Soul Thumping

Your Child, Sir, is a Serial Killer in the Making - Children and Their Parents at the Park

Poseidon and I have our house on the market, and sometimes we have to make scarce at the drop of a hat when the realtor wants to show our property to prospective buyers.  A few months ago, a last minute call from the realtor had me scurrying out of the house with a book, in route to the park just a few minutes from our house.

This park is next to an elementary school, and it was well after school hours, but there were many children running around playing and making new friends while the parents formed little cliques of their own discussing gymnastic instructors, dance classes, and swim meets and how well his/her tot is excelling in each of these sports/hobbies.

Away from the parental groupings in the park, I sat reading on a bench by myself, between the swing set and the adjacent tennis court, passing the time until I could go back to my house.  I looked up and directly across the playground from me was a man on bench, texting.  I didn't see children with him, or near him, just an observation I made.

Nearly 15 minutes later, I glanced up and the man was still texting, but this time a little girl, all of 4 years old (I'm guessing), approached him saying, "Daddy, come and see my castle."  She had been building a sandcastle in the large sandbox.  He said something to her I couldn't hear, but I did notice that he hadn't even looked up from his texting while he spoke to her.  The little girl waited for him to view her architectural masterpiece (I'm sure to her it was a masterpiece).  Nope.  Nothing.  Dad still texting.  Little girl walks back to her work.  I think I will name her "Sally."  I feel much empathy toward Sally.

Just minutes later, I glance up at the poor might-as-well-be-an-orphan Sally and another little girl (I'll call her "Mary") was trying to play with Sally.  Sally, who was sitting on her knees playing in the sand with her bucket, purposely turned he body away from Mary without saying a word.  Mary stood around a bit longer, hoping to make a friend to play with.  I suppose she finally took Sally's snub as a hint.  I feel much empathy toward Mary.

I am guessing that Mary desperately wanted to make a new friend because moments later she tried again with the evasive Sally by plopping down in the sand next to her.  This is when the drama/tragedy commenced.  Sally stood up, got in Mary's face and yelled, "LEAVE ME ALONE, AND I'M NOT KIDDING!!!"  I honestly thought my heart would beat out of my chest because the anger in this little tiny person was so intense, it was frightening.

Now I look up at quick-as-lightening-texter Daddy to see his reaction.  His head turned toward her direction, still texting, and I swear he never took his eyes from his iPhone and turned his head right back down.  Sally stomped off (literally) to another area of the park.  Daddy does nothing, oh, wait, I take that back.  He is doing something.  Texting.  Poor little Mary, ran to her parents, who were watching the creepy scene in the park sandbox play out.  They whispered something consoling to her, and she seemed to relax.  You tried little Mary, it isn't your fault.

I'm not a parent, but I am a human being, and was/am someones daughter, and a child myself once (oh, oh, and I've been in therapy of one form or another my entire adult life so I can spot a wow-you-are-going-to-be-once-screwed-up-puppy-if-you-don't-get-help-now tot when I see one) so I'm more than a little concerned about Sally.  The amount of anger in that 4 year old little girl was scary, appalling, and unacceptable.

Why is this my business?  Because I still walk on this planet, and Sally is just one more little creature brought into the fold by selfish mooncalves who are too lazy to parent and set boundaries or pay the poor little troll any attention while she is creating something in the park; so, it is my business because in just a few short years, Sally will be in some newspaper or on TV and/or behind bars because she will have done something "very wrong" because she didn't know it was wrong or have any reliable concept of how to live socially with others, and she is too full of rage at having been ignored during the most important teachable years of her life, and that "something very wrong" could be committed against me, those I cherish, or any other hapless victim in or out of the park.  Ah, yes, but she can text like the dickens.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Released from my Vial too Soon?

When we first started dating, my (now) husband, Poseidon, for some (or many) reasons came to the conclusion that I must be an alien.  I can't say for sure why, but his convictions remain strong, and he often makes comments about my alleged extraterrestrial heritage.  I finally feel obliged to acknowledge his pseudodoxy that I am from a distant galaxy, yet to be discovered by mere earthlings; however, he accepts me anyway (and for this I'm grateful...or should I say, "And for this I'm grateful?").

Last night while watching television, we were having some discussion, on what, I don't recall, but he looked at me and said, "You were released from your vial too soon, weren't you?"  He then asked me to tell him all about the portal to Middle Earth because he heard it was somewhere in West Virginia, and I am originally from West Virginia and an otherworldly oddball, so I must know, but I had no idea what he was talking about (has anyone else heard of this "portal" to Middle Earth in WV?).

I play along with the alien bit, because frankly, I've been programmed to do so, and I don't want to blow my cover or 'they' will beam me back up into space (or down to Middle Earth).  I simply told him that I was not released from my vial prematurely but that I had lost my instruction manual early on and had to wing it.

This seemed to satisfy his need to remind me that he knows where I really came from and I might as well be honest about it, like he's going to turn me in to the CIA, or NASA, or whatever incompetent agency handles E.Ts these days.  Turn me in?  Seriously, who would remind him to set his alarm clock every night (I have to do this every night)?  Who would buy his bagels and organic yogurt every week?  Who would do the laundry...oh, wait, he does the laundry.  So, when the mothership decides I've collected enough data and they come to take me home, Poseidon will starve, be late for work everyday, but at least he will have clean shirts.

I'll... be... right... here.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

I Remember When...My Incident with Officer O'Malley

I'm not a bad person.  I've done some incredibly mindless things in my lifetime (see my previous post on imbecilic things I've done...except for my mom, she isn't allowed to read it), and I know I will certainly be involved in many more unenlightened enterprises before I leave my current body and come back as a slug.

Some of the things I've done or the situations I've gotten myself into (or found myself in purely by accident) are regrettable, and some just make me laugh, and there are those that are regrettable and laughable at the same time.  At times, when I'm writing or sewing, and my creative juices are screaming, memories of certain, let's say, "experiences" insert themselves into my brain.  I either laugh out loud, shudder at the thought, or say to myself, simply "Oh Dear" and blank out, but then I feel the urge to confess.  Write it all down.  This is one of those times, if you haven't realized that by now, so hang on.

I moved from Raleigh to the big city of Philadelphia in 1996 at the silly age of 27.  I immediately became best friends with one of my co-workers, and I'll call him "Mitch."  Mitch taught me the city, where to go, where not to go, etc., and we were best buddies.  One Saturday night I drove us to our favorite bar for a few beers.  It was around 2am when we left the bar, and I was going to drop Mitch off at his house.  I was driving down Pine Street, which at some points is extremely narrow, and wasn't well lit then (still isn't). 

There was a car behind us, and as he was trying to pass me, Mitch yelled to me, "It's time you drove like a true Philly girl.  DO NOT let this car pass you."  Fueled at the thought of becoming a real live Philly gal, or just one too many beers, my foot pushed the gas pedal in and the chase was on.  I held my own for a few blocks, but the car took the lead on my left side then we both had to stop at a red light.  When the light turned green, I tried to regain my lead, but just as I was ready to pass him, we noticed a car parked on the street, and there was no avoiding it.

OK, I side-swiped the heck out of that car, and I'm not proud.  I would have stopped and left a note (it was 2am) with my information, but the Philly girl in me had just been established and Mitch screamed, "Keep going, keep going, a saw a police car back there."

I won't go through the rest of the tedious details, but I dropped Mitch safely off at his house, and made it back to my apartment without further incident.

The next afternoon, Mitch and I were going to an outdoor concert and this time he was picking me up.  The intercom buzzed and, thinking it was Mitch, I accepted the call and this is how the conversation went:

ME:  "Hello."

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Hello, am I speaking with Ms. Slaven?"

ME: (a little annoyed, because it wasn't Mitch and Mitch was already late) "Yes."

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Ms. Slaven, this is Officer O'Malley with the Philadelphia City Police Department.  I need to speak with you about a hit and run accident that occurred early this morning."

ME:

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Hello, Ms. Slaven?"

ME: (feeling for the chair at my desk to steady myself because my knees were about to buckle)

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Ms. Slaven, I'm going to need you to let me in so I can speak with you."

ME:  (knees did buckle, now laying on the floor, blood had left my head...hell, the blood had left the building!)

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  (laughing like a hyena) "It's me, Mitch.  Ha ha.  Let me in!"

 

...First and last time I ever side swiped a car...

 

--Fortuitous Philly Girl Observer

 

I Ate a Dog Biscuit

Yup, I truly  did.  I'm visiting my sister and her husband for the weekend, and their dog, Sasha, had a birthday recently and they bought her a large dog cookie to celebrate.  I looked at this thing, which was the size of my head, covered with frosting that looked so yummy I had no choice but to break a piece off and chow down.

This dog biscuit/cookie was awesome.  It tasted a bit like a ginger snap.  A little drier than I would have liked, and had the cold hard fact that it was a dog biscuit not hit me in the face, I would have grabbed a glass of milk, dunked the cookie in and finished the thing.  I'm serious.

--Fortuitous Observer

I'm Retracting my original Post: Who the Hell Does NC Communications and Time Warner Cable Think They Are?

UPDATE:  Thank you both NC Communications and Time Warner Cable!  OK,  I have to update here and give a big thank you and an apology for being so rude to Time Warner Cable and NC Communications.  I received an in person apology from NC Communications after Time Warner contacted them.  I have to say that the apology and Time Warner Cable stepping in (I sent an email to a rather high-up person within TWC), gives me a new appreciation for both company's desire to keep customers happy and to fix a situation.  I appreciate it and thank you again for fixing my lawn!  

 

NC Communications, Inc. a subcontractor for Time Warner Cable, illegally trespassed on my property, and destroyed my lawn with their equipment.  They did not ask, and they did not receive any permission from me, the homeowner to park a large piece of machinery smack in the middle of my front yard yesterday.  They have destroyed my front lawn!

I arrived home yesterday (Thursday, June 24th) evening from work to find a large piece of machinery in the middle of my yard. This piece of a machinery (a "ditch witch") moves on moving track wheels, similar to a tank, and it destroyed my lawn, causing holes and large ruts. This company, NC Communications, Inc. did not ask permission to park said contraption in my yard.  I was (and still am) livid.

I immediately phoned NC Communications, using the phone number plastered on the side of their truck, also parked on the street in front of my house causing an issue if a fire truck would have to come down that street.  I left a message for them to contact me immediately, and they did not.  I sent several email messages and they have not responded.

I don't know who NC Communications think they are, but as they are apparently a subcontractor to Time Warner Cable, it appears that Time Warner Cable is allowing this to happen:  illegal trespassing and destruction of personal property.

I left a very stern message for NC Communications, Inc., and they have ignored my calls and emails.  I have just lodged a formal complaint against NC Communications, Inc. with the BBB, and I have also emailed the General Manager of Time Warner Cable about the situation.

Again, I gave no one, not NC Communications, Inc., not Time Warner Cable, permission to park a monstrous piece of machinery in the middle of my yard, and I want to be reimbursed, or better yet, I want NC Communications, Inc. and Time Warner Cable out there repairing the damage.

I am the homeowner.  I own this property.  I work hard to hold onto this home and property and I will not allow corporations like Time Warner Cable and NC Communications, Inc. to destroy what I've worked hard for.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Ladies, This is Why You DON'T Go to a Sperm Bank...

...enough said

http://www.timeidol.com/women-stay-single/

--Fortuitous Observer

There ARE Monsters Under the Bed

There are monsters under the bed...just take medication, then you won't see them anymore.

This is what I always say to people who even consider asking me to babysit.

--Fortuitous Observer

Tapeworms Instead of Liposuction?

Zeus, I mean Poseidon (Zeus now wishes for me to refer to him as Poseidon in my posts...we'll see how long I keep that up), and I were talking about tapeworms the other night.  I think he brought the subject up because I can't imagine why I would.  He had some medical fact or something he had read about involving tapeworms and wanted to share, so I listened.  I then started down my own warped path of thinking, and I had an "aha" moment, though I'm sure I can't be the first person who has thought of this.

Why can't we ingest tapeworms instead of having liposuction or spending so much time at the gym?  I'm being serious in a weird way, because I'm curious, mostly.  Liposuction is costly and there are dangers associated with it (ok, I suppose there are dangers associated with tapeworms also), and then there is the painful recovery process.  Seriously, I've watched enough episodes on the Discovery Health Channel to know what is involved in the liposuction process, and the recovery does not look pretty.

What about a tapeworm doing the work for us?  Isn't it more natural?  It's a living organism that has to eat anyway, so why not let it eat the food for us until we reach our ideal weight?  All you have to do is drink some infested water or, even easier, eat undercooked or raw fish, pork or beef.  Maybe my next sushi outing will result in a tapeworm.

Listen folks, I'm not really suggesting you go out and eat raw meat or chug a tall cold glass of dirty water, so please don't do that.  I'm just curious.  Poseidon brought it up and I'm merely thinking out loud.  By the way, has anyone reading ever had a tapeworm?  OK, I'm off to they gym.  I hear there is a new smoothie store going in next door to the gym.  I'm going to ask them where their water comes from.

--Fortuitous Observer

Supermarket Grazers and Serendepity

Throughout my life, I've found myself in some rather strange situations.  I've seen things that I can't believe I saw, met people I can't believe I met, experienced things I can't believe I had the pleasure (or displeasure) of experiencing, etc.  Knowing this, the bizarre happenings I've seen at a local grocery store should be no surprise to me.  I won't disclose the name of the store because I don't want loyal patrons to go elsewhere, and I like the store so I'm not faulting them for the gaffes of some of their less than smooth shoppers.

About 2 or 3 months ago I was shopping at this particular grocery store, and as I passed by the salad bar with my cart, I saw a woman picking chicken out of the salad bar and eating it.  She wasn't making a salad, she simply picked chicken out of the salad bar pan, with her fingers, and ate it.  This woman was probably in her mid to late 60s, very well-dressed, well-coiffed.  She wasn't lacking in the money department, judging by her outward appearance.  I thought maybe I was hallucinating and hadn't properly seen the situation so I looked again.  I saw things correctly.  This woman was picking chicken out of the salad bar with her bare fingers, eating the chicken, and putting her grubby little fingers back in the pan and repeating.  Does she realize she is shoplifting?  Does she not care that she is putting her hands directly in food that other people are going to scoop up with the PROVIDED SALAD UTENSILS to take home to their families?  It was like a train wreck.  I wanted to keep watching but I was appalled and a little frightened.  She might actually be bat-shit crazy and if I keep watching, she may come over and kill me.

Later that evening I told Zeus the story.  He was equally appalled, and I can tell you this, I haven't made a salad from that salad bar since witnessing this incident, and probably won't.

This week I was shopping in the same store and I was looking at the sushi, thinking I'm not really keen on buying sushi from a grocery store but it looked good so I considered it for a minute...wait, I'm getting off track.  While looking at the sushi, I suddenly smelled chili, and I looked around, and I saw a woman, a shopper, stirring the chili at the salad bar.  She then pulled a small styrofoam cup from her purse, put a ladle-full of chili in this little cup and began to eat it right there on the salad bar!  This woman was also in her mid to late 60s, though I don't think it was the same woman eating the chicken from the salad bar (but it could have been).  She was also very well-dressed and her hair was salon cut.  She didn't seem to lack money either, yet she is stealing chili from the salad bar!  What is going on?  I mentally outlined every possible reason for doing this that I could.  I even considered the scenario that she has low-blood sugar or something and she needed to eat right then and there, but she would pay for it when she checks the rest of her groceries out (I'm a little less cynical this week or I wouldn't have even considered this a possibility, I would have just stuck with the "she is bat-shit crazy" story).

Why is this happening?  Why are these women doing this?  I know many women of that age and none of them would have the audacity to something so gauche.  I don't know but it was creeping me out for the remainder of the afternoon.

I again told Zeus my tale of the uncouth, seemingly well-to-do woman, using the grocery store salad bar as a personal trough (though at least she brought and used her own cup, and she did use a plastic spoon from the salad bar--she didn't bring her own spoon).  I asked Zeus why it is that I witness these atrocities (that word might be a bit strong, as there are certainly worse things in the world)?  Is it serendipity?  I am I doomed to be witness to the oddest of the odd among us?  Oh, I hope so!

--Fortuitous Observer

Granny in an Escalade

I suppose one of the cool things about actually driving to a job again is that I get to witness the deluge of freaks on their daily commute each day (of course, when I was a software consultant and I flew to job sites for work, I got to see all the freaks in the airports too, so I guess it is a toss up).  Last Friday morning I was frustrated and impatient (imagine that...) because traffic was moving unreasonably slow for no apparent reason.  I finally discovered the reason...granny was driving an Escalade.

When I say "granny" I do mean granny.  This petticoat couldn't have been more than 4 feet tall, and she was 10 years older than dirt.  She was driving an Escalade in the center lane, at no more than 45 mph (the speed limit is 65, which means everyone, except granny, is doing 75), with traffic passing her in both the left and right lanes.  What?  How does this happen?  Does a 112-year-old woman go to the dealership and pick out an Escalade?  Why does she need that much truck?  Is she hauling bodies?  Maybe it was her 115 year old husband who chose the Escalade?  Or, maybe she is loaded and her husband is a 23-year-old degenerate who makes her work at Walmart as a greeter during the day so he can sleep in after partying with his pals all night on her money.

Single, married to an old mate, or a budding libertine , she was too short for the gas pedal and too petite for a big truck.  I'm the first person who would stick up for her right to buy whatever vehicle she wants, but it was the morning rush hour commute which can be absolutely brutal, so I've just emailed my Congressman asking him to introduce legislation for a maximum age limit to buy an Escalade.  I don't know what the maximum age should be, but somewhere between 10 years older than dirt and 5 years younger than water.

--Fortuitous Observer