|
vertigo912
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: lorilei
Interests: words | music | InDesign | the first amendment | deutsch| cooking | olli my cat | LIFE magazine
Expertise: paper-rock-scissors
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Media
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/12/2003
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| The Questionable Ice Cream Truck
Finally! Summer! And fleets of ice cream trucks flooding the streets!
I'm torn between nostalgia and being creeped out.
Is it just me, or are these twinkle-star-tuned trucks always big vans sans-windows, driven by bearded ex-cons!?
A small sacrifice to slurp a Rocket Pop...
| | |
| TributeSpring, 1997
After tucking us kids into bed, he'd spread his textbooks across the kitchen table; notepads full of mathematical scribbles, hardcover books on refrigeration or electrical wiring. I barely had my driver's license-- a junior in high school. And here was Dad, starting his first semester of college.
Sure, he'd started a class or two when he was young, but the Kentuky coal mines seduced him with promise of fast cash. So he'd packed his bags and left school in the dust. He's always regretted the decision, but it was ultimately a good thing he wandered down to the Blue Grass state, because that's where he met and married Betty Jo. Soon after came the babies; then the cancer diagnosis. After chemotherapy and years in remission, he finally won that battle. But with a family to raise, it was easier to take the factory job. He never had the chance to go back to school.
Eleven years ago, his factory offered to pay for courses, should employees want to dedicate time.
Spring, 2008
One class per semester. One night per week. For 11 years he hit the books, aced those tests and posted his A+ papers alongside us kids' report cards on the fridge.
On Thursday his hard work paid off: summa cum laude, or with a 4.0 GPA, Dad marched across that stage to receive his hard-earned Associate's Degree. Luckily I had the camera to hide behind, because the tears welled up in my eyes.
Do they make bumper stickers that say, "PROUD DAUGHTER OF HONOR ROLL STUDENT?" Ha.
I am so proud of him.
| | |
| New Addition to the Household?For weeks now, the shrill siren that is my downstairs neighbor, has pierced my precious sleep with her tirades. "Get the f*ck off, or I'll kill you g*dd*mmit!" Her generic, albeit direct demands have led me to grabbing the phone and nearly dialing up the cops on numerous occasions.
Problem was, I wasn't sure if she were "talking" to:
a: a pet
b: a child
c: a boyfriend
When the weather warmed last week, she opened her windows to offer me stereo sound of her violent verbal outburst. "Get the f*ck off, or I'll kill you g*dd*mmit," warbled in the background, and I saw the victim of her diatribe sitting in the apparently verboten windowsill: a little calico with the biggest green eyes. This may sound all "horse-whisperer-like," but I thought the little animal was begging for help.
A week later, incessant meowing from outside pulled me from my desk. When I walked around the house to investigate, I found that green-eyed kitty, half-starved, just a saggy bag of bones poking through skin. She purred when I approached her, wrapping her skinny frame around my ankles. I assumed, she'd escaped to freedom, then wanted back inside.
So I tried to return her to her onerous owner. I knocked on the woman's door several times that day. And though she was home; no answer. Dusk fell, so the furball curled up on the welcome mat and waited. The next morning, I went downstairs to find the kitty still balled up in the doorframe. I knocked on the door again, pounded on the window -- and while a silhouette actually came to the door this time, still, no answer. Her television is on full blast, I hear her stomping around below. I know she is there. So I left a note.
Three days later, still no answer.
I realized then, that the bleating beast had tossed out this kitten to starve.
Such a loving creature, who purrs while nibbling her cat chow, who rolls over to get her soft belly sratched, who tickles my toes with her whiskers when I walk into the room. For now, I've taken her in-- kept her separate from Olli in the bedroom, as he's not too impressed with this sprite newcomer. He sniffs, then runs away. She, on the other hand, hisses and growls. Ultimately, I'm not sure what to do about the situation -- if the two felines will ever get used to each other. If so, I'd welcome the sweet addition to the household.
While I'm thankful I could "save" the kitten, I am filled with disgust for the woman downstairs. I wish there were charges to bring against her for this heartless act of cruelty. Hate is such a strong word... but when it comes to sentencing defenseless beings to death... well, I'll just leave it at that.
****
Mini Update: After consulting "How to Introduce New Cat to Household" sites... whew, what a process involving the following but not limited to: quaratining one in a room for a few days, giving them matching rastafarian dreads, and feeding them on opposite sides of the locked door, so they associate eachother's scent with something pleasant. I attempted the latter. Alas, Olli fled. Anybody have suggestions? I'm afraid to go through this weeks-long process and get atttached to the little chatterbox (she chirps a reply when asked questions, true story) only to find she doesn't get along with the orange furball afterall...
| | |
| Shake, Rattle and RollWhen the windows rattled at 4:37 this morning, I thought it was just rain was pounding down. My half-asleep investigation ultimately led me into the kitchen where I deduced, "It must be the refrigerator rumbling."
Turns out, my fridge wasn't culprit; rather, a 5.4 earthquake.
What the-- an earthquake in the Midwest!?
Causes haven't been reported yet, but the quake's epicenter was in Bellmont, Il-- a three-hour drive from here and 160 miles southwest from Indianpolis. Did you Indy-natives feel it?
'twas no California Fault Line Quake, but creepy nevertheless...
edit: I can't get the song, "I feel the Earth. Shake. Under my feet..." out of my head... What's driving me nuts, though is-- who sings it!!?
edit2: Ahh... 'twas a "typo" in my head. The real lyric is "I feel the Earth. Move. Under my feet," which reveals Carole King as singer. | | |
| Little Blue BookJust as I noticed all 24 pages of my passport were plastered with stamps of entry, exit, re-entry, I also noted it was nearly expired.
Ten years. For 10 years this blue-jacketed booklet has accompanied me on my travels... or more accurately been my permission to exist in another country. Ah, my first trip to Germany with the Deutsch Klub; 17 years old and a future to sculpt. Memories (or lack thereof?) thanks to alcohol ueber-consumption couldn't tarnish the love at first sight. Like my intrigue for travel, my passport stuck with me. Eventually my foreign work visas, allowing me residency, got wallpapered in the back. For the past two years, border guards had eyed me, as if I weren't the long-haired lass smiling on the front page. I guess I wasn't anymore, so I don't blame them.
It's vintage-- back when pass photos were black & white and sans embedded computer chip. What an oddly heartwrenching deed it was to package and express mail it to the U.S. Department of State for renewal. I've felt naked these past three weeks without it.
But today the official envelope arrived.
Now I've got a Homeland-Security-Approved booklet, featuring a new four-color photo and electronic identity chip, fully loaded with quotes from our Forefathers and bald eagles in flight. I secretly wonder if the electronic chip is linked into a GPS system, or bugged for our safety to monitor our patriotic tendencies.
Regardless, they were kind enough to return the old booklet with two holes jabbed through the front, and an "INVALID" stamp across my signature. Ah, another building block for the scrapbook-to-be. As I sign my old name in new ink, I wonder where the next decade will lead...27 years old and a future to sculpt.
| | |
|
