Softening My Image

Virus

Part 6 of 30

These viral times are indeed trying times. I went out to mow my yard for the first time since winter and it took 30 pulls at the handle, nearly to no avail till, finally, it turned over and started. I was starting to sweat from embarrassment, not wanting the neighbors to see me in such a state of futility. Then there’s the virus, and children perhaps in all kinds of trouble, I don't know the full extent of the danger, but, forget about it, it's not good.

But it's not all bad. I give thanks for my neighbor, one of the Pavlona sisters from the old country. She used to travel quite a ways, not just around the three county area but out in the pretty far flung areas in a carriage. Her dad was one of the good old traveling minstrel types who could con the gullible out of their life savings, a fascinating thing. So Marie's one of the few neighbors I trust intrinsically, because she was totally upfront about her scheming thieving past and said indeed it was past. I put a 5 dollar bill on my dresser once in a while to test her, but of course she’s on to that old ruse.

These are the people, some of the neighbors -- the children and Marie Pavlona -- I have in my heart in these depressing days of this terrible virus. The children, naturally I want them to walk freely and to run and play freely. And Marie, she holds me in her prayers, she says, and someone with such a checkered past, if she says she’s praying for me, I believe it. That’s really the way it goes with folks like her. They may lie through their teeth when it comes to conning someone, but when they’re your friend they’re as good as gold. And kids can be the same way, usually conniving little monsters, but these kids, her extended family -- they’ve had nothing for so long -- they’re simply good. But offer one of them a fudge brownie and you better have one for the others! Fudge brownies are always a hit.

I mention all these children and Marie not so much for their own goodness, etc., but to soften up my image for you the readers. A few of you, according to the comments, think I appear to be “cold and aloof," I guess when it comes to stuff like that, and things about the virus, which I do take seriously. I have a mask, true story. And I want to assure you and put your mind to ease that I’m really an old softie. Which you about have to be when east European Roma are your friends; they’ll do anything for you. And then, naturally, the kids, every one a born thief but lovable as pumpkin pie.

Anyway, in these sad days of the virus -- dire days! -- it’s good to keep your friends close, etc., and look out for one another. Remembering, it should be remembered, to wash your hands and use about a gallon of antiseptic on everything they touch. It’s actually better to keep the kids outside or at least at arm's distance, wiping down any touched surface and all the rest to keep them from infecting me. These are things I’ve learned at the grocery store, which just recently put up an industrial strength plexiglass wall between the cashier and the customer. Prayers for them too.

Neighbors Talking About Me

Paranoia

Part 19 of 30

If you’ve been with me so far -- and I don’t suppose you’d tune in midstream since it's seven years bad luck -- you’re probably afflicted with an above average case of paranoia. Which is another way of saying a below average disposition, because -- I discerned this by a show of hands at the last meeting -- none of us is particularly proud of it.

Just to show you that pride is a non-existent thing for the truly bereft in the attitude department, the day these people hushed themselves -- a congeries of whisperers -- I went home and hung my head in shame and cried till I was howling. Which got my dog in on the act so I softened. I thought, “Oh no, not the dog, too.” But she nodded her head, then let it hang low, the exact technique I’m known for. And immediately howled up at the basement ceiling and I joined in, saying affectionately, “From one old dog to another!” We high-fived and I poured her a little dish of beer, saying, “I know you’re only 3, but in dog years that's 21.”

But probably most of us hate being talked about like this, so it’s always better to avoid crowds and making a spectacle of yourself. But, again, thanks to the dog, I always have to be out and about. I try to hurry up the process but some things are hard to hurry, dogs and their cycles being one such thing. Then what? You haven’t got a crowd surrounding you, but there’s no question they’re out there in their houses, wherever. And with communications being what they are, free phone calls, unlimited messages, blogs like this, it’s indisputable that they’re talking about me wherever I am: “He’s out with the dog again! Yes, the same dog, he only has the one!” Or, “Look what he’s wearing, a sweatshirt and insulated jogging pants.

Here’s a little free advice, neighbor folk. You’re a bunch of brainless simpletons, locked away in your idiotic houses getting your jollies, getting your rocks off worrying about me and my dog. How about keeping your mouth shut? Such an easy question, how about an answer, as Elvis once sang. And hold down the Elvis jokes, because I’m sensitive in that area too. Although in this context, him singing “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” would be apropos, except you as neighbors don’t even reach to dog-level, mostly scoundrels. And I’ve helped most of you before, too, picking up litter. Speaking of dogs.

I don’t want my misery to become your misery, OK? Assuming you’re a friendly sort, and feeling naturally sorry for me and my dog, I thank you. Anyone who discounts this torment, though -- you, I can’t even say it -- Come on, buddy, walk a mile in my shoes, OK? Yes, they’ve been chewed by the dog, but try your best to walk in them. Betcha can't!

Scavenging For Acorns

Paranoia

Part 4 of 30

My life of paranoia is one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. But that’s not to say I’m miserable every moment of every day, because I’m not. I’ve really worked on it to the extent I can, and have been doing the things a doctor so wisely told me, “Try to make the best of things. And remember, there’s lots of other losers worse off than you.” That one took me by surprise, because, really, when it’s just me in my constant thoughts, I have a constant nagging pain. But when I compare myself to others, it helps me to know I'm leading the pack even if it's only narrowly.

So this guy's a pretty good doctor, and the insurance company isn’t paying him because he’s a quack. He obviously can make some halfway decent pronouncements. And if I can’t believe him, who am I going to believe? Some guys at the local bar talking dirt against him? I mean, they might be right, but there’s a big difference between him and them. The insurance company wouldn’t pay squat for the opinion of guys at the bar. And they’re a profit-making company, so you can trust them.

It's really going pretty well. Maybe not everyday’s a good day, but on the good days I'm following his advice to the letter. And for the most part, two thumbs up. The more miserable others are, the better. The other day there was a guy bleeding from the leg. Apparently too dumb to handle an ax. We were trying to call the ambulance -- not so much me but this other dude -- and he and the ambulance driver got in such an argument about the case, thinking that the guy had something to do with it, or was perhaps the innocent victim’s brother. I myself was confused, and he had a towel wrapped around his leg, but maybe it didn’t look as bad as it was. But the ambulance guys, confused, just fingered us all and sped off. It took me to pronounce the guy dead, and I’m not even medically sure when the exact moment of death came. The police came back and called him “A. John Doe.” So, my condolences to the Doe family. It could be that he was a nice guy, but I'm not really his judge.

Anyway, fast forward. I’m always looking for people worse off than me and trying to make the best of it. So imagine the valuable goldmine I inherited when my neighbor’s furnace wasn’t working. Right about the time of the biggest blizzard in the state since the time of Christ. Cold? Like my dad used to say, “Colder than a well-digger’s butt,” and something about a witch’s tit.

So, again, it was very therapeutic to watch my neighbor out foraging for acorns to burn to keep his house heated. My own paranoia receded and it was one of those rare times of comfort that I’d almost forgotten existed. The only problem with the whole scene, I needed to put some caulking around my own picture window. It’s a little drafty. And, dammit, a draft like keeps my furnace running, money down the drain. It's always something, but this is ridiculous. Things were going pretty well, then this. I just can’t catch a break...

Am I A Quitter?

No. 29 of 31 - Thermometer series

The whole pathway you and I have taken this month, striving for and hitting so many of our goals, with the greater goal still in sight, has been marked by many up and downs. Which, if I may draw a lesson that no one else has ever thought of, is also the story of life.

But we're not focused on that today. Today we’re answering the question “Am I a Quitter?” And the answer is no. We’re not worrying about the downside, we’re merely stating it, because Victory is in sight! And even if it weren’t, our resolve remains as resolute as any resolution I’ve ever made. And the idea of quitting now -- while probably not as foolish as it sounds -- is not in my armor-clad bullet-resistant bacon-scented nature.

Remember how I’ve gone on about some of the kids in the neighborhood taunting me? They’re like a sad Greek chorus, one note gloomy gusses. Let me prophesy something about them, and this isn’t my word, it’s straight from my gut: “These kids will get theirs! And it won’t be parades and cotton candy, more like fire and brimstone, the worst of the worst, divine switches on bare hide, and the embarrassment that goes with it.” So many of you have written in that you like it when I take these kids to task. So that’s exactly what I like to give you! Curses on their heads, curses on their tails, may their parents die childless! Petless! Twitching and babbling, not even a bottle of hootch to find wet comfort in! Foaming at the mouth...

You like that? You do? I knew it! Let me reach down in my deepest bowels of disparagement and see what else I can say, give a fresh spin to old taunts, perhaps. Well, you know I’m in the Big City now, and somehow these neighbor kids know all the main blogs online. And they were in the street yesterday with their jump ropes, basketballs, and street chalk. They were taunting me, and I looked down and saw a chalk image that was supposed to look like me, and an arrow pointing at my house. Made me look like a Cyclops with one big ugly tooth and fire flaming out of my nose. Which made me sick!

It’s hard for me to believe these kids — ranging from 4 to 16 — that have this knowledge of the world’s blogs, wouldn't use it to some good, like day-trading or real estate, aspirations for their future. They’re obviously not dummies. But they use their talents only for nastiness. This is no exaggeration. They’re the same kids who just happened to find the bloated body of another blogger in the river. It said in the paper that “someone” was taunting him prior to him wading into the river, yelling, “Your blog sucks!” And, true, it really wasn’t too good. His best post was on locating your mate’s love-handles. You don’t need a blog to do that.

I wish he were still alive. For his own sake, of course. But also to take the heat off me, since these kids just naturally need someone to taunt. Maybe if we’d talked more, I could’ve taken the heat off him and he off me. He wasn’t a bad guy, but is love-handles something we have trouble finding? It’s one of the first things I see.

So am I a quitter? Has the sun quit? Is the sky still there? The moon and the rainbows, do they quit? The moon, no. Rainbows, yes, rainbows quit fast, bad example. The sun and stars, they’re still in the sky. I watch YouTube videos about the stars and experts have come to the conclusion that for the most part stars are there. Once in a while one gets destroyed.  

The World Comes to My Dog

I thought I knew quite a bit about dog behavior. But I've been having problems. Roughage gets up, goes out, eats, plays, etc., and takes a morning nap. All that's OK, but there's some misbehavior, her avoiding my calls and not coming to me, inside and out. What could be the problem? I keep asking. First, obviously, I blame the dog. But she's such a good dog, could it be I'm doing something wrong?

Different ones stop by the house all the time and they get nothing but loving behavior from her. Just in the last few days there's been several visitors, the postman, milkman, paperboy, freezer repairman, census taker, and brush salesman.

They've been very respectful and admiring of her. She goes to the paperboy OK. He's small and non-threatening and pets her lovingly. "She's quite a corker," he said, putting another chew of gum in the corner of his mouth. Good boy.

That's not to say the others have been hands-off. The postman was very kind, taking the bag off his shoulder so she wouldn't think it was a place for kidnapping dogs, and put his hands down. You think of postmen as being very anti-dog -- and probably many are -- but this guy, I believe he said, has a dog of his own at home, and she even has a French-type name, Fifi, and, he said, she's very gentle with everyone. He had nothing but soothing tones for Roughage, calling her "such a good girl."

The freezer repairman was here next, whose whole life is looking at frozen meat all day, with some of it so thawed that it's lost its shape and become a smelly mess. That'd turn off anybody, so you'd think he might be put off by a dog. Being like meat on the hoof. But I noticed he's able to separate the two in his mind. He reached out in friendship. And Roughage took right to him, as though she wouldn't mind visiting houses around town as the repairman's pet. I like that kind of gentleness. And if I should die, leaving her behind, the repairman would make a good father figure/master.

The census lady also came by. Even though we only do the census every ten years and it's not up for another five years. But she's a conscientious person who thinks there's no reason not to take care of some homes early, since she knows we'll still be here in five years. Pretty good planning on her part. She reads the paper and will know if we die (or move, fat chance), so she could cross us off the list then. Otherwise, when the actual census rolls around, she can concentrate more diligently on the ones who are non-responsive and need extra prompting.

I was a little concerned, since they don't include dogs in the census, but the census lady spent some real quality time with Roughage, even letting her chew meditatively on the corners of her paperwork. She was watching, of course, to make sure she didn't chew into the print area. She kept petting her on the head as she chewed, and it had to be a combination of things, the chewing, salivating, petting, and soft voice, that put Roughage to sleep right there in mid-chew. Very nice.

The brush salesman is someone I don't see much anymore. The days of brush salesmen are passed. And this guy isn't even really the brush salesman, but the son of the guy we used to have. His dad, now passed on, left him the bag and samples and he just shows up once in a while to keep the old traditions alive. He took one of his softest brushes and lovingly passed it through Roughage's fur. That, along with a soothing salesman patter, very soft, she was asleep again, the brush passing rhythmically back and forth. About even put me to sleep!

The milkman is also a very gentle guy. But this particular day he was rushed, and add to that, that I hadn't called in my order, so he had the conundrum of "Do I leave the usual order?" or "Will I get in trouble if I don't bring some special thing that he might have wanted?" He worked it out by arriving late, around 10 a.m., knowing I'd be getting up, me and the new dog. He came in and absolutely fell in love with Roughage, wondering, "What could I give her?" Dogs aren't known to like milk products, but he had a few Milkbones in his pack, and she graciously received one from his hand.

So what about the misbehavior? It can't be from the many human interactions she's had, since they were all great. So I'm blaming myself. Playing with her too hard, play-growling as I do, hiding behind things on my hands and knees and surprising her, and throwing toys and letting her chase after them. She seems to love it but maybe it's too manic for an animal whose mind is not yet fully formed. I promise to do better!