It's impossible to open a newspaper or turn on the television and not see a story about the sad, confused looking blonde child who was found living with gypsies. The poor kid reminds me of a doll that was popular in the late 50's or early 60's called Poor Pitiful Pearl. (Poor Pearl would never pass toy muster today...no little girl would want her with her ragged clothes and sad face...but that was the point of the doll. She was an orphan. A reject. Not PC at all.) What about this little girl on TV alerted the police? Why - she didn't look like her parents! They were dark and swarthy (but the Mom didn't wear hoop earring and a big, brightly colored circle skirt like the gypsies in the movies) she was pale and fair haired. Surely she could not belong to these people...
It got me wondering why my ex and I didn't get arrested - or at least taken in on suspicion of kidnapping- when we were in public with our son. We sure as hell bore no resemblance to him or he to us. He was Asian. We were CAUasian. Not the same. I look back and wonder why we didn't worry more about being stopped and questioned. If I had known that not looking like your child was suspicious, I would have always carried his adoption papers. Where would we have stolen him?. Koreatown? - there is no Koreatown in Milwaukee (but I think there is one in Chicago). A Korean restaurant maybe? "I'll have the bulgogi and that little boy in the kitchen please, to go.".
If memory serves me right, the only time we were ever singled out and pointed to was in a mall. Charlie and I were walking with Eli between us (it often took a team to keep track of him). It was near Christmas. A family of white people walked by and the youngest child - who was screaming at the top of his lungs - calmed down long enough to notice us. I remember hearing the mother say, quite loudly, "See that? That's what's going to happen to you if you don't behave. We'll just find you another family." I vaguely recall glaring at her but she took no notice.
When Eli was having an unusually bad day - and I was at my wits end...I often would yell, "Knock it off or you won't be happy with what I do!". He would say.."What? What are you going to do?" I would reply. "Sell you to the gypsies!" He would laugh.
Who knew that was an option?
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Friday, October 11, 2013
Cougar-nado!
I don't know about you - but I hate bees. They are nasty, stupid and pesky.And they love to make nests in cozy places around my house . Lots of them. I'm ok midsummer letting them freeload behind my fake-shutters...but this year they found larger spaces....they moved into my siding and brought their friends and relatives with them.I even think I saw an Ashley Furniture truck pull up to deliver bee-sized Barcaloungers - but I can't be(e) sure.
Last week, as the temperatures began to dip at night, I would find an occasional squatter inside my bedroom. He'd be hanging on the window glass walking around in circles and humming a dreadful tune. Makde my skin crawl. As the days moved on, more moved in. I could not figure out how they were getting in - but that was the least of my problems. Killing them was the biggest obstacle. They don't die easily. Because it's cool they are a bit woozy thus rendering them unable to fly freely around a room. Instead they would cling to the glass or attach themselves to my curtains and hang on for dear life.
At first I used a fly swatter. I am now here to tell you that swatting a woozy bee is harder than getting a dog to stop peeing midstream on your carpet. I would knock them to the carpet and bang away at them. Each time they would lie on their backs and wiggle their tiny little bee legs as if to signal "I'm not dead bitch". I used shoes. I squashed them with wads of paper towels. I threw some carcasses into the toilet. Others were tossed (and squashed) into the wastebasket. It was hard to keep up. My eventual remedy was to dig out my electrified tennis racket, pin them down, push the tiny yellow button and watch them fry. Wisps of smoke. Burning bee odor. And still they did not die. Their spindly little legs kept waving. I hated them. One day, after squashing 6 of them and throwing them in the wastebasket I returned hours later only to see a few, guts lying beside them, still moving their fucking nasty legs. I hate them.
Time to call the exterminator.
Travis showed up this morning at 9:30. A 30-something, sandy haired nice looking guy with a big personality, a great sense of humor and a body from Heaven. I was transported back to my twenties and recalling all the things I might have done with this amazing speciMAN. But, when you're 65, you're 65. He didn't look like the type to go for the grandmotherly looking woman. But I flirted. Yes I did...I don't think he noticed though. He spent about 30 minutes here. I walked him around the outside of the house and watched him insert his big long bug killer tool into my siding. I watched the bees freak out. And I learned about some interesting bee-havior. "Watch, " he said, "you'll see a whole bunch of bees flying back. They send out a distress signal and call everyone back to save the nest." "Don't try to make me feel sorry for them, " I warned. He laughed. sigh
"They should all be gone by Tuesday, " he explained. "If you still see activity on Tuesday (Heck I haven't seen activity in quite awhile...) then call me. I'll come back."
So now I'm looking for someone who can sell me some bees.
Got any?
Last week, as the temperatures began to dip at night, I would find an occasional squatter inside my bedroom. He'd be hanging on the window glass walking around in circles and humming a dreadful tune. Makde my skin crawl. As the days moved on, more moved in. I could not figure out how they were getting in - but that was the least of my problems. Killing them was the biggest obstacle. They don't die easily. Because it's cool they are a bit woozy thus rendering them unable to fly freely around a room. Instead they would cling to the glass or attach themselves to my curtains and hang on for dear life.
At first I used a fly swatter. I am now here to tell you that swatting a woozy bee is harder than getting a dog to stop peeing midstream on your carpet. I would knock them to the carpet and bang away at them. Each time they would lie on their backs and wiggle their tiny little bee legs as if to signal "I'm not dead bitch". I used shoes. I squashed them with wads of paper towels. I threw some carcasses into the toilet. Others were tossed (and squashed) into the wastebasket. It was hard to keep up. My eventual remedy was to dig out my electrified tennis racket, pin them down, push the tiny yellow button and watch them fry. Wisps of smoke. Burning bee odor. And still they did not die. Their spindly little legs kept waving. I hated them. One day, after squashing 6 of them and throwing them in the wastebasket I returned hours later only to see a few, guts lying beside them, still moving their fucking nasty legs. I hate them.
Time to call the exterminator.
Travis showed up this morning at 9:30. A 30-something, sandy haired nice looking guy with a big personality, a great sense of humor and a body from Heaven. I was transported back to my twenties and recalling all the things I might have done with this amazing speciMAN. But, when you're 65, you're 65. He didn't look like the type to go for the grandmotherly looking woman. But I flirted. Yes I did...I don't think he noticed though. He spent about 30 minutes here. I walked him around the outside of the house and watched him insert his big long bug killer tool into my siding. I watched the bees freak out. And I learned about some interesting bee-havior. "Watch, " he said, "you'll see a whole bunch of bees flying back. They send out a distress signal and call everyone back to save the nest." "Don't try to make me feel sorry for them, " I warned. He laughed. sigh
"They should all be gone by Tuesday, " he explained. "If you still see activity on Tuesday (Heck I haven't seen activity in quite awhile...) then call me. I'll come back."
So now I'm looking for someone who can sell me some bees.
Got any?
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