Parallax

Meet... somebody! I don't know who he is, just yet. I picked him up at a pet shop today, after poking around in the Vat O' Hams. I told the woman helping me that I was interested in two things: male (no surprise babies, thanks) and calm; I wasn't fussed much about color. After some investigation of various candidates, this little guy let me hold him in my cupped hands.

"So, pal. What do you say? Wanna live with me, eat the snow peas from my moo goo gai pan?" It's about there that I realized I was a goner and this was The Hamster. There was nothing I could do but take him home -- where I've had a fresh bag of All The New Things waiting for weeks.

He's an interesting color: sort of a dove-grey on top, and almost a cream shade underneath. I'm not sure what this is called, though I assume it's called something. You can see the cream bits around his eyes and snoot. Speaking of - he has two eyes! This is new for me. And he's tiny tiny tiny: two months old. Jack was an absolute behemoth by comparison. I'm kicking around a couple of names, to see what sticks, but so far I've been referring to him as 'the mouse' because that's what he looks like - a wee grey mouse.



I'll give him a few days to relax and get accustomed to his new digs before we get acquainted, and once we do I'm sure I'll figure out what his name is.

Funny sidenote: a few nights ago I had a weird scary-sad dream about a cream-colored hamster that had been forgotten, or ignored, and somehow it was my fault. The first pet shop I went to (I found Little Mouse Ham at the second) had a hamster that looked just like the one in my dream... it approached me calmly, sniffed my fingers, considered a moment, then gave me one hell of a bite. "How dare you even dream of that!" I done been told. But it's okay, as I told the woman who stared alarmed while my hand went all Old Faithful; I have to stab my fingers to test my blood on a regular basis. Though, normally, I use a needle and not a hamster.

My internet is down so I am going to try posting here via my phone. Today - yesterday really, insomnia confuses these things - was another magnets in my pockets day.

Construction For Christ dug up the end of my driveway, where it connects to the road, and put down a massive concrete pipe, close to two feet thick, to connect the drainage ditches. Somehow in doing so they knocked the fios out; phone, tv, internet, all down. Argh. There's no concrete, just packed earth; i hope they repave it. And let me know so i can scratch a message into the stuff while it's wet. Ideas anyone?

They also took the mailbox down and relocated it. This meant that the mailman had to come by later to special-deliver my things. I'd asked one of the workers to make sure the mail got to me (he was very nice about that and, uh, blushing) but it seems the USPS does not allow mail to be delivered by guys with shovels and chainsaws. The more you know.

Before they dug everything out they needed to attack the tangle of oak and crepemyrtle that grows along the front of the yard. This involved putting a man in an excavator bucket which lifted him up to attack the greenery with his chainsaw. That was tense, but amusing. One of the palmettos was shredded, if not completely destroyed, but the giant century plant stayed intact. I thanked Bashful Construction Guy for leaving it be. Magnificent specimen, almost 8 feet wide.

I ventured out to check the damage once all was done, with Riley accompanying on leash, and as she tends to do, she made a friend. The girl was, I'm bad at ages, but shorter than me so my guess is eleven or twelve. Riley yearned at her the way Boxers do, and her little wiggle-butt tail attracted the kid over. Then, bafflingly, she stayed, orbiting me as I poked around the earthworks, asking about Riley and telling me about her cat. Kids like me. I have no idea why.

During all of this (what's that hole? And i'd kick off my flipflop to dig with my toes) the mailman swung by to bring me my bills and explain that he couldn't deliver things earlier as the box was down. But it's up now and much closer to the driveway: another thing to constantly worry about when i back out of there. Ach.

When i called the phone company to find out what was with the outage i got a hilarious support guy; he was in Utah (and I said, "hello, utah!") and asked about the weather here. People do that. During the many waits for the system to run checks he asked what it's like here; I told stories about the iguanas that fall out of trees in winter, the alligator that got into a school, the time a workman found a giant tree frog in a converter box here, and the overwhelming stupidity of 'dillos. I did not mentioning calling the police out on one, however.

The base is bugling, meaning it's six now - the machinery will be going again in an hour or so, once there's light. Someone will be by to inspect the phone lines between eight and ten, assuming they can get in.

And I - I have Nausicaa playing, courtesy of netflix, and Riley curled up next to me (told the kid, earlier: "she's such a big baby, she sleeps in my bed") and it's interesting, tapping all this out on a phone that is a bit more limited in brainpower, but can do more useful things than the first computer I owned back in 1998.

Boom-de-yada. Good morning dillos and dozers and fiber optics and Ohmus and little lizards and big nub-wagging dog and pots of aloe I need to bring down to Occupy. The future's pretty cool.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

A long time ago, when I was about nine or ten years old, I had a gigantic hamster named Caramel. He'd been a class pet, but we bonded so I got to take him home. Much like Jack, he had one eye - the other was some kinda messed-up raisiny looking thing. My mother worried about that, so we put him in a little container and took him to the vet we took the dogs and cats to: a Southern Good Ol' Boy about half a year away from retirement, who had never in his life had a hamster cross his threshold. The man could not have been at any more of a loss if I'd brought him a baby chupacabra. (My mom laughed all the way home, and for weeks after.)

Things haven't changed much in twenty years.

I took little hamster Jack to the vet today -- he's had some kind of drinking/peeing issue and it didn't clear up on its own, so I figured an exam and a round of antibiotics was in order. I did the research online, narrowed down what was likely to be wrong, and figured I could have treated it myself, if I could get hold of the antibiotic, which I couldn't. (Turns out I was spot on - the vet had the same ideas as me and prescribed the same thing. Damn I'm good.)

It took calling ALL OVER THIS DAMN CITY before I found a place that would even see hamsters, and most of them were just baffled by me asking -- hamsters? No, why would we treat a hamster? Because it's a pet, people. They may be small and relatively cheap (well, the hams themselves, once you get into toys and cages, good lord, there goes all your money) but they are not disposable. Which, you all know, is how I wound up with him in the first place.

I settled on a place about 20 miles away, secured Jack's carrier in the car, and set off. Got there no problem, I knew the area, and I only drove into one wrong parking lot in this giant strip-mall complex before I got where I needed to be. (My sense of direction generally... isn't.) The vet is the kind inside a pet store, so I can go shopping (me to pet stores = stereotypes of women in shoe stores) after. Jack, by the way, slept the whole way there. He's a trooper.

In I walk, with my grown-uppiest clothes (meaning: a shirt that is not a t-shirt with cartoons on the front), and my nice new Adult Purse over my shoulder, and my appointment and everything, and Jack's little blue carrier in my hand. I am feeling very proud of myself, like I'm about to win an award for being a responsible grown-up pet owner.

"Hi!" says a guy at the register. "Whatcha got there?"

"A ... hamster?" And blam, I'm nine years old again, staring up at good old Doctor Avery who is very fond of cats and very much wants someone to explain just what on earth he is supposed to do with this nice little girl's hamster. "I'm just here to.. see the vet... which is over there... where I'm gonna go."

There goes my award.

( Then a lot of things happened, mostly involving bladders. )

When we got home, he seemed surprised to see his cage again, and spent all of five minutes poking around every Jack-smelling corner before burrowing into his hideaway and going straight to sleep. It had been a long day, with lots of squishing.

Saturday before last, I spent the afternoon and most of the evening at Occupy. I'll tell you about that some other time. There's one bit sticking in my head that needs out, so that's the story you get to hear.

At the end of my day, around 11Pm or so, I made to head back to my car. The person I'd palled up with as sort of protest buddies (ALWAYS KNOW WHERE YOUR PROTEST BUDDY IS) didn't like this idea one bit, me going alone, and arranged for one of the men there to walk me to my car. About five of them volunteered, which was nice, though I really could have done without the mic check involved.

Anyway. My car was all of two city blocks away, in a parking lot on the other side of the museum next to the park, and on the way there I chatted with my impromptu escort.

I said, "I'm sorry you have to do this." Because I was, for so many different reasons.

He said something like - that's okay, you know, times like these everyone has to be more careful. There was more to it, I don't remember what.

I don't remember because I wanted so badly to explain that what I meant was that I wish the fact of my body being female didn't automatically make it dangerous for me to walk alone at eleven on a Saturday night. Or that I don't want to have to be constantly alert, on edge, nervous, goddamn-near paranoid, because if anything does happen it'll automatically be my fault. Or that instead of telling people, "don't get attacked," we should be telling them, "don't attack others." Or the fact that if I speak up about this I am some kind of hateful violent evil terrorist wossit who wants to sacrifice everything with a Y chromosome to a volcanic mother-goddess and bathe in their blood. Or the fact that, again, going back to the configuration of my body, its particular arrangement of organs means that I need to fear people who assume it is theirs for the taking, just orifices, just meat. The fact that sometimes when I say I wish I was a cyborg robot I am honestly not fucking kidding because then I wouldn't have to deal with all of this shit anymore. Or -- you know. All of it. Just, everything. There are so many things, and I didn't know how to make it concise for a well-meaning guy who had no idea, and instead I choked under the weight of it all and said nothing.

"Yeah," I said instead. "It is pretty rough for everyone."

( TK-4 went to the tiny circus. )

Priceless works of art? Yeah, cool. The fanciest mansion ever? S'alright. A neverending miniature circus, when I happen to have troopers in my bag? BEST THING EVER. Something is very wrong with me.

Come home. Get mail. Greet dog. Put on pajamas. INTERNET FOREVER!!!!!

Things Indi Learned (And Or Did) Today At The Courthouse:

I got a letter about a month ago for jury duty. I'd ignored the past summons... or two, would that be summonses? I can't remember if it was one or two, but I figured I'd better go this time. So I woke up way too early (this is my body's new thing, all of a sudden: either I cannot wake up or it's all HEY I GOT US UP THREE HOURS EARLY THIS IS GOOD RIGHT?) and put on clothes that didn't look or smell like Riley had been sleeping on them (though she had) and my goofy red boots and packed a backpack with stuff and hied myself hence.

Then did the traditional circling through downtown Tampa because god fucking forbid Google remember which street goes which way or is actually connected instead of dead-ending into a vacant lot, and how are there still vacant lots out there?

I amused the people manning the door by popping up and happily announcing: "You summoned me. Here I am!" I signed the thing I forgot to sign and handed my form to a lady who tore off a bit of it and handed it back, and then I waited for a very long time. At some point during all of this, one of the judges came in and made some jokes and explained a few things and thanked us a lot and said we're so very very important. We're a trapped audience, you don't have to mock us, dude.

Eventually I was called up with... oh, I'm no good at numbers, you know that, 30 or 40 other people? Ish? We were the fourth group that got called up, and we were then told that we had about half an hour to bum around or get snacks or whatever. So we wandered off and did that. The courthouse has a surprisingly decent cafeteria, upstairs. Pressed Cuban-bread toast with cheese? Yesplz. Nom nom. Once we reconvened, we were taken out into the hallway by a... a bailiff? A sheriff's deputy, doing courthouse sheepdogging, and he lined us up in the hallway in three rows. He told us to remember the people in front of and behind us, then led us on a merry chase across the street (in a raised building connector thingie) and up elevators and down corridors. NOW LINE UP AGAIN PLEASE.

I feel the need to note that this guy reminded me of one of those fighting roosters. Not particularly big, but very... puffed-up, and sort of over enthusiastic about what he was doing. It is SRS FUCKING BUSINESS to herd a docile group of sleepy law-abiding citizens, I tell you what.

Deputy Rooster finally led us into the courtroom proper, after lining us all up again, and then we sat down on long wooden benches, like church pews. Then we stood up because ALL RISE BLAHDAYADDA DO I HEAR TWO TWO HUNNED DO I HEAR THREE THREE HUNDRED FIFTY DO I HEAR THREE FIFTY AND COMING AROUND ON THE OUTSIDE IS SECRETARIAT ETC and the judge came in and we may be seated, so help us god. So we were seated.

Then we got talked to by the judge, and had stuff explained, and then stuff started to happen. What happened was something I had not expected, being that I am mostly if not entirely uninterested in legal dramas and therefore have little concept of The Law outside that movie Chicago.



That is not how it went, unfortunately. It was dead quiet (the guy next to me jumped when I cracked my knuckles) and there were no sequins. What we got was four lawyers in suits, a few more bailiffs, a judge with robes but NO WIG ALAS, state and country flags, a court recorder, and the defendant in question. It was explained to us that he was being hauled up on charges of I think stalking with a weapon. So everyone said hi and thanked us.

What happened next was: we got questioned. It's.. there's a name for this, I can't recall, something Latin that vaguely translates to "there's no wrong answer, be honest here guys." We got asked about employment, about any prior jurying, whether we knew any cops, whether we could adhere and uphold the laws of This Great Nation (which were repeated in detail) and then it got to the part I'm proud of.

They asked if, given the particulars of the case - stalking, weapon - anyone would not be able to be impartial. Someone in the first or second row (I was in the third) said something about getting mugged.

So I raised my hand, and without stuttering or um ah like like uh um ahhhh -- I just told 'em, clear as this: I had experienced domestic abuse and there is no way I could be impartial in a situation like this. Which is true. I sorta wanted to stay just to give the guy trouble, and that is the opposite of all the impartiality they'd impressed on us.

I felt really fucking good about that, because YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE BAD THINGS NOT EVER EVER EVER -- but I did. I didn't go up to the judge and say it privately. I said it out loud, without stuttering or mumbling, so that it was Recorded In Court and everything, and I kept eye contact with the lawyer when I did it.

Because fuck that silence and shame bullshit. That's what lets this all keep going.

After I said that, two more women raised their hands and were all "Uh, yeah, what she said? That happened to me too." I felt really fucking good about that too, like maybe me saying this as casually as if I was talking about the weather meant it was okay for them to talk about what happened to them, too. Maybe it was. Maybe I helped. I have no way of knowing. Oh, and the lawyer thanked me for speaking up about it too. Which is a refreshing change from.... most everybody.

After that there isn't much to tell. We left the room and sat around outside it: everyone turned their phones back on and went taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap, me included, but surprisingly some people clustered together in groups to talk. Then we went back in, and a list of names were picked to be the jury, and the rest of us were thanked and excused. Deputy Rooster corralled us outside and told us to re-reconvene about an hour later, in case any further cases needed our sound judging.

I got lunch (my chicken sandwich fell apart and I ate it with a fork, causing the lady sitting at the table with me to laugh) and then sat in the Juror Auditorium (which is just a big room) and IT GOT VERY COLD, HOLY CRAP, and I wrapped me in a scarf pashmina shawl thing my mom had got me a few years back, and I read some, and internetted as best I could, and shared jokes and tic-tacs with people nearby, and "see, it's not that I mind being here, I'd just rather be useful if I'm going to be here," and the I tried using the Force on people, to see if folks really do get twitchy when they're being stared at. Yes, they do. Two hours of sitting later, we were told we were free to go, thanked again, and reminded that we were exempt for the next year. People cheered and clapped.

Then I found a goddamn parking ticket on the car because something is amiss with the license plate. I don't know what. I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.

Oh yeah: there was a cop on a Segway. I valiantly did not fall down laughing at that.

It is no secret to those of you who know me that I loathe this upcoming holiday. Not because of the commemoration itself, as I'm rather fond of my country, even though I sort of see it as the smart kid that gets into fights behind the bleachers in high school and you just wanna grab the little prat and shake him and be all DUDE GET YOUR HEAD ON RIGHT because you know he can do better, he's just dicking around on purpose.

Er. That's a bit telling. But, in my family anyway, it's not a proper birthday without your relatives telling you what they really think of you. Traditions are important.

What I mean to say is, it's not the commemoration of a historical event itself that I dislike. And it is also the birthday of one of my favorite people I haven't seen in about a decade, so that's another good thing. (SHIT I FORGOT TO MAIL A CARD.)

The problem is the goddamn explosives. I hate them. The dog hates them. Every dog I have ever had has hated them. The land dislikes it too, or maybe likes it a lot, because we've been under drought conditions for about the past two presidencies and firecrackers are a great way to get a lot of shit burnt down in a hurry. They were outlawed, then ... inlawed... and now there's some sort of proscription against heavy ordnance that the military would rather keep hold of, but everything else is okay.

That means anyone who can get to one of those sudden roadside tents can load up on small explosives and cause a ruckus. Which, if you saw that thing on Mythbusters about the coffee creamer, sometimes the most innocent things are the ones you gotta look out for.

Last night I do believe I came across a solution - at least a temporary one - at least one that will amuse me instead of make me want to run around outside with a shovel shutting people up so well they'll need physical therapy. It is this: the judicious application of certain parts of the Tom Lehrer oeuvre sounds SO MUCH BETTER WITH EXPLOSIONS IN THE BACKGROUND. I had no idea. This is fucking brilliant.

It goes kinda like this:

So long, mom *POW*
I’m off to *SNAP* drop the bomb *POP-POP-POP*
So don’t *FWEEEEEE* wait up for me
But *KA-POW* while you swelter
Down there in your shelter *CRRRRACK*
You can see me *BANG* on your tv!

Yesterday a friendly and smiling and Hello Ma'am-ing cop showed up at my door to inform me that the house next door had been broken into. "They lost a coupla tvs," he told me. "Didja hear anything?"

(I've noticed, lately, that I'm getting a lot of "Ma'am" from people. I am not sure how I feel about this. I'm not yet old enough to really enjoy my age, and while I can't wait to get there, I am also doing the typical female thing and clinging in confusion to my fading youth. But anyway.)

I had not heard anything, though I'd got home around midnight or one, which was a damned nuisance since the porch light had gone out and I haven't gone to the shop to get more bulbs. Then I spent another few hours failing at falling asleep, watching a movie while curled up with/on/under Riley in bed. Riley hadn't made a sound to indicate anything was amiss. Though in Riley's defense, the comings and goings of homo sapiens next door are none of her concern. She probably noticed, but didn't see fit to raise the alarm.

Last night, about two in the morning, I was living the wild life - curled up on the couch with the dog, watching Dr. Who. I was watching the tv, that is; she was getting her ears scratched. Then she hauled herself upright, putting an elbow into my spleen, raised her hackles, and let me know that something was not right. This was the alert/warning noise, not the LOL I LIKE TO BARK AT SKWIRLS noise. There is a big difference. Her alert involves lots of watchful stillness, and perked ears, and low growling with the occasional "hey, boss?" woof. I take it seriously, because when it comes to guarding me, Riley is very good at her job.

Being me - thus, completely fearless when I should be spooked, and terrified of useless things - I snagged one of the big boat flashlights, poked my head out the front door, and had a look. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear it. Scuffle. Scuffle-shift-quiet-slide-quiet-quiet-quiet-scoot. Indi the Stupidly Fearless told the darkness, "I can't see you, but I can hear you."

Then I went inside, thought for a moment, snagged Riley by the collar, and called the police. I was very apologetic and sort of embarrassed - "yeah, uh, the house next door was broken into last night, and my dog's pretty good about letting me know when something's up, but I don't know if there's really anything to worry about there, I didn't see anything or anyone but I heard something" - and the dispatcher assured me that I'd done the right thing and cops would be by shortly.

I put Riley's leash on and we both resumed our spots on the couch - me a bit tense, Riley at-ease but alert. Before too long she started up the alarm growling and I saw flashlight beams bouncing around in the darkness. A cop knocked on the door. I manhandled Riley out of the room, then opened the door.

"I hear y'got a prowler," a cop said. I couldn't see him, with the lack of a porchlight and the bouncing flashlight beams.

"Heard something," I said. "I didn't see it."

"Well," the cop said, swinging the flashlight beam across the yard, "there's yer suspect."

And there it was: a big full-grown armadillo, all pale and hairless, blinking stupidly in the blue-white light.

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. I giggled my way through apologizing and oh my god and I am such an idiot and my dog is such an idiot and really jesus I'm sorry, this is so stupid.

"That's all right ma'am," the cop said to me, "but I'm not gettin' anywhere near it." Which just made me laugh more. So I thanked them and said goodnight.

Once Riley was released back into the rest of the house, she growled a bit more because the Suspect Dillo was still out there, sticking its snout into ants' nests and eating small frogs. THOSE ARE RILEY'S INSECTS, DAMN IT.

At least it wasn't an alligator.

On the internet, as usual, one thing leads to another. Somewhere in the vicinity of two in the morning (locally known as Oh Dark Hundred and/or Stupid O'Clock) I found myself on a website where I had been collected and indexed like some kind of trading card or exotic bug.

What I found is a website dedicated to Everyone, Ever, Who Is Connected To Kasmu In Any Way. I'm there, and my mom and grandma, and her cousins and wacky world-travelling talking to herself Laine and Hans with the boats and the being shipwrecked repeatedly, and old Antonia whose sewing machine my mail gets left on where it sits quietly until I find it a week later. We're all there. All these people that I know, and tell crazy stories about.

The stories aren't there, though. That makes it all feel weird, and sort of sterile, because that's how we keep track of each other. Potholders, herring, boats, clarinets, the basement at Macy's, embroidery, Lucky Strike, cameo pins, potatoes, Hummels, the devil's rock, sunburn, embassies, shortwave radios, carpentry. It's like Trachimbrod in Everything is Illuminated, the stories and clutter (mental, physical) are what we use to remember.

The stories I know are mostly on this side of the Atlantic. What I know about Kasmu isn't much. I know that's where everyone came from, and that they built a lot of boats. I know that you went to the sauna (which has a gnome in it) and then jumped into the lake in the middle of winter, because .. ok, I never found out why the hell they did that. I know there were cows and fish. Lots of lucky herring. Vodka. I got the idea that Kasmu could be translated from Estonian as: "small bump on the coast where you build boats and go sailing because there is fuck-all else to do except get drunk in the sauna and tip the cows over." I've looked at it on Google Maps and it has something like four intersections.

( I know these are my people because they're all pale and rounded and grumpy in the old photos. )

So: the whole point to this is that I find it hilarious I've been collected and indexed by some stranger halfway across the world. I feel like an action figure. One of the really random and useless ones, like the thing that was only in two scenes in Jabba's palace, that I spotted, begged for, and got at a toy store when I was maybe three. How I still have that, I don't know. Or why my mother got it for me. Why I wanted it is easier: if given the choice between a fuzzy Ewok and a weird-looking lizard bug flatworm thing, I go with the lizard bug flatworm thing.

Wonder what kinds of interesting lizards and bugs and worm things I could find in Kasmu....

And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding.

Maybe now it'll get easier. Nothing's left unsaid.