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Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Ghetto Lego
Yesterday our anticipated building boom got under way by 7:30 A.M. Whatever you may have heard about lazy minority persons, none of it applies to the fellows across the street building cement block walls. Without appearing to hurry, gracefully, efficiently, singing, laughing, calling greetings to passers by, the cement block workers put four walls under the house-to-be. First a man arrived in a car driven by a woman, a car also containing a tiny boy. The man got out, began to walk the site, checking out tools and materials. Directly behind him the tiny boy walked in over-sized teddy bear slippers. This child obviously jumped out of bed to help take Daddy to work. Each small gesture, the exact way of walking, the pause, the hand to the chin, all of it was copied precisely by tiny boy behind big man. Soon two more men pulled up in a white truck. The car with woman and boy left. Immediately another truck drove onto the space...two more men. The men unloaded cement tubs, buckets, hoses, electric cords, tools, wheel barrows, a surveyor's stand-up siting tool, and a cement mixer. Then three men began distribution of blocks around the foundation as the fourth man started to mix cement. By the time cement was ready, blocks were in place and all four guys got busy building the walls. From time to time throughout the day one man made more cement while others distributed more blocks. Once the owner showed up, plans in hand. They all sat on the grass and watched the plans as Mr. Owner explained what went where. This must have been a mere courtesy since the workmen already had part of the job done. At lunch time, two men went away in a truck and two stayed onsite eating home sandwiches and drinking from water bottles. By 4:30 P.M. work ceased for the day. All tools went back onto the trucks and left with the men.
This morning the cement crew awakened me...7:30 again. A good bunch.
Yesterday afternoon I sat on my porch watching the job for a while. My street and sidewalk are always busy during the day and every passerby commented that the new house is a harbinger of better things to come for 38th Street. Even my taciturn neighbor, a person who says as little as possible and avoids having to look people in the eye, he came out onto his porch, watched the work, turned to me, beamed, and said, "Good," turned and went back into his house.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Home Decor
Lydia, kids, and I visited the largest furniture emporium in the mid-Atlantic region. I wanted various items likely to make my crazy ghetto domicile more habitable. An item which I did not buy, but which lingers in memory as a good thing was a painting of pansies. Loved it in the store, but doubted it had much longevity over a sofa...too slick. Since then I have thought about what might be a good idea over the dining room sofa. The room has pale beige carpet, a round antique oak table, and a deep red sofa. Also, this is the location of the bigger TV and video game things. What could go on the wall over that sofa and be so wonderful that I might not tire of looking at it?
OK. Here's what I think...if I purchase a poster-sized version of this photo from Shutterfly, frame and hang it, I could enjoy it forever. Lydia took this picture at the playground the other day. Yes, Sadie played in a lovely long dress; Sadie is Lydia's little Barbie doll-child. Sadie, in the picture, twiddles her ears with both hands, an unconscious signal to Mommy that baby needs a nap.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
More Progress
Yesterday through the fog of misery re. digestive disturbance and through the bustle of Lydia and the kids here and doing things, I just barely managed to be aware of big trucks leaving and arriving across the street. Once, I heard and felt a tremendous thud but didn't go to see, because I was otherwise occupied.
This morning while out with Pork Chop, I noticed great big piles of cement blocks and a small mountain of sand beside the new foundation. Looks like construction work getting ready to happen.
This reminded me about the approaching eviction of section eight tenants from the yellow apartments, whenever that's supposed to occur. Yesterday as Lydia and the kids went home, I was out on the porch, as usual, throwing kisses. Yes, I do look like a nut, but so what? Anyway, I remember that while I was out on my porch, a pickup truck backed up to the door of the first apartment building. People upstairs handed down items filling the truck with mattresses and chairs and tables, etc. Progress. I expect that police may have to force some apartment inmates to the curb, but at least one group left peacefully in advance of the move-out date. As a matter of fact, I think that whole place was quieter this week. Maybe knowing that they must all find somewhere else to live undermines the usual gusto with which those folks assault their environment.
It's all good...construction materials arrive, bad guys leave.
Sick
Last week all week was too hectic. I had things to do in the daytime and then each evening I went for 5 hours of mediation training. Then I came home and couldn't sleep as usual...tireder, tireder, and more tired as the week wore on. But it was all interesting and I wanted to do it, so I was pretty cheery.
Friday night marked the end of that particular mediation course. Class ended early because of a power outage...we couldn't see to read or even to practice mediation. As I sat waiting my turn in the round robin mediation, my stomach began to hurt. Not much, but it hurt.
Not having taken time to shop all week, I buzzed through the ghetto grocery on my way home, had to get fresh veggies, etc. That took unnecessary time because of problems with the machines at the checkout. Eventually, though, I got home, unloaded my purchases, and took Pork Chop for a pre-bedtime walk.
I climbed into my fabulous new bed, sighed, and couldn't relax. My stomach hurt. Finally, about time to get up, I slept for a few minutes.
Lydia called and asked if Benny could come over and of course I said yes, but I was sick...not just hurting, also nauseated. Had a headache, too, that just about blinded me. Well, Lydia and the kids showed up. They were no trouble at all to entertain because Benny spent the whole time playing Donkey Conga on the Game Cube.
Lydia had a craft project that kept her in the work room upstairs most of the time. She closed the door to keep the baby with her. After a while she finished. So cute. Her project was four baby outfits, each with a dress, matching toy, hat and scarf. Her friend asked that she contribute items to a craft sale at the Catholic school.
About dinner time, they went home. Right away I walked Pork Chop and then went back to bed. Felt quite sensationally terrible. My stomach REALLY hurt. I was hot and then cold and then hot and then cold, back and forth and back and forth. Suddenly I knew that I was soon going to throw up and had better get something to throw up into. I rushed downstairs and got a plastic bucket from the laundry, took it to bed with me, climbed in under the covers, then had to sit up and urp. So hideous when that happens and I haven't eaten or drunk anything. Dry heaves. That went on all night, diminishing in intensity about the time the birds outside started to sing. What a night.
Pork Chop felt sorry for me. Sat up on the bed sorrowfully watching me writhe and heave into the bucket, then set the bucket down, lie down and groan.When I laid down, she snuggled next to me, put her little nose on me and groaned in sympathy. Misery had company even if that was only a kind-hearted chihuahua.
So about 7:00 A.M. I took Pork Chop for a little walk. That would have lasted longer but the big black stray cat crossed our path and Pork Chop went berserk, had to be hauled indoors ranting and raving. Now I sit in front of the computer carefully sipping a cup of tea.
This is Sunday but I think I'll spend it back upstairs. One of those TV preachers can give me the word today as I attend church from my extra soft bed.
The only good thing is my new bed. A couple of weeks ago Lydia lured me out on a shopping expedition. Not setting out to do so, I did buy a new bed complete with mattress and box springs. Kind of funny that this took so long. My old bed was purchased exactly forty years ago. Well,the new bed finally arrived on Thursday and it is too wonderful to be true. Like sleeping on the proverbial cloud. It is the best bed that Nature's Balance makes. I couldn't believe I spent that much money on myself. Wow. I did not realize that a mattress could cost thirty-seven hundred dollars. Worth every penny. Now that I seem to be no-kidding sick, I at least have a comfy spot in which to suffer.
Whether this is germ-related or arises from a week of doing too much and letting myself get overtired, I have no idea. I know that most of Thursday night I spent madly searching for paperwork necessary to do my taxes. While doing that, I worked myself into a tizzy, finally certain that my taxes this year would force me to shell out mega-thousands which I would rather spend on something more fun. By the time I arrived at H&R Block on Friday morning, I was crying, frantic and angry. Hmmmmm....the more I think about it, the more I believe that my taxes made me sick.
Friday, April 15, 2005
I HATE THEM ALL
Tax Day in the U.S.A. Whatever may be the extent of my willingness to share with the unfortunate on other days, there ain't none of that there today. Not any. At all. GRRRRRR. No sad sack, public assistance-dependent drech better walk in front of MY Honda today. Something about involuntary charity makes me cranky.
Once a few years ago I sat down and toiled through the numbers until I learned that the various forms of taxation at various levels of government take fifty-one cents out of every dollar I make. Which means that until sometime in July I work for others and do not keep one cent.
Knowledge like this should not affect a person extremely comfortable in every way. It's not like the government by taxing me has implicitly condemned me to homelessness under a bridge overpass, pathetically cherishing my few possessions in a tattered garbage sack. Absolutely not. Many times both friends and foes have drummed into my head that I have "everything".
And it's not that I usually kick elderly, poor, uneducated, helpless souls in passing and laugh at their plight. On the contrary, I practically force charity on the needy. Dang, last Saturday I made a total fool of myself being charitable. Rain hammered down as I drove into the parking lot at the ghetto grocery. Getting out of my car, I noticed a very old woman, supported by a wobbling cane, shakily tottering across the street toward the store door. She was soaked to the bone. She nearly fell several times and recovered after perilous almost disastrous attempts to keep her feet under her. It was awful to watch. I waited. When she reached the shelter of the roof overhang, I said to her, "Hi, I'm going to do my shopping and then I'll wait for you. When you're done, I will take you back to your home. No way you are going to try to walk back home in this downpour trying to carry groceries."
She was horrified, clearly afraid of me. There I was, a strange bossy white woman in a goofy sweatshirt outfit telling her that I was going to put her in my car and take her...."home"? There she was a poor, crippled, extremely elderly black woman, a helpless person. She glared at me and yelled, "NO! Yo' AIN'!!"
Consternation. What to do or say? I tried again. "No, no. Nothing to be afraid of. You see, I'm just worried about how you're all wet already and having a hard time walking through the rain and water puddles. Let me give you a ride, OK?"
"NO! YOU LEAVE ME ALONE! I can walk. GO AWAY!!"
To say that I was horrified, put it mildly. I felt that under the circumstances, to allow her to try to totter home with that cane and a bag of groceries, through a blinding downpour...it would be to let her metaphorically run over a cliff. She was afraid of me, though. No sense in trying to talk any more.
I did my shopping, approached the out-door. There stood the security guard, a nice-looking elderly black man in a uniform. I thought, "Aha. She wouldn't be afraid of HIM." So I asked if I could have a word with him and told him about the crippled old lady's plight. I asked if he would be willing to put her into a taxi for her trip home. He agreed immediately. I pressed a twenty dollar bill on him, as he seemed reluctant to take my money. "No, no," I remonstrated, "this is something God shoved down MY throat. No reason for youu to take the hit. You just call a cab and talk her into a safe ride and I'll be relieved and thankful." I pointed out the little old lady to him. He nodded and got out his cell phone, waved me goodby.
Yeah. I know I'm arrogant and crazy. But you can see that ordinarily I'm pretty soft-hearted toward those truly in need.....although not today. Not on the day when government shoves me up against the wall, pulls out a gun and says, "Hand over your purse." If that old woman crossed my path today, the most she'd get out of me would be....uh...I'd stick my head out the car window and bark at her.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Clinging To The Ghetto By A Toenail
Last night I poodled around on the internet looking up recent local court cases having to do with persons resident in the yellow apartments across the street. Gotta keep track of their latest "hits".
Since I only know those folks by the nicknames they call each other, I used their address as a way to identify the parties whose criminal careers I wished to follow. That was all entirely as I expected and the search concluded in a hurry.
Then I clicked around on the Norfolk city site and found histories and profiles for each neighborhood.
Shock. Surprise. Astonishment. My address is not in Kensington as I have assumed. I officially reside in Colonial Place, the historic district...the high rent area. How far into the historic area am I? Not very. The line runs down the middle of 38th Street. Across the street, the yellow apartments, the house being built, the house in rehab, the red house waiting for demolition, all those places are the leading edge of Kensington.
Another previously unknown fact; Kensington is part of Park Place, the major rehab area in Norfolk right now. Park Place has several little sub-neighborhoods of which Kensington is just one.
The city poured millions into Park Place in the last five years and more is on the way. The elementary school and the library are brand new. Outright grants and low cost loans are available to anyone willing to undertake improvements. In every block on every street, homes and businesses are getting a face lift. A homeowners' association organized to buy properties no one wanted to improve. These all are in process of repair. Each week one or more show up in the real estate section of the Saturday paper...sold to**** by the Homeowners' Association for ****$.
I thought I lived in that section, but no. Crazy as my house is, I find that I really live in the rich people section...by half a street's width. Kind of makes me sad. Oddly, I have begun to enjoy thinking of myself as a tough old ghetto rat.
The Biker Chickhuahua
We finally visited Pet Smart in search of clothing for Pork Chop. The selection was not great, just a few faux bowling shirts, etc. I settled on a chihuahua-sized Harley Davidson biker jacket.
"WHY?" you ask.
"Well," I answer, "because that's all they had which fit her. Also, it looks funny. Plus, she likes it."
Today, a rainy one, was the kind of weather when native Virginians wear parkas and shiver, acting as if they faced Alaskan winter. I, of course, thought it was a pretty nice day and did not wear a jacket of any kind. Pork Chop, a frequent shiverer, welcomed the warm Harley duds. So it's all good.
After our shopping expedition during which I also bought a couple of Grandma rocking chairs for on the porch, Pork Chop went home with Lydia and the kids. I had to attend mediation class again, and Porky McChopchop does not appreciate being left alone for four and one half hours.
After class tonight, I stopped at the Netzer domicile to pick up my mutt. Dog and kids were rolling and frolicking on the bed in Sadie's room, kids in their pajamas. Oh, the shrieking and laughing. The baby chased Porky who burrowed under the covers. Happy, happy, joy, joy.
I broke up the party and dragged the D.O.G. home to her quiet, childless home on 38th Street. She has made a nest in an afghan on the sofa and is asleep after her hectic day of shopping and playing.
Lydia's working on a rap re. Pork Chop. So far it goes like this;
"Yo, yo, yo,
I'm Porky McC.,
And I'm a D.O.G."
OK, that's not a long enough rap, but every masterpiece begins somewhere.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Urban Wildlife
If this were out in the wild wilds somewhere...instead of the urban wildness of 38th Street... the noise occurring outside under my car would scare me badly. Dreadful screaching, caterwauling, yowling, wailing. Somewhat like a baby on steroids and filled with rage. Pork Chop reacts like a fire siren. Vaguely I ascribe the noise to sea gulls. This close to the ocean we have them everywhere all the time; in the grocery store parking lot, by the dumpster at McDonalds, carrying on in trees around my house like all the other birds...I'm used to that loud mewling. Gradually, though, I come to the conclusion that Pork Chop and I are being serenaded by cats, cats doing a bit of reproductive activity. Why do they need to make this much noise about it? And whatever happened to the tradition of cats doing this at night under the moon in a back alley? Don't they realize it's 9:00 A.M.?
Pork Chop bristles with indignation. Pork Chop yells, "You out there! Stop that cat squalling! I won't have it! I'll bite your ankle! I'm comin' out there. Don't you MAKE me come out there!..."
The cats don't care.
They rave on and on in their frenzy of springtime reproductive enthusiasm. Yeesh. Cats.
Now, dogs....
I don't usually have trouble with neighbor dogs owing to the local leash law. Dogs are not allowed to run free. I have worried about the likelihood of a pitbull on a leash passing Pork Chop and me on the sidewalk and deciding to take some weight off Pork Chop the fastest way. Hasn't happened yet, quite, not exactly.
Yesterday while out doing our trip around the neighborhood, Pork Chop and I noticed a big dog a fair distance up the sidewalk, dog with a collar not attached to a leash and a human. Just running around having a great time. We saw the dog. The dog saw us. Oh, dear. It bounded toward us. I scooped up Pork Chop who barked bravely, but her little heart beat a thousand times/minute.
I thought, "Here's where I get chewed by a dog that really wants to eat Pork Chop." Yikes. The dog was almost upon us. Terrified, I yelled in my most teacherly teacher voice, "NO!!! YOU GO HOME!!!"
The dog stopped and considered, turning it's head this and that way, "She can't stop me. She's only a little old lady and I'm a pit bull. She's holding a nice sized snack for a dog like me. I want that snack." Dog came forward.
I yelled,"NO!! Go HOME!!"
Dog reconsidered.
I stomped my foot and roared in the loudest voice I can muster, "NO!! NO!! YOU. GO. HOME."
The dog turned and ran away. Amazing. Thankful moment. Your ordinary pit bull is not so easily diverted from its intended victim.
Thundering Herd Of Progress
News flash! The yellow apartments are for sale. Workmen toiled there every day last week, cleaning, planting, painting, fixing. All spiffed up, now, complete with curb appeal. The natives, of course, are as third world as ever. Their landlord told me that he has had all he can tolerate. Inmates received notice and are due for eviction in a week and a half. How about that?
News flash 2! In one of the empty lots a back hoe dug place for a foundation. Yesterday that foundation poured out of a cement truck.
News flash 3! My side of this block got new sidewalk. Sadly, the mean and pompous job foreman refused to allow Benny to write his name in wet cement. "Absolutely not," he growled. "We're trying to beautify Norfolk."
"I don't think so," responded I. "If you were really trying to make Norfolk prettier, you'd leave town." Yes, childish of me, but there stood Benny hopefully waiting with a little stick in his hand. He just wanted to write his name, for crying out loud.
Then I reminded the foreman that the last time sidewalk was poured, he allowed neighborhood children to draw naked women in the wet cement in front of my house. He had no reply for that patent truth. Just stuck to his original NO.
Next I accused him of reverse racism, picking on little innocent Benny because he's white. The NO lived on.
Finally, I said, "If that little boy was YOUR grandson, you'd let him write his name in the cement."
He thought about that and sighed, "OK, OK, just wait to do it until we leave. Then I can say I didn't let you do it."
HA!
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Super Hyper Morbid Obesity
I'm about 'fed' up with fat...intentional pun. How long can a person watch TV without seeing something about fat? My word. Last night relentless fat, fat, fat bombarded the screen. The lowest point took the shape of a pile of fresh, bloody, newly excised fat out of someone's body on a plastic surgery program. OY! I mean OY!!!!! I nearly wore out the clicker trying to avoid fat.
Just before I went to sleep, Discovery Channel took a 350 pound woman through a year of her life. The show began with bariatric surgery. The rest of it dealt with her recovery and subsequent diet/exercise program. Apparently the threshold for monster fatness begins at 100 pounds overweight. Now, the subject of this program was a fairly tall woman. I watched her carefully and concluded that I look as fat as she does. Also, my health is as bad as hers was. Exactly like that. Can hardly get anything done for needing to sit and catch my breath. So, I'm probably hyper super morbidly obese, too, although I weigh a couple of hundred pounds less than she did. I'm short enough that less fat produces the bad result.
Am I sufficiently shocked to start dieting? No, no. Nothing crazy like that. However, I might consider lifestyle modification. After surgery, her stomach only held 1/2 cup of anything before feeling miserably full. In a month of eating small amounts, she lost the first 70 pounds and began to breathe better. She could walk to the mailbox, for example.
I may just be willing to restrict myself to 1/2 cup-sized complete meals. Eat whatever I would usually eat in 1/2 cup amounts per meal. Also, I am willing to double the number of times/day I take Pork Chop for a walk. Further, I consent to weeding the flowers each day. Finally, I will drink water...at least a little of it.
Why couldn't I exist on 1/2 cup-sized meals? Pork Chop's diet meals are 1/4 cup total mass. She's mad about it, though. And sad. Last night all night her little tummy growled. Uh, wait a minute. We do not have parity. Pork Chop weighs about 6 pounds and eats 1/4 cup-sized meals. Given that ratio, I would have to eat meals weighing, what...er...running the numbers, here...6+ POUNDS?!??!?!?!?! Suddenly I do not support Pork Chop's right to whine. My goodness. The dog is gorging. Swinishly gorging.
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