Parallax

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.

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.

Got a call the other day at 8:30 in the morning. I was still pre-coffee, so the chances of me handling anything gracefully were slim. But the call was a problem because it started like this.

Unidentified Man: "Holaaaaa!"

There are a couple of people I know who speak Spanish quite fluently and would automatically use it to say hi, even though they know I'm a monolingual honky. There are other people who do not speak Spanish but have lived in Havanita long enough to do this on reflex. All of them would expect me to recognize their voices, despite knowing that I do not do well without coffee. There are also lots of Spanish-speaking people who get wrong numbers, particularly my number. (I've managed to stop the robocalls from a school district I can't identify.)

All of this, plus my inability to be rude without first preparing myself, meant I just said hello. That was enough to get me flooded with a bunch of Spanish, which I did not recognize any of. I might have, if I'd had coffee.

I tried to think quickly. I tried to remember the pasted-together bits of other languages I know. But I didn't have coffee, and what my brain offered me was this: Je n'est parlez la Espagnol.

... ffffuck.

So I said I don't speak Spanish, in as friendly a way as I could manange, and the guy on the phone happily said - well, I have no idea what, either a sorry about that or a you white moron or I really don't know, but it sounded very cheerful so I'm assuming something closer to the former, and then he hung up.

I only remember words when I have no use for them.

Y'all would not BELIEVE the week I have had. Hospitals, a wedding, dog-sitting, controlled substances, mistaken identity, asking for time machines, being repeatedly frightened by David Duchovny, mistaking Marlon Brando for Obi-Wan Kenobi, and a pet rock to call my own (and/or wind a piece of string around).

The point where it all went wrong was on Saturday afternoon, a bit after three, when I decided to put my slippers on. Reach up with your left hand, to your back, a hand's span down under the right shoulder blade and next to the spine. Feel around a bit. There's a big muscle there that connects to practically everything. Feel it?

That's what I angered, and much like dread Cthulhu, it came up with an intention to end the world.

( This is a *long* story. I'm trying to write down everything I remember. )

I have no idea where Sunday went, or most of Monday. I remember drinking tons of water, and eating trail mix, and setting my DVD player to repeat-play the director's commentary on Episode Two of Star Wars. Which should show above anything else just how lost in space I was.

Somewhere on Monday evening or Tuesday afternoon - I have no idea - reality gently settled back in. I had one thought: oh shit, what about Dave's wedding?

But that's another story.

I shall now tell you the saga of my busted key, because it was the cherry on the whipped cream on the pie of hilarious WTF that has been the past few days of my life.

The deadbolt on my front door has been a bit wonky for a while. The key won't go in easily. I don't know why - there's rust in the mechanism, sand, tiny dead bugs. Something. Florida is a cruel environment to man-made objects. It's plenty cruel to nature, too. What I usually did was put the key in the lock as far as it would go, and then give it a pop with the heel of my hand, covered in the end of my shirt, or my purse strap, or anything else. That would skip it in and get the lock open. Why didn't I replace it as soon as this was a problem? Because I'm stupid sometimes.

Now. Bleu had dropped me off after a day of adventur. Before I got out of the car, I said something like, "Would you do me a kindness and wait a bit until I get the door open? The lock is so sticky, I need to replace it." She agreed, and I hopped out of the car -- holding my purse, a hoodie, a water bottle, and a book.

For reasons I still do not understand and cannot explain, I decided that the best push for the key would be the book. I fitted the key as far into the lock as it would go, held the book against the end of it, and gave it a whack. It did nothing. I leaned on the book a little. It slid. I re-aligned it and pushed harder. Slowly, the way you watch a glass pitcher full of something horribly stainy fall in slow motion, slowly the book edged closer to the lock until it was very nearly lying flat on the door. I'd bent the key.

I bent a house key with a feckin' paperback copy of Eat Pray Love and my own brute force, which is ridiculous because I have all the upper-body strength of a hamster.

What I did next was obvious: try to bend the key back. Keys are not known for their tensile strength. The thing snapped off. I held my key chain up - with the two keys to one car, with the dead iridescent beetle in a block of lucite, with the green plastic frog that lights up red when I squeeze it - and glared at this pathetic stubby little half-a-key as though I could make it grow back with the Force.

I shuffled back to the car in defeat, waving as I approached. Bleu leaned over and unlocked the door. I climbed in, holding my pathetic snapped key in front of me. As soon as she saw the thing all sad and broken, she about fell over herself laughing. To be fair, I did the same thing a moment later. Of course, what we did next - before trying to find a solution to this problem - was take pictures of the stump key and tell the internet.



It was about one in the morning. My mother, you know, takes some pretty strong medication, so when she's asleep, she is out. Dead to the world. Nothing can wake her -- telephones, airplanes, music, television, Riley, zombie invasions, the second coming of Christ. None of it. Riley was awake and alert, but she was being quiet and there's a reason for that. I'm her mostly-hairless primate, and she knows the sounds I make. She doesn't bark at me unless we're playing and I need to THROW THE BALL ALREADY. If I want to bang on the front door at stupid o'clock, she'll not sound the alarm. It's just me being weird again.

I found myself standing sadly at the front door while Riley nosed the curtain aside, went OHAI IT'S YOU ARE WE PLAYING A GAME? -- and then sat, obediently, silently, happily. It's one in the morning in the backswamp, there's a cloud of mosquitoes, it's a hundred and sticky degrees, and I'm all RILEY HEY RILEY COME ON GIRL, BARK, RILEY SPEAK, SPEAK, DAMNIT TIMMY IS STUCK IN THE WELL, GO GET HELP. Riley tilted her head, ran her tongue out in a dog-smile, and wondered what this strange new game was.

This is where Bleu said, "We need Elvis."

I stared. "We what?"

She shrugged. "Elvis! Doesn't she bark when you play Elvis?"

Something inside me broke. "I am not going to stand on my own porch at one in the morning singing All Shook Up TO MY DOG."

"Maybe you should," she said, and then I got laughed at again, which was fair, because my frazzled angry gesture was done with the hand holding the stubby snapped key.

Then we had twenty very not fun - and not funny - minutes of me slogging through the jungle in my back yard, banging on the windows, the two of us alternating calling the house line, marveling at the fact that apparently nothing bothers my neighbors, and cursing at one very playful and unnaturally silent dog the whole time. Eventually my mother woke up, let us in, Riley did her canine guided missile thing to show her happiness about a fun new game, and Lucy had some 'splaining to do. I gave it my best attempt.

After the story was told, my mother had one simple question: "Why didn't you just call?" The look I gave her made her laugh.

I have decided to teach Riley things like "bark repeatedly when I tell you," and "go get Mom." She's smart, she can do it. But first I have to go get a new lock and put it in the door, because half of my key is still stuck in there.

That wasn't the strangest thing that happened that day, either.

When last you guys heard about my clockwork tomte, either you'd heard that I had it and was dorkily happy about it, or you'd got the news that it had stopped working and I was sad about it.

Bleu and I went on an EPIC QUEST trying to find a place in town that would fix it without having to mail it to Belgium or something (cos, seriously, one guy said they'd have to do that, and I was all, WTF, this is a Soviet childrens' watch, this should not be so difficult) and after two malls and about seven jewelers total we found one. They said they'd have to keep it and have their watchmaker take a look, so with great sadness I left my gnome in an envelope and exited the place with a slip of paper. They wanted 85 bucks for the repair (before tax) and I could not do that, so I told them to just keep it and I'd come pick it up after the holiday.

This is where things get interesting. Bleu was in the area, so offered to pick it up for me -- she'd driven on our Watchfixer Quest, and I honestly did not know where in the mall it was. I phoned them and said I was having a friend come in to pick the watch up, was that okay? They said sure, fine, just let us know what the tag number is so we can have it ready for her. I did this thing, and they assured me she could collect the tomte without problems.

Perhaps an hour later they called me - I missed the call - I got a message letting me know Bleu had got there and that they wanted me to call. I figured, okay, they must be giving her problems and I called Bleu.

She picked up and said: "I have it, I'm on my way out. I think they fixed it anyway."

Me: "They what with the huh?"

She then told me that they asked if she was paying for the gnome, and she said: yeahbuhwhat, she told you guys she couldn't afford it and to not fix it. Then, she told me, the girl at the shop was all "Okay, here, take it, just have her call us."

The tomte is merrily ticking along now and has been all day. I honestly have no idea if it's fixed, or if the enforced week of rest fixed whatever was wrong with it. I checked it, set it, and I kept rechecking it - it kept the time, and didn't speed up or slow down, and the ticker ticked along the way it ought. So, either just BEING AT THE REPAIR SHOP fixed the gnome or I got a free 90-dollar watch repair. (Though, now that I've written all this out, expect it to break again tomorrow.)

Gnomes. There's always trouble when gnomes are involved.

(Then to celebrate this, she and Jen and the tomte and I went to Disney, where my favorite thing was the 1960s space-age hotel with the cafe that had the monorails going through the center of it.)

I just spent ten minutes in the tub with a soaped-up Riley, rubbing her back and singing Beatles songs at her. As near as I can estimate, ten minutes of Beatles is the first half of 'I Am The Walrus,' and then all of 'With A Little Help From My Friends' and 'Yellow Submarine,' complete with whistling and onomatopoeia for the musical interludes. Oh, and I was naked. Because if I wash this dog with clothes on, I wind up with wet and soapy clothes.

I CAN EXPLAIN THIS, I SWEAR.

See.. she's got a Thing. On her neck. An icky oozy thing. We went to the vet today and learned it was a sort of skin infection, which requires medicated soap and antibiotics. Said medicated soap (which smells pleasantly candylike, sort of like liquorice) stated on the bottle that, For Best Effects, I was to cover Riley with a good lather, then spend ten minutes letting it soak into her skin. Massaging was optional but recommended.

So what do I do? Sit down on the side of the tub, assume each Beatles song is roughly 4 minutes long, and sing while I rub the dog.

I am either a very good dog owner or completely crazy. Although I'm thinking the former may require the latter.

My mother's been feeling poorly for some time now, and last Tuesday I took her to the hospital. They decided to admit her, I cheered a small cheer of hooray, and she has been perking up ever since. Bad timing though, her doctor went skiing or something and at this point everyone is waiting for him to get back to run tests and things.

But that's not the point of this entry. The point is, the day after I dropped her off -- like, 16 hours later -- an envelope arrived in my mailbox. It had my mom's name on it, so I didn't think much about this until I opened it. Then I got really confused.

The card has a picture of tulips on the outside and says "While You're in the Hospital." Inside it said:

Dear [redacted],

We enjoyed our visit with you last night. We hope your therapy goes well during the upcoming week and you will be safely home at the end of nextthe week as expected.

God bless you and your husband.

Love in Christ,
[redacted]
Psalm 1

This is where I went, yeahbuhwhat? Because, one, we don't know anyone who signs letters with psalms; two, my mom's not married; three, she got admitted at a quarter to twelve and I highly doubt anyone had a chance to chat with her; and four, there is no way someone could've got wind of this and got a letter to my house in that time. So I checked the envelope: it had been postmarked twice, forwarded once, and had originally been sent to an entirely different hospital over in Pinellas. It had first been sent Monday, the day before she was admitted.

So, what do I do? I WRITE BACK. On index cards, in a plain envelope, and abusing hyphens, because that's how I do these things.

Mrs. [redacted] --

I'm not sure who your letter was supposed to reach. My guess is that they somehow confused names and addresses.

The irony here is that my mother, too, is named [redacted] -- and she is in the hospital. Your letter arrived the day after she was admitted. I opened it because I thought it was for her -- but she didn't recognize your name.

Funny old world, isn't it?

I hope your [redacted] gets better, and that you find another way to get ahold of her. The hospital in Pinellas, I'm sure, would have the right address.

Anyway -- this whole thing has brought plenty of amusement to us -- we're the sort that strange things happen to. Funny world...

So -- thanks for the well-wishes, though we're all strangers.

Amusedly yrs.--

[Indi]

I put it in the mailbox tonight, it'll go out tomorrow. If I get a reply from Misforwarded God Lady I will share it with you.

And yeah, I know. Only me.

Things that fit into the Fifty-Nine Cent Ikea Bag of Gigantitude*:
- Precisely one load of laundry, as determined by bleukarma's washer, a bottle of soap, a trade paperback of one of the BEST NOVELS EVER, six DVDs, one CD, and a package of replacement Venus razor blades.

Or, if you dump all of that out:
- Me, with room to spare.
(Theoretically Riley will fit, since she's half my size, but I get the idea she won't let me try it.)
*First mentioned here.

Reasons I get excited every time the postman, the Fed Ex guy, and the UPS guy drive by:
- The shiny new flat monitor that is coming to replace this pieceashit that blurs out on me, unless it's my eyes doing that.
- The shiny new Dell computer where everything is new and will work that's coming to replace ol' Feverish Frankenstein here.
- The shiny new 500gb external hard drive so that I can back all my things up onto it and yay I finally have one.
- The not-shiny new hockey socks that oregoonie told me I should get. What the fuck am I going to do with hockey socks? I ordered the kiddy ones because the sizing chart thinks that I am a twelve-year-old boy. The problem with this is that if you tell me I should do something because it'll be funny, I WILL DO IT. Especially if I'm tired. This is how I wound up owning Stormtroopers.

(As I was writing this, Dell emailed to inform me that the computer & external drive are now scheduled to ship on 1/1/0001. Doesn't that mean they'd be here by now?)

Now I need advice. My showerhead thinks it's funny to divert 25% of the water in a perfect arc over the top of the curtain and smack into the center of the three inch space between toilet and sink. I'm telling you, an inch to the right and I could leave the toilet lid up to catch the water. The rest of the water shoots out of approximately ten remaining holes in the rain-can head, with enough pressure to knock a nipple off. The water here is so hard you could hurt people with it. I have to dismantle the whole shower assembly every two or three months and soak it in LimeAway, and even then I have to scrub the showerhead with a nail brush before I get under it. This is what happens when all of your water is sucked out of a limestone aquifer.

I am considering just wrapping the pipe with that metal tape people use to fix freezers. My reasoning is thus: shortness + standing on tub edge + 2lb murder-weapon wrench + gravity = a tragic end, or at least a bathtub with a giant hole in the bottom. My stopgap measure has been to put a washcloth over the spraying part of the pipe, but that's... stopgap. Anyone have suggestions?

Lastly, Riley performs an emoticon --- :D

(Shot this morning when she finished her breakfast and proceeded to rub her face all over my bed. She has her own bed, yes. Riley's bed is new and too nice for wiping kibble-dust out of mudflap lips, so she does it in my ratty old non-Ikea bed instead. Punk. My dreams smell like Purina Chicken And Rice.)

Remind me, one of these days, to tell you about the massmarket paperback version of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy that almost cost me fifty-five dollars.

Me: "I think I like this one better. The other one has too much blue in it, don't you think?"
Bleu: "Uh. No. What?"
Me: *facepalm* "Gah. Art school, sorry. It's more purple, and purple is made out of blue."
Bleu: "Yeah, go with that one."

Bleu says that This Sort Of Thing really Only Happens To Me. She says it in a way that invites capitalized letters, because -- well, y'all read me, you know my crazy life.

All I wanted was red nail polish for my toes. But being me, I had to look at all seventy different kinds of red, and have internal debates about whether there was too much blue or yellow in them, etc etc, and somehow in the process I got... stolen. For help. By a lady who seemed ever so slightly off. She was walking around holding two giant bottles of foundation, and sort of shaking her head in annoyance, and she had opened up the foundation bottles and had blobs of it on her hands.

I don't know how it started exactly, I just know that I wound up standing there in complete bafflement watching this woman rub quarter-sized blots of foundation onto different sides of her face, and then telling her which one I liked better. There were several problems with this. I shall explain.

1. The last time I regularly wore makeup was in high school. I gave up on that nonsense once I graduated and got a car, which meant I had to be coherent enough in the morning to not kill myself in said car. Makeup time quickly turned into COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE time.

2. Even when I wore makeup, I never did foundation because the palest shades they had were still too dark for my fishbelly-white self, so:

3. Figuring out what foundation works best for a black woman is really out of my area of expertise. Especially when I'm supposed to pick something from a rack.

She kept grabbing bottles and trying stuff on, and after a while (ladies, you know what I mean when I say a quarter-sized glob is a lot of that shit) it all sort of ran together and I couldn't see the difference anymore. To further complicate things, she'd open the bottle, swab some out, close the bottle, and put it back so after I said I preferred A over B, or C over D, or.. I think it went to M over N or something... I was then asked, do you remember which one it was?

Bleu, meanwhile, was hiding at the other end of the aisle all LA LA LA I DON'T KNOW ANY OF THE PEOPLE IN THE STORE. I decided I would Not Be Having with this lack of backup, and went and got her. "You wear foundation," I started, to Bleu.

Foundation Lady says: "You don't?"
Indi: "No. I, um--" [realizing that "because it doesn't come in Mime, and anyway the dog thinks it tastes like candy" is not going to work here] "-- uh, my skin doesn't like it. Breaks out something awful."
Foundation Lady: "But your skin looks so good! You're not wearing anything?"
Indi: "Nah. I break out, it's awful, I go red. I look like a lobster then."
Foundation Lady, smearing another wad of foundation on: "What about this one?"
Indi: "I'unno. Blend it more."
[She does.]
Bleu: "THAT ONE. GO WITH THAT ONE."
Indi: "It's, um." [off Bleu's glare] "Yeah! I like that. It works better than the others."
Foundation Lady: "But I was thinking of this one, on this side - which side, d'you think?"
Bleu, ready to run: "THAT SIDE."
Indi: "Yeah, that one."
Foundation Lady: "Hmm, yeah, it does cover better. Cos my skin does this thing, you see it?"
Indi: [off another glare from Bleu] "Not under the makeup I don't!"
Foundation Lady: [happily] "Look, it's two for ten bucks! You girls are so nice, thank you!"

Ten minutes later...

Bleu: "How come stuff like that always happens to you?"
Indi: "How come stuff like that never happens to you?!"
Bleu: "I don't look at people."
Indi: "That helps?"
Bleu: [Indi, you are an idiot] "Uh, yeah. Hey, look - chocolate."

So then we got chocolate, because it only doesn't have fat in it when I buy it for other people.