Just bitchin'

Irani Among Us

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He is of late middle age. Dark hair salted with white and gray. Knuckles gnarled.

I found him when my car broke down and I called the American Automobile Association for a tow to a triple-A approved garage. They brought me to him.

He and his mechanic, a younger version of himself, worked on the car. The fee was reasonable. I drove away and broke down again a few miles later.

I called him bent on tearing into him for a job done poorly. Instead, I listened to an honest apology and a request that I give him another chance. It was a rare moment when I heard a foreign sound: the sound of quiet pride and integrity and a genuine desire to set things right. Not something you hear often. Not something you forget soon.

I was towed back for round two.

He did more work, presenting me a bill for $11.00…the cost of the part I needed. No charge for hours of labor. No excuses or arguments.

When all was done and settled, I waited in the small, shabby foyer for my car to be brought around to the parking lot.

A woman burst through the front door. Red-faced. Fuming. Shrill and Ugly-with-a-capitol-U; the kind that has nothing to do with physical appearance, but stems from a much deeper source.

“Get out of our country!” She screamed. “We hate you! There is no place for you here! I called the police and they’ll lock you away!!”

Both the owner and I stared at her in shock. I think his English deserted him, so I asked in a quiet, unsure voice, “What’s wrong?”

“This!!” She shouted, shoving an invoice under my nose. It took me a while to find what she meant at the tip of her shaking, pointing finger. A math error. The mechanic had added incorrectly.

A $1.25 mistake.

I stared at her, speechless before such extreme overreaction as she continued to harangue the man frozen behind the counter. Sure enough, a police officer showed up, giving that once-over, wary scan of the situation that they do, seeing a livid, prancing woman, a statue of a shocked and frightened man, and me.

The woman repeated her performance, brandishing the invoice at the cop. He read it through. His brows rose. “You said someone robbed you, Ma’am.” He handed back her receipt.

“He did! He did!” She pointed, jittering with venom. “He’s a thief! A liar! He’s from Iran!!”

The owner found his voice and began to apologize. “I’m sorry…”

“You will be!” the woman shrieked.

“Ma’am, I think there’s been a mistake, but this isn’t robbery.” The calm words of the officer had the opposite effect of what he’d hoped.

With a strangled cry of rage, she slammed out of the shop, unaware the owner had opened the register and was holding a handful of cash, apparently refunding her entire bill. We watched her lumber into a decrepit van held together by duct tape and rust and careen out of the parking lot.

The officer took his leave.

The owner put the money back in the register and closed it. He came out from behind the counter and took a seat across from me. Hands trembling. Eyes full.

“I am from Persia.” His voice shook with the aftermath of fear and shock. “I leave my country because they try to kill us. They try to kill us all. I come here.” He gestures with one work-hardened hand, encompassing the whole of his establishment. “I make this for my son.” His eyes finally overflow.

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“Persia is beautiful country. And Persian people are so kind. But…Them…” His lips press into a thin line and he shakes his head. Words have deserted him again.

I offer him a sad approximation of a smile.

“I like your cats,” I say.

He blinks. Then, tears still tracking downward, he gives a ragged laugh.

I hope he knows that every country has a ‘They.’ But it’s not everyone. And today it’s not him… and it’s not me.

We’re just us.

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Just bitchin'

#Bowie — Life Like a Rainbow

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I don’t usually pay tribute to the passing of people I’ve never met, but today…

…oh, today of all days…I have to acknowledge David Bowie, gone from us at age 69 after a very private battle with cancer.

When I was little he was already a colorful burst, exploding without apology across music, movies, pop culture. He was unique, odd, strange, quixotic. His style was chameleonic, a constant reinvention of freedom of expression.

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‘Sham glam’ was the term that birthed into my child’s mind when I first saw him. It’s still my private label for the style of a firebird. I’m the girl who gravitated toward beads and glitter and rhinestones and color, mostly because of watching people like Bowie at my fashion-formative age.

So today I’ll play his music and tonight I’ll watch ‘The Man Who Fell To Earth’…

…and I’ll do it all spangled from head to toe…

Thank you, Mr. Bowie, for a life like a rainbow.

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Just bitchin'

Resolved…

New Year's Resolutions, list of items

“I don’t do New Year’s resolutions,” she said. “You always end up breaking them and then you feel like a loser and…just…just…nothing…NOTHING good comes of it.”

My friend got me thinking (always dangerous), and I wonder if the problem isn’t with the one resolving, but with the resolutions themselves. They always seem to center around controlling the physical, when ‘physical’ is the most transitory aspect of existence. Maybe the focus could be widened. Or blurred. Or spangled… 2016 will never come again. This is your one chance.

  1. Get carried away.
  2. Get swept off your feet.
  3. Notice others’ joy.blognewyear3
  4. Strike the G-word from Guilty Pleasures.
  5. If you haven’t found your tribe, be one.
  6. Daydream.
  7. Watch the sky or the sea; they have the power to amaze.blognewyear2
  8. Soar
  9. Skim
  10. Savor

…and wear sequins inappropriately and unapologetically, because life can always use more sparkle and glitter.

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Just bitchin'

And To All A Good Night…

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I did something shocking.

I proclaimed, loudly and without the slightest apology: “Merry Christmas.”

I hadn’t intended to; it just slipped out.

Silence ensued.

I had committed the politically incorrect sin of uttering something un-generic at a time of year when we are all very careful to tiptoe about on religious eggshells for fear of alienating anyone who might not celebrate the same holiday that we do.

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I knew it the second the words dropped like leaden harbingers of impropriety. And then I decided I really didn’t care what others thought. I wouldn’t be offended if someone wished me a Happy Hanukkah, or a Happy Solstice, or any of the multitude of other winter observations, as long as the intent was to share joy.

I’m sorry to offend, but the term ‘Happy Holidays’ just doesn’t pack the emotional oomph of its more specific cousins.

So with all due respect…

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night…

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Just bitchin'

Northwest Winter Gifts

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At the stormiest of times, clouds can part…

…revealing an unexpected vista of stars so thick they seem to coalesce, to gather like swathes of gauze against purest black.

This celestial beauty spreads before you, mesmerizing until…

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…a streak of fire jolts you from your reverie.

Did you really see it? Maybe not…

…but then another

and another

and yet again

and more.

A shower of fire, frost-kissed, utterly silent, lances across the sky.

Each one worth a wish.

You wonder if you’re the only person stargazing on such a night. Normal people are indoors, sheltering against the cold.

You are no longer in a hurry. You no longer grumble about the long walk from the garage.

Because the winter night has gifts to give.

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Just bitchin'

@USPS A Tale of Thieves and Liars

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This is a story about the United States Postal Service.

Be forewarned that this is a true story and will, hopefully, catch the attention of someone with the ability to enact change in this dysfunctional government entity. But…who am I kidding? They could care less. Nonetheless, I’m posting this. Sometimes venting is all that’s left when faced with dishonesty and stupidity.

So…

I expected a package to be delivered today. As usual, I made sure I was home and available to answer the door when the Priority Mail Express parcel showed up.

The hours passed. I kept checking the tracking information online. Toward the end of the day, I was checking it every few minutes, because there have been several occasions in the past when the mail carrier has outright lied and claimed he tried to deliver a package, but no one was home. I’ve complained repeatedly about this situation, which amounts to thievery on the part of the USPS. Why pay for their special services that ensure a package will arrive when their carriers lie about attempting to provide the service for which you paid?

So between one minute and the next, I saw the notice pop up that delivery had been attempted, but no one was home.

Livid, I went out to the street, found the Failed Delivery notice in my box, and stood in the pouring rain waiting for the mail carrier to come by on his return journey.

I should mention I live on a dead end street. He had no choice but to return the way he’d come.

After about 15 minutes, I saw the little, white mail truck headed my way.

I stepped out into the street and waved…displaying the Failed Delivery notice prominently.

He slowed.

He saw.

He hit the gas and nearly ran me down.

I screamed as he raced by, almost clipping me.

Shaking, I returned to my computer and lodged a complaint which mentioned legal action and police involvement.

Then, I followed the instructions and called the phone number on the failed delivery notice to request ‘Redelivery.’ (An impossibility, since no one attempted to deliver anything the first time.) After half an hour of laborious data entry over the phone, I reached the end of the process. The automated voice had verified my tracking number, my phone number, my address, the service I purchased for delivery.

At the very end, it asked for my name.

I gave it. Clearly. Slowly.

Before hanging up on me, the voice said “I’m sorry. There seems to be a problem.”

 

At last the USPS and I agree on something.

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books, Just bitchin'

Literary Candy

blogtaste1Inclement weather is a bookworm’s friend.

We have an excuse to stay indoors, pull the ‘Welcome’ mat in after us, and immerse ourselves in the printed word to an extent that would make us feel guilty on a bright, sunny day. I began my annual literary hibernation over the nice, long, stormy Thanksgiving weekend.

I was looking for a holiday read. You know… the kind of thing that will be a mild diversion and can be consumed with ease, or, alternatively, be abandoned without remorse at holiday’s end. The kind of book called ‘fluff’ or ‘inconsequential’ or ‘brain-candy.’

I also wanted something more, shall we say…meaty.

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I selected two novels. One was authored by a Pulitzer Prize winner. The other was a joint effort by two women whose steady day-jobs are in the fashion industry. You can probably guess which was ‘fluff’ and which was ‘meaty.’

But the read was totally unexpected.

I opened the Pulitzer’s offering to be greeted by a two-page family tree. Dozens of names, some of which were only mentioned in passing throughout the course of the long, long story. I had to bookmark this reference tool and return to it every few pages, working out the relationships of characters that drifted in and out.

It was well-written. It was richly written. The gamut of characters and dialogue and situations and eras was beautifully done. Yet I felt unsatisfied at the end. It required effort to read, but for me the finely detailed portraits didn’t go anywhere. It was masterful, but it didn’t touch me.

It was a Rembrandt painting hanging behind velvet ropes. I could appreciate it, but, having looked my fill, I moved on.

Then there was the brain-candy book.

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I couldn’t put it down.

It accompanied me everywhere so I could devour a few pages at every opportunity: stop lights…lines at the post office…lines at the store…waiting rooms…

It contained grammatical errors. It was completely predictable. It’s characters were thinly-drawn. But it was riveting, because it left enough blank spaces for me to fill in myself and realize I knew these people!! Everyone knows these people! And I know these situations!! Everyone does!!

It was thoroughly enjoyable and when I finished it, I was sad there wasn’t a sequel. I also wondered how many agents would choose the Pulitzer Prize-winning author’s work over the crowd-pleasing fluff, if they didn’t know the author’s background and the impressive accolades she’d won with previous work.

It’s a puzzle. It’s also a statement about art.

I’m grateful that Rembrandts exist and are available, but a cartoon can speak volumes, too.

So, hats-off to the majority of writers who will never pen the Great American Novel. But their less-exalted work will touch our souls.

And sometimes you just gotta have candy.

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animals, Just bitchin'

#JeSuisChien…I Am Dog

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By now, if you follow Twitter, you’ve seen the massive trend #JeSuisChien.

For those who don’t know, it honors a French police dog named Diesel who perished in this week’s raid on a terrorist cell in the wake of the Islamic State attack on Friday the 13th in Paris.

What you might not have seen is the somewhat feeble backlash. There have been those who question the ‘morality’ of the outpouring of grief on a dog’s behalf when no such phenomenon accompanied the deaths of individual humans. And there have been some who openly laugh at how twisted they believe the world to be when an animal is honored above men.

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My first, gut reaction to these backlashers was anger, because their opinions don’t mesh with my own. But after the initial emotional glitch, I had to give their words some thought. They are opinions after all, and have every right to be voiced.

So…why does the death of a police dog elicit such a deep welling of pure sorrow? Why does the death of a human make my heart sore for a moment, but that of an animal sticks with me and shatters that same heart in a howl of grief?

Well…I’ve never been mugged by a dog, but I have by a man. A dog has never jumped out of the shadows with a knife and stabbed me. A man has. A dog has never broken into my apartment. A man has.

But that’s not enough of a reason.

Think deeper.

When a dog misbehaves, I can usually understand why. Not so with humans. Mankind is capable of a depth of depravity unequaled by other denizens of the animal kingdom.

Man is the only creature capable of true cruelty. Animals don’t have it in them.

Some people will say cats are cruel…the way they play with a mouse instead of killing it outright. That’s instinct. Mankind’s cruelty is by choice.

There’s a tremendous difference.

So, as unbalanced as it may seem to some, I will continue to be more deeply affected by the death of a dog than seems appropriate. I will trust animals more readily than humans. I will welcome a dog into my life more quickly and wholeheartedly than a person who must earn my trust over time.

And even though it was started a bit tongue-in-cheek, I am touched by #JeSuisChien and the gallant animal whose demise it honors. Because just as cruelty abounds in humans more than any other member of the animal kingdom, the opposite is true of nobility.

Dogs have it in spades. Precious few humans do.

RIP, Diesel.

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Just bitchin', paranormal

On Little Cat Feet…

 

blogfog1A strange thing happened.

Various explanations have been advanced. They reflect the philosophical bent of the speaker rather than provide definitive answers.

‘There are ley lines beneath your house…’ ‘Magnetic fields…’ ‘A nexus of sea, land and air…’

‘You are haunted…’

At three in the morning I was awakened by the long, slow, sonorous sound of a fog horn. I lay still, waiting for its call to repeat, wondering why, in six years at this locale, I haven’t heard it before. A glance out the bedroom window showed me no stars. The wide, dark, undifferentiated sky might indeed be a wall of mist. No lights were visible on the far shore of the inlet on which I live. Probably masked by fog.

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The horn lows again; its sorrow pouring out into the night. It’s supposed to be an alert to fog-bound ships and travelers. But this sounds more like mourning than warning; something too late to divert disaster.

I lay back and listen, my mind drifting among stories of the sea. Shipwrecks. Drownings. Hair turning shock-white overnight. Clinging to wreckage. Floating for days. Never found. Lost…lost…lost… Gravestones over empty plots. Bones resting beside coral reefs in anonymous, seabed tombs.

Some of these colorful, legendary tales incite suspicion in the light of day. But tonight, under the spell of fog with the soft wash of waves mere feet away from my window, my throat tightens at each welling of the horn.

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With dawn, the sky is clear, the day crisp.

I wonder about the lighthouse that kept such faithful vigil through the night. I search the internet. I pore over maps and information about the area’s beaches and shipping lanes.

Nothing.

It has been a century at least since a lighthouse operated along this section of coast.

I have no explanation…

…but I will be forever listening in the night.

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Just bitchin'

Pet-Parent

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When it comes to my pets, I have always been one of those people.

You know the kind: the ones who take guardianship of their fur-children very, very seriously indeed. The ones who always have a weather eye out for any slight change in demeanor or habits. The ones who pounce on opportunities to better the all-too-short lives of their charges.

It’s a gradual evolution.

You begin as a child who loves the family pet. The child who can’t sleep without Fido or Fluffy nestled close. The child who sobs uncontrollably when their fur-sibling eventually departs, often becoming the first lesson in the incalculably final loss that death bestows.

And then you learn the corollary: that loss does not end the heart’s capacity to love. So another pet pads its way into your life and the pattern of lifelong companionship begins.

I’m unaware of exhibiting overt signs of the fierce protectiveness that has evolved with the advent of each successive fur-child. But now I’m wondering if I’ve gone attitude-blind; if I emit something akin to a rank odor that warns the rest of humanity to give me a wide berth.

This dawning suspicion reared its head following today’s annual vet appointment for my oldest cat, Ebony.

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Having owned animals all my life, I consider myself a connoisseur of veterinarians. I know what they should ask. I know how they should present themselves. I’m very, very picky and have no qualms about abandoning a doctor who doesn’t meet my stringent requirements.

But this is the first time a vet has quietly stood to the side and asked me how I’d like things to go. Exam first and shots after? Or vice versa? Or maybe the Benadryl shot for allergies first to mellow the cat out, and then exam, and then final shot?

I am impressed. I opt for exam first and then shots, knowing how my cat will be hyper to get away once needle pierces skin.

It isn’t until after I leave, cat in tow, that I realize the entire staff is behaving with extreme caution, because they recognize the most dangerous of all animals is in their midst.

The Mom-Of-Fur-Children.

Shudder in her presence, for she will stop at nothing to protect her own…

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