its meaning: It can be an annoying sound for which they must be smothered or you can interpret the snoring as a well-being. Your partner is safe and at home.
In other words, deny the problem, give it a new name until you can live with it or it goes away. The article also went on to say that “small problems coalesce into a vast, submerged force when they take on a different meaning in your mind—when you add them up as evidence of a character flaw or moral defect.”
I buy it.
So technically, I’m not off the wagon but positioned by a mere six degrees of separation, and still holding on. That’s my story and I’m standing next to it.
In: Food for Thought · Tagged with: Expressions, Interpretation, Vices