Mechanical Difficulty and Sexy Chicken

Bobby has been carrying on with his new mistress.  PDA all the time.  Shameless.

In flagrante delicto

He has taken a shine to rubber chicken in a way that is entirely unexpected and unprecedented.  But rubber chicken has kept his attention and most importantly, it fails to leave bits of matted fake fur, string, torn fabric, or anything at all in its wake.  And so, despite the fact that I am disturbed by the mind-boggling sexualization of a chicken, I too have taken a shine to rubber chicken. 

We spent Thanksgiving with D's parents, cooked them our awesome turkey (which is actually Alton Brown's awesome turkey), and watched an absurd amount of football.  And its been rough times at work.  Rotten Dog dug up the heuchera and astilbe in the back yard.  I had been putting a lot of time into organizing and promoting the event I'm putting together (with the help of some fine minions, I must say).  Not a great time to be struck with what seems to be carpal tunnel.  The pain is pretty much constant from on end of my right arm to the other.  It actually started about three weeks ago and has just gotten worse.  I've tried to baby it to see if it's just a strain of some sort, using my left arm instead, but all that has accomplished is establishing cramping in my left arm from all the typing and mousing I do at work.  I've been doing the paperwork at the office by pecking at the keyboard with a ballpoint pen.  So far, nothing seems to help.  

So though I've wanted to post a few things here, it's been difficult mechanically speaking.  Despite my best intentions, my online promotion of the swing dance event must seem a tad underwhelming.  I'll have to make up for it in face-time at other scenes.  My progress in online shopping for christmas presents is dead in its tracks.  I had a strong lead for awhile, our outside lights were up last Saturday, our tree and the stockings for the furkids are up.  Computer avoidance is a tad strange to me, but I've occupied myself with catching up with tv shows we've gotten behind on, notably Revenge (D is a huge fan of the original unabridged Count of Monte Cristo) and Modern Family. 

The Walking Dead has been a huge letdown in story-structure and pacing, with the apocalypse serving as mere background to the front-and-center angst and melodrama of characters who were likeable in the books but are flat and annoying in the poorly adapted tv script.  How do they survive?  Where do they get their water, how do they ration, who digs the latrines, is the redneck the only one who is useful or does someone else have a skill of some sort?  Everything that could be awesome about this blasted show is offscreen.

The idea of an apocalypse brings up stirring themes of cooperation redeeming mankind, the intricacies of human societies and how they suceed and fail, survival, the quality or transcedental import of civilization, there's a lot of good stuff there.  Man versus man.  Man versus nature.  Man versus self.  Man versus zombie.  When it comes to survival in general and survival of the species in particular, the skies the limit.  Show us how clever people can be, show us their obstacles and how they overcome them, don't spend thirty minutes of monologue lecturing to the audience about how depressing it all is.  What all?  What??  Instead of a few heartfelt scenes of backbreaking labor or teamwork or ingenuity, we're never shown how they live every day, there's just a bunch of empty blubbering about it.  It's filler.  I resent it.  And coming from me, who can find something redeemable in almost any piece of apocalyptic fiction, that is pretty damning. 

So even though we've been indoorsey because Cincinnati has had more rain this year than any other on record, there is less tv, which is good.  I'm finally getting back into Fallout New Vegas.  The xbox controller doesn't hurt my hand the way a keyboard and mouse seem to.  I'm also finally reading the rest of Earth Abides, which is a frustrating study in complacency and every single character is disappointing.  I'm not sure this one stays on the Post-Apocalyptic Literature shelf.  I have a hard time believing it has any re-read value at this point, but it is a classic, and the thematic struggle against apathy and complacency is a bit, ah, timely in my real life.  If it resonates then there's obviously some realism there. 

Good Night, Sweet Girl

D and I were talking about how to keep Cricket warm as the cold weather descends upon us.  We came to an agreement that we would put some sort of container on the front porch to provide a shelter for her.  She had sheltered under the deck through the summer, but surely that wouldn't be warm enough for the winter.  D's vote was for a cardboard box, but I didn't think it would hold up against the elements.  I was thinking we cut a hole in a rubbermaid container (like so).  We kicked around the idea of a low wattage bulb for heat, as is used by several chicken coop owners around the internet.  D's mom, advised us to keep straw in the box, not a blanket, because straw retains heat easier and blankets must be warmed up against the cold. 

It'd have been easiest if we could bring her inside.  We very seriously considered it, despite the fact that we're already teetering on the edge of capacity, teeming with animal life.  But she and Max just weren't in to eachother.  She'd join us on the deck or on the front porch and seek out your hand, or your pantleg, or whatever she could rub up against.  She was always so sweet, lifting her forefeet off the ground in order to get more out of the petting you were giving her.  Such a sweet-tempered cat, and not a mean bone in her body.  Far too sweet to be feral.  She loved us too much and too easily to have spent long in the wild.  She never clawed either of us, not even on accident.  We'd have brought her inside if we could have, and lord knows she tried to come in with us.  We tried cracking the door open to allow her and Max chances to sniff eachother in relative safety.  We tried bringing Max out to sniff Cricket.  We tried bringing Cricket to the windowledge to sniff Max.  It always dissolved into hissing and growling. 

Nemeses?

It's gotten to be sort of like Wild Kingdom in this house, so one of us might invariably ask, "did you feed Cricket?"  or "have you seen Cricket?"    If you wanted some company you only had to call her, and she'd emerge from under the deck, ready to be sweet on you until you tired of it, because she never seemed to.  She listened better than Bobby, that's for sure.  And if we hadn't seen her to give her her daily dose of love, massaging her kitty chin and scratching her kitty shoulders, she would make sure we didn't forget.  She took to stretching her paws up to the front window and scratching it until we came out, cat food in hand.  "oh, there's Cricket."  Or she'd meow for us on the back deck "hey, is that Cricket?" 

furry helper on the most recent deck project

There was no question that she was ours though, our lives-outside-but-we-feed-her-and-pet-her cat.  She was as much a part of our daily lives as anything in the new house.  She was a witness to most of the outdoor projects, as a furry little cheerleader.  She walked right up to our guests, even those she'd never seen before, and she introduced herself.  She'd be there by the front door to greet me as I came home from work, or as I left to take the dog for a walk. 

We didn't quite want to part with her, though we did try to find her an indoor home.   But everyone we know already has a cat (mostly they have two) or else they have intentions of remaining cat-less.  We certainly weren't going to take her to a shelter because odds are she'd have been euthanized.  So we were happy to let her stay with us, albeit outside.  Things might change.  But for the present we had cat food anyway, so what's one more kitty mouth to feed?  

Cricket's naptime spot

Monday morning we left for a run.  Ran into a neighbor outside, and chatted with him because the dog wouldn't stop barking at him until we crossed the street and let him sniff the man from close up.  Then D, and Bobby and I ran as the sun turned bled from blue to orange and pink.  Things get incrementally easier, I think.  As in, I walk in smaller and smaller time increments.  It's still quite taxing to my unaccustomed cardiovascular system.  If we had run the other way we'd have found her sooner, though it wouldn't have made a difference. 

D was the one who found her, not far from the house in the street.  Our sweet little garden-cat was hit by a car some time last night.  D went and carried her away from the road.  She looked like she was sleeping (insofar that a cat with limbs stiff with rigor can).  Anyway, I'm saying it looked like she didn't suffer.  We buried her this evening, in the spot by the deck where we first met.  It was painful, but we said our goodbyes by her grave.  Bobby, oblivious to the solemnity walked around on top of it.  Well, he's a dog.   

It's all so wrong.  D wondered how we might better have protected her.  I'm convinced I should have looked harder for a home for her.  We'd have never seen her again, but she might have lived a long and happy (and warm) life.  I wish we had more photos but I just assumed we'd have more time.  She was too young to go so soon, and far too good to have been run over in the street. 

The familiar sight of Cricket on the deck

So please, slow down and drive safe out there. 

Otherwise the cat you could run over might be somebody that someone loves.
And the cat that you save may be your own.  

After All, Rule #1 is Cardio

I trained dog-less Saturday morning. (he got walkies afterward) 

I got up in the morning (hooray!) and jog-walked, starting out slowly, as several sources have advised me.  I find its so hard to catch my breath.  The internet (RunnersWorld, etc.) tells me this is because I need to slow my pace.  This is ...  I mean... I can't go any slower, my pace is laughable as it is. 

It just highlights how out of shape I am, I guess.  This is a serious flaw to any survival plan.  After all, we have all been taught that Rule #1 is Cardio. 

Other keen wisdom includes public restroom avoidance. 

If you are or have been a sedentary person, have you ever tried to start a running regimen?  Did you have frustrating early returns?  Were you totally embarrassed that the cars passing by could see your strange-gaited gallop?  Did you feel awkward about running in pajamas because you don't own running clothing?  Ladies, are you stymied by the prohibitively high cost of supportive sports bras?  (If you score higher than a B, the answer is yes.  And a lady has got to support her chesticles.  Lest in elder years she ends up looking like she taped two socks filled with quarters to her chest)

And so this is not only exercise, but in these the early days it is also an exercise in humility for me. 

I was so embarrassed about my performance that I wasn't sure I wanted to document it EVER.  Yet out of curiousity I went to Googlemaps and meticulously plotted the macrame-like route I jog/walked.  Hot damn, there and back again is one mile.  A mile!  I was shooting for manageable, and got a mile!  Of course Googlemaps tells me that I shall have been able to walk it in 20 minutes.  psh.  yeah.  If it were flat.  And... not so ... far. 

I mentioned that this past weekend would be a project weekend, and so it was.  I was quite proud of what D and my dad accomplished in a day and a half.  (I had projects of my own, though they didn't finish up in that time, so I'm not so proud of what I actually accomplished) 

Sunday morning was nice weather, but instead of jogging I (we, actually) had breakfast outside on the deck with my parents and wrestled with Bobby and Cricket as they crawled all over everything including us.  I thought I would take "a day of rest" from training on Sunday, as I was (mentally) worn a little thin.  I did begin a strength-training regimen consisting of some girl-pushups (which differ from boy pushups in that wimpy girls do them but buff girls and boys do not do them because they lack dignity) for obstacle course preparation.  I would begin anew on Monday. 

But my "day of rest" has come around to bite me in the arse.  Torrential downpour and thundering (and dog barking) woke me at around 330 this morning.  Four inches of rain fell in places around the city, flash flooding was reported in list-form on the news, and we once again have water intruding into our basement, the most severe incursion to date.   Worst was the north wall, the problem that we thought had been fixed.  The drainage pipes in the trench had been overwhelmed in the biggest rain of the year. 

So much work has been done to avoid this very thing, it doesn't seem fair.  Not sure what we'll do next.  I have lots of photos to post about the work that took place this weekend.  When I said torrential, I meant it.  It was the pelting kind of rain that descended in sheets.  I know, because I stood outside in it with the dog.  He thanked me by leaping onto one and then the other couch, muddy and wet.  That's gratitude.  Anyway, I'm sure there would have been more water if the work hadn't been done, but I can't help but feel a tad defeated.  Like it was all for naught (naught?  nought?  nougat?).

It's supposed to pour again tonight.  So I won't have time to jog, only to whisk the dog out, bring him in, feed him, and give him a brisk walk.  D But I will try to shake things up, thanks to uncooperative weather.  Stationary bike in basement.  A cardio alternative. 

• Cardio shirt is from Hot Topic, but has long since sold out, sadly.

Good News, and News that Sucks

Yesterday I took off work to go to the doctor, which went well.  It’s good luck within bad luck really, because I think I like this practice and I’ll be sticking with them.   I used to accompany people to doctors visits all the time when I was a translator, and I’m well accustomed to the brusque office staff, interminable waiting periods, and chilly physicians.  But actually everyone was nice, and the office ran pretty smoothly.  Even the wait was probably less than ten minutes.  And later I emerged triumphant with a prescription for steroids for the mystery dermatitis caused by whatever it is that I’m allergic to.  And not a moment too soon! 

I also tried to change my name at the social security office so I could assume my married name.  That didn’t go so well, because I didn’t understand the documents I needed to have in order to submit the other documents.  But now I have all the puzzle pieces, I think, so I can put them together the next time I take a day off.  Which may be next month, when/if we pick up Bob. 

While I was home I got some unpacking and organizing done.  There’s really not much more, and it isn’t pertinent stuff.  It just has to be organized and out of the basement so we can have the contractor come in this week and do some work.  I went out to check on the still surviving plants (the jade, the astilbe, the parsley, and the tomato is barely hanging on, because its been attacked again) and the neighbor lady was out with one of her dogs, so I went to go say hello to them both. 

Turns out while we were wrapped up in the minutiae of our daily lives, and I was itchy and feeling sorry for myself, the woman who lives across the street from us was shot in Price Hill.  She’s a taxi driver (or was, she may find a new profession), and some people got in and asked for her money, and she gave it to them  but she had just started her shift.  They told her it wasn’t enough and they shot her in the face and in the shoulder. http://www.local12.com/news/local/story/Female-Cab-Driver-Shot-Twice-in-East-Price-Hill/g1g0imu8yEGcF9Jto2F-zA.cspx 

We haven’t introduced ourselves up and down the block.  We met some of the neighbors when one of the guys down the street saw us moving in, he came up and introduced himself and invited us to the picnic he was putting on for his family.  Some of the people on the block were there, and it was just really considerate and charitable.  We didn’t meet the woman at that time, but we have seen her around, and her kid plays in her front yard. 

I feel this urge, this ambivalent urge to go to her house and introduce ourselves, see if we can help her out at all.  Which is weird, because she doesn’t know us and we don’t know her.  And she's still in the hospital.  I'd probably overcompensate for awkwardness, act like a weirdo and just end up frightening her son.  Maybe I could get with some people in the neighborhood and we all pitch in and send her flowers at the hospital.  Or maybe that’s silly, because who cares about flowers when you've been shot in the face.  Maybe we can bring her and her family some… jello? 

I don't expect to get anything out of this.  Maybe they are all nice, sure, and this could be a nice neighborly beginning.  Hey, maybe she's a dick.  I don't know.  All I know is that this woman was out trying to earn her wage and somebody shoots her in the face just because she happens to be there.  Wrong place wrong time?  Or maybe it was premeditated and the gunman called up the cab service for the sole purpose of robbery.  Imagine how you feel at the end of an average day at work, only to have some douchebag shoot you in the face.  What if that doesn't even count as worker's comp?  It really sucks for her.  I’d like to, I don’t know.  Do something.  Do something for somebody who has recently endured suckage.   

Only I don’t know what to do.  What could I do?

So did I google it?  Yes.  Yes I did.

Unfortunately I got very inappropriate returns, like “sympathy for neighbor who has passed away,” or similar condolences.  I could just go and talk to the family, ask if they want to hear about some surgical references.  I could ask the surgeon who put the bone graft in my jaw.  Or is that insensitive and none of my business?  Maybe I should be anonymous. 

I must ponder this. 

In other news we may get to meet Murphy the dog tonight.  That's good news, I hope!  Fingers crossed for no scheduling conflicts.