Squirrely

Yeah…so…here’s a picture of a squirrel. Hmm. What’s that, you say? What’s so special about a picture of a squirrel? Well, this is not just ANY squirrel. Oh no. This is a very special squirrel. Really? It doesn’t look so special, not at first glance, anyway. But this squirrel IS special…unique, even…because it is the only squirrel in my neighborhood. That’s right. The. Only. Squirrel. I’ve never lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t chock full of squirrels. But my neighborhood had none, not until this little one turned up. Rabbits, yes. I even have a resident garden toad. But no squirrels. It’s been suggested to me that the reason is that there aren’t any mature oak trees around here. And that’s certainly true. This subdivision is only about 12 years old, and the few oak trees that have been planted are still pretty small. So this little beastie is a kind of pioneer (I will now think of her as “Laura Ingalls Wilder Squirrel”), discovering my lovely bird feeder and bird bath as her own little house on the prairie. And just yesterday, I discovered another little friend—either a chipmunk or a gopher—hanging out near the bird feeder. It seems like I’m the neighborhood Snow White, attracting all the woodland creatures to me.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

I’ve been in my new neighborhood a little over six months now, and I feel that I’m slowly getting to know my new neighbors. It’s a quiet neighborhood, this little Legoland subdivision of mine, with most people gone to work during the day, and everyone shut behind their front doors at night. There don’t seem to be a lot of small children around, at least on my block. I think it’s kids who often get people out an moving around in their yards, giving you the chance to meet them. There are lots of people out walking and running, often with dogs, but they usually just smile and wave hello. Alice is often a great introduction, especially when she’s playing with her ball in the yard. People almost always stop to watch her, and we’ve even had a one or two people walk over to see what’s going on. I’ve had the chance to meet a few neighbors, and I’m getting to know their quirks. Starting from the top of the street: The Chicken Lady—she lives across the street and has 4 chickens in her backyard (Two over the limit, she tells me furtively). The Hoarder—he lives next door to The Chicken Lady. He’s an older, retired man who lives by himself. From what I can see of his house, the living room and the garage are stuffed FULL. According to The Chicken Lady, the rest of the house is full too. He comes and goes by the back door, because he can’t get in or out any other way. The Nurse—across the street from The Hoarder, and next door to me is The Nurse. She is married with grown children, and she has told me that she’d like to move away from Wisconsin and go to work in California as a nurse in the prison system. Personally, I’d pick winter weather over prison employment any day. The Nurse has a little white rat terrier dog who barks when you talk to it. They also let the dog run free, and the dog likes to use my yard as an extension of its bathroom. And The Nurse wonders why she didn’t get along with the guy who used to own my house. Huh. The Smokers—next door to The Hoarder is a couple who lives in one side of a duplex. I think they might work from home, at least for part of the day. Every couple of hours (it seems—not that I’m keeping watch), they come out, usually together, and stand on the porch and smoke. The Blinds Lady—she lives in the other side of the duplex next to The Smokers. She’s the Blind”s” Lady because she works for a local window treatment manufacturer. I don’t know much about her, other than she has two grown children and an adorable, friendly golden retriever. The Young Punks—they live on the other side of me. Mommy bought the house for her daughter and the daughter’s boyfriend to live in. Daughter has about as much personality as wallpaper paste. Boyfriend is the typical young guy—likes to shoot things (mostly geese) and drives an enormous diesel engine pickup truck to reinforce his masculinity. It sounds like a semi idling in the driveway when he lets it warm up on winter mornings. They have two dogs, who seem nice but are somewhat untrained. The male dog is “intact” (of course), and he made me nervous at first because didn’t respect the lot lines and would come bounding over to check out Alice. They would also use my front yard as their bathroom (what is with people not keeping an eye on their dogs? Not cool.) I tried to gently hint that they should keep their dogs in the yard, and when that didn’t work, I took to cleaning up after their dogs and leaving it where they would find it. I think they finally got the message.

My imaginary friend Priscilla

One of my childhood games involved assigning personalities to numbers. I had whole stories and relationships worked out between the numbers 1 – 10. 6 and 8 were girls, best friends, who wanted nothing more than to hang out with 10, who was the George Clooney of numbers, cool, kind, and smart. 7 was the rebel loner, who did his own thing and didn’t interact with the others. 6 & 8 didn’t like 9, who was close—so close—to 10, but in the end, just wasn’t the same. 5 had a mad crush on 6, but she found him annoying. She tolerated his friend, 4, but only because he could get her to 10. The whole thing sounds to me now like an extended episode of “Freaks and Geeks”. When I was a little girl, I had curtains in my bedroom that had a ruffled edge. My mother always referred to this style as “Priscilla” curtains, and I always wondered who Priscilla was and why she had curtains named after her. The only Priscillas I knew of were Priscilla Alden and my mother’s cousin Priscilla. Neither of these women seemed to have anything particularly curtain-related going on in their lives. I would lie in my bed, looking at the outline of the ruffle against the backdrop of the window shade behind the curtain. I imagined I could see the silhouettes of faces there—often an old woman or a man with a big nose and beard. I would make up stories about their lives and imagine conversations between them. Having recently bought a new house, I decided to buy some new curtains to replace the faded and fragile drapes the previous owner had left behind. For my bedroom, I turned back to those nostalgic curtains, the Priscillas, which fit well with my old-fashioned furniture. Now again, I can lie in bed and look for friendly faces among the ruffles.

The "Laverne & Shirley" Paradox

Not too long ago, I was watching an episode of “Scrubs” while getting ready for work. “Scrubs” was not a TV show I watched regularly when it was first on, but I find the reruns pretty funny. In this episode, one doctor greets another doctor, calling him Beardface. The man turns around, revealing that he was a big, bushy beard. Rather crossly, he replies, “It’s Beard-fah-SAY!” And for some reason, I found this joke hilarious. For several days, every time I logged in to Facebook, I’d think, “It’s Fah-SAY-book!” and crack myself up. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I like to call the “Laverne & Shirley” Paradox. What is that, you ask? It’s the state where you find a TV sitcom rerun hilarious, where before you either ignored the show, or found it unfunny. What causes it? I think it has to do with expectations. When I sit down at night to watch TV, I want to be entertained. I’m tired, I’ve worked all day, and I’ve got 8 million things I should be doing, so if I’m going to sit down and spend my time with TV, then I certainly want it to be worth my while. But during the day, or on the weekend, it’s a different story. I just want something silly to amuse me. So I’m more willing to spend 20 minutes on Scrubs or The Brady Bunch or almost anything that isn’t an infomercial. And with lightened expectations, I can find the humor among the silliness. Why Laverne & Shirley? Because my sister, so many years ago, mentioned in passing how funny she found the show while she was doing housework.

For Sparky, Who Is Bored with This Blog

It’s been six months since I turned my life upside down—since I quit my job, sold my house, and moved to a new city. And started all over again.

So how am I doing? Good. Things are much better. I told someone that it feels, in a way, like I’ve been released from prison, and I’m learning how to live a normal life. And let me tell you, it’s pretty nice not having to feel stressed out all the time; not feel scared, paranoid, exhausted, or angry. ALL. THE. TIME.

The transition was stressful, for sure. I knew right away that I would be happy in my new job, and I was thrilled to find new coworkers I liked and respected. But not knowing if my house would sell, moving into a dumpy apartment with no furniture, and most especially, having to leave Alice behind (even temporarily), all of that was difficult.

But I’m through that part now, settled in a brand new home. Finding a house to buy was an ordeal worthy of its own blog entry. I’m slowly, slowly unpacking, finding ways to fit my belongings into this new space. And when I’m content with that, I hope to find the time to explore this new place I’m in.

Hoe day?

Pizza Boy, that's hoe day!

I do declare

I hereby declare a moratorium on the following words and/or phrases:

"a splash of color"
"pop" as in, "the turquoise belt really makes her outfit pop"
anything "mama" like "blogging mama" or "crafty mama" or "wine mama". Enough with the self-involved mama worship.

Thank you for your attention. You may now resume your normal activities.