Saturday, May 24, 2014


Well, we are into Memorial Day weekend, and it seems a bit hard to believe that this means we're nearly half-way through the year.  But so it is.

I've been noticing little things this week and maybe, collectively, they'll make up an entire blog post, but then again, maybe not.  Here goes.

On Monday, I discovered that Juno, my newly-adopted kitty, had an eye infection.  So Tuesday was marked by a trip to the vet to obtain an antibiotic eye ointment.  On our 2-month anniversary no less.   (Sigh)

Yes, let's pause on that a bit.  I have to put glop in a cat's eye for the next 10-14 days.  A cat who has only been with me for 2 whole months.

I really didn't think she'd let me do it, quite frankly.  Actually, I thought she might very well attempt to remove one of my own eyes in retribution, but no.

For whatever reason, although she isn't happy about this turn of events, certainly, once she realizes that yes, this is what we're going to do, she holds still and lets me do it.  And then runs and hides under the couch when it's over--something she will also do if she happens to see me coming with the tiny tube of ointment in my hand.  She isn't stupid, after all.

And yes, I totally hide the tube of ointment in my hand, but she can still tell it's there somehow.  I think my gait is slightly more nervous than usual at these particular moments, or I have a slight expression of despair on my face.  Or she has x-ray vision, and she just flat out sees the damn tube in my hand.

Anyway, that kind of trust--her willingness to let me put something in her eye, for heaven's sake--just floors me.  I wouldn't let someone I've only known for two months put stuff in my eye (unless s/he had some kind of medical degree, and even then, I'd be screening certain people out in advance).

The thing I've always liked about animals and children is, they don't over-complicate things.  If they like you, they like you, and they treat you accordingly.  If they don't like you, they give you a wide berth and maybe snarl or urinate in your general direction, so you learn to take a hint.

Speaking of giving things a wide berth, I received a notice that there will be roof-repairs under way at my condo over the next month.  But that isn't what stood out to me.

In this notice, they indicated that there would be Port-A-Johns set up on the property and--get this-- that THESE PORTABLE TOILETS ARE FOR THE USE OF CONSTRUCTION WORKERS ONLY.

I stared at that for a good four minutes.  It was in all caps, bold-type, and the "ONLY" was also italicized.

Do you really think they need to tell people that?  I mean, my first thought upon seeing a Port-A-John is definitely not, "Oh, gee, I wanna go USE that."   So I really can't imagine how (or why) someone sitting in the comfort of his/her own one- or two-bathroom, I mean bedroom, home would suddenly get up and head on outside to use a Johnny-On-the-Spot.  Just because it's there.

I suspected there must be some insurance-based reason for stipulating this so specifically.  Like if you or a loved one is injured using the Port-A-John (I'm picturing the scene from Jurassic Park in which the man is attacked by a T-Rex, for example), you can't sue the contractor.

Or--and this is probably a more likely scenario--if you contract dysentery from using one, the contractor can't be held liable. 

A friend of mine once said that she suspected Port-A-Johns are "worse for women" and that men "probably don't mind them as much."  In response, I pointed out that I don't think anyone ever uses one voluntarily, when other options are available.  I countered with the possibility that men can simply "just go pee wherever, like behind a tree."  She had to admit that this was in fact a distinct possibility, and at that point the conversation kind of trailed off, since both of us had basically reached the limits of our knowledge about this particular subject. 

It's time for me to change the subject now.  I realize that.

I stopped at the liquor store the other day to pick up some beer.  I don't know how other people feel, but I always find the liquor store parking lot an odd and ambivalent place to be.  I always feel relatively certain that some of the people there shouldn't be driving.  Like the guy who brought a six-pack out to his car, downed a couple of cans of it, and then started the car and pulled out into traffic.  At noon.  On a weekday.  (I called the cops about him.  Sorry, dude, but you need to be stopped.)

The other day, I came back out to my car and a woman who had exactly the same car had parked next to me.  She came out and said, "Sorry, hon, we may have the same car, but I definitely have a better license plate."

I don't argue with people in the liquor store parking lot.  I just don't.  And in this case, I suspected she was right, because I'm not ashamed to admit that there really isn't anything particularly wonderful about my license plate.

Although, I did feel a bit sad when she said that, because I always thought it was kind of cool that it has the same letter repeated twice, and that it also has a "Z" in it.  But at the end of the day, I'm not ready to go to the mat with anyone over that, although it did cross my mind to point it out to her--the repetition, and the Z.  (Because the repeated letter is also rather unusual, actually--it isn't an "E" or an "O" or something boring like that.)

But I simply said, "Yes, you do."  The woman explained to me why her license plate was better, and I agreed heartily that I thought this was the way to go through life--with a license plate just like hers.  I made it clear that I thought that she had made the right decision, straight down the line. 

In short, we laughed, we bonded, and when I got into my car, she said, "You GO, Girlfriend--you're awesome."

Well, now, thank you, License-Plate Lady.  That is truly kind of you to say.

And with that, I waved and drove away.

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Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Life is short, but there is always time for courtesy."