Soul Thumping

Parking Lots - A Word (or Two) About Personal Space

I love my personal space.  I always have, even as a child.  Whether I'm driving, sitting, standing, swimming, sleeping, dreaming, writing, studying, reading, etc.  My personal space is important to me.  I have a degree in Communications, which means I took many classes on space:  proper space when communicating, approaching others, comfortable speaking positions, spatial intelligence, spatial interaction, etc.  Personal space is roughly as follows (I'm not making this up, remember, I have B.S. in Communications, not a B.A., therefore, it is a "Science", not an "Art" or completely subjective):  2 feet on either side of you, and a 1.5 feet in front of you.  Again, not making it up folks.  Google it.

Anyway, I've chosen to talk about personal space today because of my trip to Lowe's for some more wallpaper remover (don't even get me started on that topic) on Friday.  I pulled into the Lowe's parking lot and I purposely chose to park way, way out in no man's land because I just felt like it and I wanted to walk to the store.  The Lowe's that I frequent has a huge parking lot, so big is this parking lot that there is never a reason (unless of course Lowe's is having some massive sale) to even be directly next to a car and invade anyone's personal space.

Back to my story.  I parked my car and pulled out my "shopping" list to review before going inside.  Wouldn't you know it, a woman in an SUV pulls RIGHT BESIDE me and parks.  I was the only car for miles (ok, I exaggerate a bit, but there was absolutely no reason in hell for her to park right next to me) so I do not know why she chose to park next to me, EXCEPT to annoy me on purpose and invade my personal space OR she was so desperate for attention that she needed to be close to another human.  The fact that she was also driving an SUV and blocked my sunlight is also irritating.

I know I'm a bit spoiled, and I am one of Generation Xers that is easily annoyed when social rules of engagement are not followed, but she pissed me off.  So, as she sat in her vehicle, also reviewing her shopping list (I can only assume), I rolled down my window, put my elbows on the window sill and stared daggers through her, for no other reason than I was bored, irked and looking for a reaction.  She glanced up from her list, then did a quick double-take as I continued to stare at her as though boring a laser beam into her skull.

What did she do you ask?  She actually started the car and moved!  I watched her move several rows over and parked her car, directly next to another car of course.  She ran into the store (and I mean ran...probably to locate the ladies' room because I scared her).  Seriously folks.  If you need that much attention, talk to your spouse, buy some new lingerie, or schedule an appointment with your shrink.  If you like to park far away and walk to stores like I do, great, but no need to park next to another car and invade an individual's personal space if there are several open spaces.

Personal space is a beautiful thing.  I try to respect others' space and I only ask the same in return, as the chic in the green floral skirt in the Lowe's store on Friday can testify.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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Can Sheetrock Be Considered Wallpaper?

So my downstairs bathroom is covered in pink and white striped wallpaper (circa 1970-something) and I'm finally tired of looking at it.  I bought my home in September of 2008, nearly a year ago, and I haven't done anything with the downstairs bathroom.  I'm trying to decide if I should put my house up for sale, and I want to make sure the bathroom is redone before then.

I bought some chemical wallpaper remover a few weeks from Lowe's and I decided this week will be the week I actually tackle the issue.  I've never removed wallpaper before, so this was a new experience for me.  I started on it yesterday evening, and I got the first layer of wallpaper off (that would be the lovely pink and white striped wallpaper).  I've discovered that the previous owners of my home had another layer of wallpaper on the wall, so I spent most of today removing that layer, which appeared to be light beige.  Why not just paint the wall light beige?  Why go through the pain of papering the wall light beige?

Anyway, I took a step back to survey my work and I realize that I've now removed what appears to be the paper layer on the sheetrock covering the walls.  How is that possible?

Because I'm tired and I cannot afford to call Bob Villa, or even a distant cousin of Bob Villa, and because I have a better than average imagination I've decided to "pretend" in this case.  Because the previous home owners (who, according to my neighbor, were nut jobs anyway) decided that it was fine to put up plain beige wallpaper, I'm going to pretend that they also felt it was fine to put up plain grey wallpaper too!  That means I'm not removing the sheetrock actually, just another layer of wallpaper!

--Fortuitous Observer

Mommy, Stop Texting! My Head is Stuck in the Hand Rail! - Parents Who Text

Yesterday during my walk around the lake (I usually run, but something about August in Carolina and humidity being unbearable) I heard a bloodcurdling scream just as I was rounding the bridge, and I saw a little boy, maybe 3 or 4, with his head caught in between the railing around the bridge.  He had abviously been feeding the ducks because he had a hand full of mashed bread between his little fists.

This is what I know:

1.  He must have been feeding the ducks and tried to get a little closer to them when he got his head stuck between the rails.  I started laughing.  I couldn't help it!  The ducks were now coming up to him and eating the bread from his captive little hand.
2.  His mother was sitting on the bench next to him, shushing him as he yelled for help because she was busy texting!  We all know what I feel should be done to her and I won't go into the graphic details.  I would love to have seen that text!

Some people are or are not cat people and some are or are not dog people, and everyone knows that I'm not kid people.  Don't get me wrong.  If I thought the kid was in real pain I would have helped him.  Perhaps being caught in the rail was the best thing for him.  It is obvious that his mother's brain isn't big enough to actually pay attention to her texting and watch the child that she chose to bring into the world, so he is probably better off being held captive by the bridge rails.  The silver lining?  The ducks seemed to be grateful for the company, and they have crowned him the Bread King.

--Fortuitous Observer

The Life has Been Sucked Out of my Imagination Today

For no particular reason, I feel as though I have no imagination today.  I just finished writing a couple of articles which were ok, but it took much longer than it would normally take.  I was suffering from temporary writer's block.

I picked up my copy of Dorothy Parker's Complete Stories, which usually inspires me because she is so darn witty, but I didn't feel like reading, so I put it back down.  I was ready to go for my 2 mile run around the lake, but then it started raining.  I'm on my 3rd Diet Coke of the day (I know Zeus, I don't need to hear about it...btw, I just finished your left-over black bean taco from last night, so I hope you weren't planning on eating it), and my cat threw up again this morning.  He's on steroids for his food allergy/Irritable Bowel Syndrome issue (yes, cats can actually suffer from IBS, go figure) and the steroids are supposed to stop his vomiting, so I think he's doing it because he can.  If I were cruel to animals I would be baking him in the oven-proof pyrex casserole dish right now with some broccoli and brie, so lucky for him, I'm not cruel to animals (yet) and I don't think I would like eating cat so much.

Ugh, anyway, the rain has stopped now, so I will try to go for my run.  I don't mind getting rained on during my run, I just hate to start out in the rain.  It makes me want to run back home with a bowl of Trix cereal (though I haven't had Trix for years so I don't know where that came from) and a blanket with the AC turned down to 68 degrees so that I'm shivering, while I watch Judge Judy.  It just sounds good right now.

Oh, before I forget, I found this great quote yesterday from Dorothy Parker (her birthday is actually Saturday, 8/22, or would have been) about writing and I wanted to share it:

                            "I hate writing, but love having written."
                            Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)

--Fortuitous Observer

Creepy, Creepy Cat Friends

Seventeen years ago (approximately) I agreed to apartment and cat sit for a graduate student (I'll call him George) who was a neighbor of my friend.  I had only met him once, briefly, in passing, but I needed a new place for the summer and he needed someone to sublet his townhouse.  There was one condition:  I had to agree to take care of his four cats.  I love animals, so no problem.  Or so I thought...

I had an appointment set up with George to see the apartment, go over the cats' routine, etc.  When I arrived, George showed me around and explained to me that the cats were hiding and that they probably wouldn't socialize with me much the entire summer because they were rather skiddish (that turned out to be an understatement of gigantic proportion).  George seemed to be smuggly proud of the fact (or fantasy) that his cats would never socialize with me.  Fine.  I had a place to stay, and I didn't care if they wanted to be friends.

I moved in a week later, and just as George had instructed, I left the cats a plate of food and a fresh bowl of water each morning for breakfast, and I repeated the same in the evening when I arrived home from work.  Each day, I would arrive home to the empty plate and bowl, never seeing the cats.  Even though I filled their water bowl and put fresh food out that evening for their dinner, they never came downstairs until I went to bed upstairs.  I would awake the next morning to find the empty plate and bowl, and I would re-fill for their breakfast, then leave for work.  This routine continued for two weeks.

One evening I sat down in the living room and did some reading.  After a bit I felt as though I was being watched. I glanced up from my book and I saw one small black cat head with scary green eyes staring at me as though he were trying to perform some sort of mine control trick.  I didn't want to startle him because it was nice to actually meet one of my roommates.  He stayed where he was then eventually ran back up the steps - probably to tell the rest of the troops that I didn't try to cook him or pull his tail and that I might actually be harmless.

Over the next several nights, the same cat, followed by another, then another, until eventually all four cats came to stare at me each night.  They finally felt comfortable enough to eat their evening meal in the kitchen while I stayed in the living room, though they did take turns keeping watch.

About a month into my stay the central air unit had a problem and the upstairs bedroom was too hot for sleeping, so I decided to sleep downstairs on the pull-out sofa until the unit could be repaired.  I woke up early that first night on the sofa and there,  all four black cats with creepy green eyes, sitting in a circle around me and staring at me.  None of them moving.  Just staring.

I had to sleep on the pull-out sofa again the next night, and I tried to sleep with one eye open (that doesn't really ever work of course).  I will admit that those four freakish cats had given me a true case of the willies.  I woke up that morning with the strange circle of skinny black cats surrounding me yet again.  This time, one of them actually started to purr.  I felt safe now.  For the two remaining months that I sublet the apartment, the cats sat with me (all four, always all four of them), ate while I was there, slept with me in the bed, and we were friends at last.

When it was time for George to move back in and for me to leave, the cats threw me a small party.  We chatted and laughed about the frightening first couple of weeks when they were unsure of me, and I was unsure of them.  We said our goodbyes and I promised that I would never forget them (and obviously I've kept my promise).  I stopped by one evening after George was settled in to drop off his key.  He thanked me for taking such good care of his cats, and made an uppity remark similar to, "I was right of course, I bet you didn't see any one of my cats while you stayed here.  They are just so particular about who they decide to like."  I simply said, "Yes, they are particular aren't they?"  It was rhetorical, more of a statement than a question.  I walked away, smiling of course, because those cats were particular, and it made me feel quite special to have been considered one of them.

--Fortuitous Observer

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Diet Coke or Yoga?

My boyfriend Poseidon (he's asked me to now refer to him as Poseidon in my blog postings, so I'm mockingly complying with his inane request) has an issue with my need for Diet Coke.  I have an issue with my Diet Coke drinking as well, so Zeus and I are on the same page (yet he is under the impression that I plan to do something about my addiction).  I must have my Diet Coke as soon as I wake up each morning.  It is a natural part of my life.  I wake up, I pull the cats off of my arms and legs and make my way downstairs.

As soon as I feed the cats (trust me, if I don't feed them first, they will eat me) I reach for the refrigerator, and my hands start to tremble as I grab for the beautiful shiny, cold silver and red can full of brown liquid goodness.  I pop open the tab and inhale the first half of the can's contents.  I don't even taste it; into my blood stream it goes!  I am ready now.  I can face whatever it is that will threaten to pull me down today.  I am armed.

Even though Poseidon rolls his eyes and gives me a look of concern and pity each time I open one, he will sometimes take a sip of my Diet Coke if we are eating out.  He doesn't like Diet Coke from a can, but he will take a sip if it is a fountain drink.  I have images of me getting off the stuff finally, only to find him addicted!  I fear I'll walk into the bathroom late at night and he will be hiding a can of Diet Coke inside the tank of the toilet, or in a secret place he has cut out in the wall behind the mirror.

His eyes will house permanent rings of black around them, and he will have a void look on his face that doesn't leave.  He won't admit this vile addiction to a Coke product for a while, but eventually I will find out.  I will beg and plead with him to go back to drinking his beloved tea.  I will stay up with him all night as he goes through Diet Coke withdrawal.  I'll hold his hand and whisper soothing thoughts as he suffers through the headaches and the DTs.  If he can't kick the habit on his own, I'll find a peaceful Diet Coke rehab center in the desert somewhere.  There has to be one in Arizona or New Mexico.  You know, the kind with the serene former Diet Coke addicts who teach you yoga and mediation and breathing through your throat instead of drinking another Diet Coke?

I'd like to buy the world a Coke...

--Fortuitous Observer

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The Tooth Fairy Gathers No Moss...I Mean Pebbles

When my twin sister and I were 7 years old, we were playing in a small stream near our home.  One day we noticed some small white smooth pebbles in the stream, that for some reason, we had never noticed before.  At the very same moment, both my sister and I had the best idea we had ever had, no, make that the best idea in the history of ideas that ANYONE has ever had.

At 7, we both began to lose our baby teeth, so our parents of course told us the story of the awe-knowing(and generous), Tooth Fairy.  We learned that putting our extricated teeth under our pillow at night would produce cash in the morning under said pillows.  The Tooth Fairy flew in through the windows into the rooms of little children at night, taking our teeth and leaving behind money.  We had only lost 2 or 3 teeth each at that time, so our piggy bank was in desperate need of a deposit if we were ever going to be rich.

It was on this sunny, blissful day while we were catching minnows in that clear stream that we laid plans for our financial independence from our parents, and thus the idea of the century was born.  After all, we were 7, and we weren't getting any younger, and with only $4.00 or so in our piggy banks combined, we weren't getting any richer.  We decided that the Tooth Fairy probably wouldn't notice if we put small white pebbles under our pillows instead of real teeth.  I mean, how smart could she be?  It would be dark and she wouldn't be able to see very well anyway.  She could easily mistake the small pebbles for our teeth.

With that warped thinking, my sister and I fervently gathered those small white pebbles, at least 20 or 30 of them, in our tiny little greedy hands and set off for the house.  We were careful not to raise our mother's suspicions, so we took the small pebbles to the bathroom to dry them off.  We didn't want the Tooth Fairy to get all wet and mad and not leave us our deserved loot.

We divided the pebbles into two handfuls;  one handful went under my pillow and the other under my sister's pillow.  We waited impatiently that afternoon and evening, and we were so antsy that we could hardly wait to go to bed that night so we could wake up and be filthy rich!  Of course, we didn't enlighten our mother or father with our plans of wealth and riches because we didn't want to share.  They could have done the same thing when they were kids if she wanted to be rich.

Of course, it goes without saying that our mischievous little plan did not come to fruition.  When we woke the next morning, there, under our pillows, were our tiny mounds of white pebbles, just as we had left them the night before.  We looked nervously around the room as though the Tooth Fairy was upset that we had tried to trick her and she was angrily watching us.

I remember my sister and I slowly and sadly gathering our pebbles like lost little dreams and carrying them outside to deposit them back into the stream.  The crystal clear stream that now seemed to babble, as though laughing at two little little imps who thought they could outwit the all-knowing Tooth Fairy.

--Fortuitous Observer

Blame it on the Economy

It seems like most people I see out and about these days are so miserable and so ready (and some are even hoping) to get the opportunity to rip someone's head off (so far, it hasn't been my head, for which I am thankful).  I credit this widely spreading disease of boorishness to our economic situation and people being uncertain about their jobs (I guess I'm lucky...I still don't have a job to worry about), their homes and how they are going to take care of themselves and their family, or how they are going to pay for the brand new Lexus out in the brick driveway that they just had to get because the neighbors just bought the new BMW SUV and there is no way in hell they are going to let the neighbor one-up their family, no sir-ee Bob.

I'm trying to look at this in a more humorous way.  If there is a silver lining in all of this (or as I said to my boyfriend, a tacky gold sequined liner), it's that we can blame everything on our economic situation right now and get away with it!  I can't seem to manage to complete anything on my to-do list.  It's the economy's fault!  I can't concentrate because of the economy.  I think my neighbor has a stalker.  It's the economy.  He lost his job and has nothing else to do but spy (speaking of the devil, I just saw his car "sneak" down the street...he thinks no one notices).  I cannot grow grass in my front yard.  It's the economy's fault because I can't afford to cut down the tree in my front yard (which would allow more sunlight to fall on the yard, allowing grass to grow) because I'm unemployed, because of the economy.  My garbage disposal is broken.  You guessed it, it's the economy.  Well, OK, I can't really find a way to blame the demise of my garbage disposal on the economy right now, but you get the point.

So, I'm back to playing my Smile game again because I can't take one more dejected-looking person stumbling around in a miserable cloud of melancholia every time I go out the door or I'm going to slink right down in the dumps with them.  If that starts to happen, I swear I'll go kicking and screaming feet-first --which reminds me, I have a blister on my foot today, and as soon as I can think of someway to do it, I'm going to blame it on the economy.

--Fortuitous Observer