My friend Sandy Gobbler and I were obsessed with caterpillars in grade one. Every day we would create a Caterpillar World in the sandbox, complete with tunnels and mountains and bridges and moats, and then we would go into the forest and collect dozens of tent caterpillars and relocate them to our World so they could play and have thrilling caterpillar adventures. It always dismayed us that they seemed more intent on crawling back to the forest than in playing in Caterpillar World. Undaunted, we would dream up even more elaborate and enticing activities and structures for Caterpillar World, and try again the next day.
I’m the person that co-workers ask to “get rid of” unwanted spiders and bugs. I don’t kill them: I capture them and set them free outdoors. I’ve also been known to move earthworms off busy sidewalks on rainy days so they don’t get squished by pedestrians. On brutally hot, dry days I put out a pan of water for the parched birds around my downtown office tower. I rescued an injured pigeon once and kept him in a box in the basement of the Waffle headquarters for several days, until he mysteriously disappeared. As a little kid I took forever to walk to kindergarten because I was so careful not to step on ants.
The point is, I’m nice to animals.
But now I have no choice but to hate squirrels.
I’ve had run-ins with squirrels in the past. I used to live in a gorgeous post-and-beam house up in Quebec, near Wakefield. I took an interest in birds. “I took an interest” is a euphemism for “I became obsessed.” I bought and read dozens of books about birds. Software too: there’s bird-watching software. I acquired a number of bird feeders, and never let them get empty. I noted which of the various kinds of birdseed appealed most to various birds (niger and black sunflower are both considered a delicacy by birds). Birdseed would have been a line item on my budget if I’d had a budget. I spent a fortune on birdseed.
Of course the greedy squirrels soon descended on my bird feeders with their ravenous appetites and thieving ways. For a time I did battle with them, trying to outsmart them, trying to keep them from the feeders through various mechanisms and tricks. I put vaseline on the wire that held the feeders, I moved the feeders away from the trees, I put slippery umbrellas above and below the feeders, I taught my dog to chase squirrels. All to no avail. The squirrels were smart and persistent and they had all day to accomplish what they wanted: and what they wanted was to eat birdseed. Eventually I capitulated. I accepted the fact that I was engaged in an unwinnable battle. I did what needed to be done: I fed the squirrels. I placed barrels of peanuts and sunflower seeds at the base of the trees, and filled them up as dutifully as I filled the feeders. Problem solved. (Expensively.)
Now I am locked into another battle with squirrels. I have a garden. A balcony garden. The neighbourhood squirrels visit it every day while I am at work and wreak havoc on it. They dig things up. They eat things. I was especially happy with the two rose bushes I planted in May, in giant containers. One of them soon developed 18 rose buds. The squirrels ate 16 of them. The other rose bush keeps trying to just grow leaves, but the squirrels keep eating them.
Nevertheless, I finally have a rose:
I love this rose.
I still hate squirrels though. Last week one of them got into the transformer on the hydro pole in my front yard and blew out the power to the neighbourhood. His corpse lay on the sidewalk with its eyes bugged out. A neighbour in a wheelchair passed below my balcony and said “Awww, poor little thing,” and I coldly retorted “One down, 500 to go.”
But way deep down I felt a miniscule twinge of grief when I saw that he was just a baby.
P.S. If I didn’t hate squirrels, I would probably knit this:
A number of years ago I was the victim of a home invasion: three men broke into my home while I was sleeping, and stole my stereo and some other things. My dog woke up, I woke up, and the men fled. I called the police and the men were subsequently caught by the canine unit.
Last night I heard about a home invasion in my neighbourhood of an entirely different nature. A home-owner had a party with a number of friends. At some point he noticed a man he did not recognize, but didn’t give it much thought at the time. In the morning he woke up, drugged and groggy, to find all of his friends gone and the univited guest still there – along with about 20 other univited guests.
These people held him hostage in his own home for two weeks, and he was drugged for much of that time. The invaders were crackheads and prostitutes, and they basically turned his home into a crack house. Eventually he had to pay them to leave, but not before they trashed his house and stole his ID and everything else worth stealing.
Why is it that retail stores rarely get it right when it comes to the appropriate level of attention to give customers? These days I find most stores are understaffed. When you need assistance, it seems like nobody works there. When it’s time to check out, there’s a huge row of check-out lines, but only three of them are open, and there are 14 customers in each line.
But today I had the opposite problem – overly attentive salespeople. I was at Cole’s Book Store on Sparks Street, and this irksome little man kept appearing at my side and asking in a high-pitched mosquito voice “Can I help you Ma’am?” and “Are you looking for something in particular Ma’am?” and even “Are you sure I can’t help you Ma’am?”
And it wasn’t just me…he was flitting from customer to customer, pestering all of us constantly and loudly. This is a small store, so everybody had to listen to the same questions over and over and over again, even when they weren’t directed at us. There were two female clerks there too, doing the same thing but less obtrusively. After 10 minutes I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave because I felt like swatting him. Or throttling him. Or ripping his voice box out of his throat with my bare hands.
I took off empty-handed, while his infuriating falsetto voice followed me out the door: “Did you find everything you were looking for Ma’am?”
Do you ever have something you’re tempted to blog about but it’s so personal it seems kind of weird to put it out there? This is one of those things. It’s personal and it’s weird and embarassing, but it’s life and it’s interesting, so what the hell.
One day last week I started becoming strangely aware of my genitals. I didn’t think much of it at first since I was preoccupied with other things, and the sensations eventually faded. Then it happened again the next day, and the next. I felt like my genitals were growing. I could feel my pulse down there. As the days went by, it got worse, till it was all I could think about. It was a state of physiological – but oddly not sexual – arousal.
I’d be okay in the morning, and it would start in the afternoon and intensify in the evening. Each day it seemed more intense than the day before. It sounds like it could be enjoyable, but really it wasn’t – it was uncomfortable. I’d be in a meeting, or working, or walking home from work, or trying to read or whatever, and all I could think about was my pulsating giant genitalia.
After a few days I googled it. You can imagine the kinds of websites that popped up. After wading through some eye-popping porn, I finally found something useful: this is Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome, a relatively rare condition, first ‘discovered’ in 2001, and one of the possible causes is a drug called Trazodone. I’ve been taking Trazodone for a couple of weeks as a sleeping pill! Oddly, the fact sheet that came with the prescription said nothing about this side effect, although it did mention the male equivalent: priapism (prolonged and painful erection that can last from several hours up to a few days).
I decided to immediately discontinue Trazodone. The first night was bad. I was lying in bed wide awake. I couldn’t sleep for two reasons: one, I hadn’t taken my sleeping pills, and two, I couldn’t get comfortable because I felt like there was a pulsating football between my legs. I lay there for hours, thinking about Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Maybe I’d wake up in the morning and I’d have been consumed by it – I’d be trapped inside a giant pulsating clitoris which would roam the earth devouring everything in its path.
Finally I took ONE trazodone, and quickly fell asleep and woke up like a normal person with normal genitals. Since then I haven’t taken any trazodone, and I’m pleased to report that everything has returned to normal. I’m even sleeping better than I have for months.
P.S. In case anybody I know is reading this and wondering if I was secretly having multiple orgasms while in your presence, the answer is no.
Here’s a question for my fellow bloggers: Would you have blogged this?
It’s 6:35 pm and I’ve only said four words out loud today: “Are these local strawberries?”
Granted, I was alone at home most of the day, alternately reading and snoozing on the couch, but I did go to the dog park (nobody there), and I did go to the Foundling art exhibit at the Cube Gallery, and I did go to the Parkdale Market (Are these local strawberries?).
Strangely, I saw a friend at the art exhibit, but I didn’t talk to her and I don’t think she noticed me since I’m invisible today.
I’m still holding a bit of a grudge towards her because we were supposed to go camping at a musical festival four weeks ago and she stood me up and didn’t return my two subsequent phone calls. I know she was having a difficult time around that time because a former student of hers had just committed suicide upon learning of her father’s release from prison. But still, my friend could have called and cancelled our plans rather than just standing me up. At least then I could have made other arrangements to get to the music festival.
Yesterday I worked as a volunteer with the Plant Pool Recreation Association and the Ottawa Horticulture Society, planting gardens at the Plant Recreation Centre. I got nice and dirty. Gardeners are such warm, wholesome, centered people. Today I took my camera over there to photograph our accomplishments, but the plants were looking pretty wilted and exhausted. I guess I could have taken a picture anyway, but I told the plants I’d come back tomorrow when they were feeling better.
Snoozing on the couch off and on all day today was luxurious. I’ve been having trouble sleeping for months, ever since the dog’s anxiety attack problems. I think eventually I just got out of the habit of sleeping well. Even though I’ve been tired, I haven’t been sleepy. I was actually proud of myself for having four naps today….they were my first four naps of the year.
I ran into someone I used to know the other day. We stopped and talked for a bit, catching up on the last 25 years in 5 minutes. He was telling me about his job and his girlfriend, but all I could think about was the last time I saw him, 25 years ago. He was strung-out and he couldn’t find any drugs that night, so in the ultimate act of desperate craving, he ate a box of suppositories. Right there on the sidewalk in front of the Alex Hotel, long since demolished, I watched him eat a box of suppositories.
He’s nowhere near as pathetic today as he was that night, and it’s really a wonder he’s still alive, though neurologically damaged…but to me he will always be the guy who ate the suppositories. Some things can never be erased.
I love my clapotis. And now that it’s finished, all my co-workers can see for themselves that there’s nothing poncho-like about it.
Did I ever tell you why I hate ponchos? When I was in grade 7 I went on a charity walkathon with my boyfriend, Danny Manship. I think it was 27 miles. My mom thought it would be cute to dress me like a Mexican, and it would also be a good way to get some use out of all the mexican tourist crap she bought in Mexico. So I had to wear a sombrero and a heavy wool poncho, and – get this – I had to take a goat on a leash. A real goat. Danny was a highly competitive guy, and he was convinced that a walkathon was really a race and whoever finished first was the winner. So he wanted us to RUN 27 miles and win the race. I pretty much RAN 27 miles in a sombrero and a poncho with a goat on a leash. God what a miserable day that was. The sombrero kept blowing off and the poncho was really hot. Here’s a little known fact: goats aren’t fond of running.
As for the clapotis, which is clearly not a poncho – it took awhile, but I think it was worth it. This is my completed clapotis (say that three times fast). I knit it using 2 and a quarter skeins of Cherry Tree Hill Silk & Merino worsted yarn in the peacock colorway.
This picture shows the size best – it’s big – about 5 feet long. I made it exactly according to the pattern. If I were to make another one, I’d make it wider so it would be longer (more shawl-like) in the back.
Dave X surged ahead of us during the month of May, largely because of one phenomenal red letter day. You know where they dump all the snow that’s plowed from your streets, somewhere down around Somerset and Bayswater? That huge snow mountain is still melting. Dave went and wandered about there, looking for change that might be accumulating on the surface as the snow melted. Guess what he found? A $50 bill! Later that same day he found a $10 bill on the street.
Meanwhile, my colleagues and I have been finding the odd penny. I found a dime one day. Dave X says we’d do better if we didn’t all hang out on the same street corner day after day looking for change. But we’re pretty much stuck on this street corner because that’s where our office is. I’m not trying to make excuses, but our staff has been shrinking dramatically. There used to be 23 of us looking for change; now there are only 11. (Okay, I know there’s only ONE of Dave X…but still.)
Yesterday I thought I would go crazy if I stayed inside, so I wandered down to the Glebe in the rain. I plugged my ears into the MP3 player, which I don’t do often because I feel it kind of alienates me from being wholly where I am, but I didn’t feel like being wholly where I was so it was ok.
The Glebe is a trendy, expensive village-y neighbourhood in Ottawa. I like it, but I feel almost bad for liking it.
Art in the Park was happening in the Glebe, so I wandered among the artists’ tents, looking at art, wanting to feel inspired enough to actually buy something. I wanted to see something I could not possibly live without, but that didn’t happen. That’s more a reflection of my state of mind than of the art. Some of the art was just sitting out in the rain. I don’t know much about paintings, but shouldn’t they be kept dry?
I spent a little time at my friend Stuart’s tent. Stuart makes and repairs jewelry and teaches jewelry-making. And he’s always in a good mood.
Then I checked out the horse man.
After that I still wasn’t ready to head home, so I went down to Irene’s Pub for an afternoon beer with the regulars. My son’s father was there, and he had a pressing question for me: How old is our son? I made him guess, and he was only off by two years.
And then I wandered home in the rain. Bought a bottle of wine, but forgot to open it. Finished knitting the clapotis. Did the laundry. Watched an excellent documentary on CBC about Canadian comedians. And went to bed.
Here’s what my boss said when I told her I might be donating my bone marrow:
“Well, it’s not like you haven’t had everything else sucked out of you this year.”
2006 really has been brutal…between the layoffs, the somewhat toxic work environment, the dog, and a few other things that were too personal to blog about, I’ve at times felt that the universe was trying to find my breaking point. The possibility of being a bone marrow donor is pretty much the best thing going on in my life right now.
It hit a bit of a bump in the road last week when my hematologist, who has been trying unsuccessfully to find something wrong with me for about a year now, said I wasn’t a suitable candidate. My regular doctor, during an annual check-up, discovered that my red blood cells are “funny.” Unlike most things in life, red blood cells are born big, and they get smaller as they mature. Mine are pretty much all big, which means something’s killing them off before they mature. She referred me to the hematologist, and he has run all kinds of tests for increasingly obscure diseases, trying to solve this medical mystery in my blood. So far, nothing.
But anyway, he said no. So I phoned him yesterday and asked why not. It turned out there was a communication breakdown between me, his receptionist and him, and he didn’t realize there was somebody out there actually waiting for MY marrow; he thought it was all hypothetical. So anyway, he agreed to take another look, conditional on me getting some more blood tests done, which I did today.
But you know what I found out today? If you were to learn tomorrow that you needed a bone marrow transplant, and nobody in your family was a suitable match, the odds are seriously against you. Only 1 in every 20,000 unrelated people will be a match for you.
In Canada, you can register with the Unrelated Bone Marrow Donor Registry with an online questionnaire followed by a simple blood test. You may never be called upon to donate – and if you are, it’s of course optional – but the more people there are in the pool of potential donors, the more hope there is for people who need marrow.
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