Sigh. It's one of those days.
The actual bugs are still around. Stepping up the fight. Got some Hot Shot no pest strips. These seem to have inherited the market after Shell was no longer doing its No Pest Strips thing. I've used them for several years now, waiting to distribute them around the house until the last thing before locking the house to head up north. Yes, I do read the labels. Not doing that this year, obviously. The plan now, in order to try to kill the bugs without killing us, is to remove everything I expect to need for the next week from my bedroom, set one inside the bed frame and one out in the open, and close the door for the week. Hmmm, shut the air vent too. No need to cool that room. Or swap air.
I'll be camping in the living room. The sofa is comfy enough. My chair, however, will get placed inside my bedroom. I'm sure some bugs have followed me to it, so I'll live with my camping chair for that week. Footrest ideas, anyone?
Spent some time on Wikipedia. On a hunch, after squishing several bugs this morning and getting bloody smears, I decided to research bed bugs. Everything fits. They do, at least, repeatedly assure us they are NOT associated with filth. Whew! Doesn't help us get rid of them, however. I am thoroughly impressed with how difficult is it going to be. Ordered some plastic zipper bags for blankets on line. They'll be needed. ANother option for the whole room is raising its temperature to over 115 degrees. That likely happened previous summers, back when we didn't have any of the critters to kill. The site warned that many attempts to raise house temperatures that high have resulted in house fires. Must not have been in the Phoenix area. Just open a window....
Other things are "buggy," in a non-invertebrate kind of way. I got a check for just over $5 from Walmart earlier this week. Two choices: mail it north to my credit union, or try to cash it at Walmart. Since I was there picking up the pest strips this afternoon, I stopped and asked them could I cash it in the store? Sure I can... for a $4 charge. Yeah..... forget it. I'm glad they caught their error in charging me for a prescription, but it's going in the mail. This is beyond stupid.
I have been awaiting an order from China. It's a pair of face masks, and SpeedPAK is handling it. I've been tracking it, following it from outgoing customs to incoming customs, to a location in Ca, to Tolleson, AZ. Then on June 9, it allegedly landed in our local post office. With everybody else, that means it arrives here the next day. Not so much.
I chatted with our mailman a few days back, and he assured me they were not just holding on to it because its deadline for delivery is still a few weeks out, but in the previous three days (from when we talked) they'd had package deliveries dropped at the post office each equal to one week's worth. So I still should see it soon.
Soon came and went.
I called the post office to try to locate it by its tracking number. First she assured me that tracking information from another company does not necessarily match actual package whereabouts. But I could give her the number to check? About 30 digits later she informed me that was a bogus number. I contacted the sender, letting (him?) know the situation, and also telling (him?) that I would wait until the actual expected last day of delivery before complaining to eBay.
Still not satisfied, I looked up SpeedPak and read their customer comments. According to many, once inside the US, the post office gives it their own tracking number. However, there is no way to get that number from the post office so it could still be anywhere. Or nowhere.
Back to Walmart for a bit, I also looked for glycerine and alcohol, what the interwebs recommend for tanning snake skins. Yes, TP is back in stock, meat is on the shelves, even bleach is abundant. But neither of those items which I wanted so Rich could tan that skin. I guess it'll soon be "Rattler in the Freezer."
Sigh..............
Thursday, June 18, 2020
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
Rattler In The Fridge
Yep, that's right. there is a rattlesnake in my fridge.
When I woke up this morning and came out into the living room, Steve pointed to where Rich was sleeping and told me he'd had a rough night. Sometime after I went to sleep, a friend had called him to say he couldn't leave his house. There was a rattlesnake in front of his door. Since he was less than 2 miles away, Rich went to the rescue. I'm still waiting for him to wake up - it being 2 PM now - to fill me in on the details.
Rich, like all my kids and the daycare kids, was raised to not fear snakes, to watch them eat in their cages, to handle them if they were comfortable doing so. (Yes, the parents were informed.) I grew up in northern Minnesota where there were no poisonous snakes. The closest known ones were rattlers up in the bluffs along the Mississippi around Red Wing. Living around lakes as I did, it was a common childhood activity to chase garter snakes and try to catch them. They were safe, fast and twisty through the grasses, and my older brother did a much better job of catching them, never letting me forget it. No, he wasn't any meaner than any other older brother, but if the subject came up, or a chase was in order, we both knew where he stood. But I did manage to catch a few.
I have a clear memory from when we lived on the resort of my dad killing a large pine snake. It was several feet long and wider than my (now) wrist, and committed the capitol offense, while hunting rats and other rodents, of being able to scare away our customers. It didn't, it just might have. Daddy took a long 4x4 and pounded the thing until it finally quit moving, then removed all evidence of its presence, scolding us into never telling the customers of its existence. As we had a few farm animals up on the hill behind the cabins, along with a corn crib, it had been doing us a favor. But that didn't matter.
I've always resented its fate.
Once my kids were growing, I acquired some old aquariums with secure and weighted lids, and caught a couple of garter snakes to keep. Eventually they were joined in other cages by a red rat snake, a corn snake, a baby bull snake, even a reticulated python. I'd get minnows for the garters, and raised mice for the others. With my supervision, everybody at least got introduced to them, and many of the kids argued over who got to hold a snake next. The watched skin sheddings and felt the shed skins. When the family relocated to Georgia back in '78, long before security at airports got paranoid, I relocated them in my carry-on luggage inside a stiff tube that was securely tied inside a pillowcase, with no chance of escaping. (I always wondered if whoever was looking at the x-rays of purses and cases was snoozing or just didn't care about several very long and mobile spines.)
So, no fear. I'd made a point over the years of reassuring both kids and parents that nothing poisonous would ever be part of the menagerie.
Once in Georgia, I had to add another lesson to snake education 101. Georgia had at least four poisonous snakes, and our recently built neighborhood with lots of green space was likely territory for them. While never seeing water moccasins or rattlers, we did see a baby coral snake, and once after its beheading, touch a copperhead. Each has its tale.
Our doctor's office had an entry through a terrarium, via a concrete path with railings over water and plants below and to the sides. Doors on both ends. Can't remember if they had turtles or not, though that - or fish - was a likely reason Richard spent his waiting time out there. He was under strict orders to never leave the path nor touch anything. He would have been climbing around otherwise. Within a couple minutes he returned, asking how to tell the difference between a coral snake and the king snake that mimics it. I told him the rhyme, red touches yellow, can kill a fellow, red touches black, poison does lack. I'd never needed to know it but memorized it years before because it was a simple rhyme, and the only way it did rhyme was the correct combination of how the colored bands on the snakes were laid out. Foolproof.
Rich went back to his terrarium, then returned within a minute announcing there was a coral snake in there. I went to check. Sure enough, about 6" long and half a pencil wide, there was indeed a baby coral snake. I went to tell the woman at the check in desk, and she totally blew me off. I repeated the rhyme, to show we knew whereof we spoke. She wasn't about to hear it. I told her I hoped they had some antivenom in stock, then returned to the waiting room to keep the kids in check. Needless to say, Rich was forbidden back inside its space.
The copperhead was a temporary gift from a neighbor, who happened to also have originated in the small town in Minnesota where I was from. His parents owned a restaurant where our parents took us out to eat on a couple occasions. This snake was killed in his back yard in Georgia, since Johnny had two kids of his own to protect, not to mention all the neighborhood kids who wandered through everybody's yard while playing. When I heard about it, I asked could he bring it - without the head - to my house for all the kids to see. We all needed to be informed as to what to avoid. Learning that not all snakes were to be feared, they now needed to learn which were.
So last night, armed with all that experience, Rich went off to the rescue of his friend. The result is a rattler in my fridge. Dead. On ice, in a beverage cup with the lid on. Beautiful. It's a fairly young one, greyer than I'd thought it would be, four or 5 rattles at first glance, just over a foot long and finger width in its middle, not recently fed.
I'm sure he has plans for it, or at least parts of it, but I'm waiting to hear.
When I woke up this morning and came out into the living room, Steve pointed to where Rich was sleeping and told me he'd had a rough night. Sometime after I went to sleep, a friend had called him to say he couldn't leave his house. There was a rattlesnake in front of his door. Since he was less than 2 miles away, Rich went to the rescue. I'm still waiting for him to wake up - it being 2 PM now - to fill me in on the details.
Rich, like all my kids and the daycare kids, was raised to not fear snakes, to watch them eat in their cages, to handle them if they were comfortable doing so. (Yes, the parents were informed.) I grew up in northern Minnesota where there were no poisonous snakes. The closest known ones were rattlers up in the bluffs along the Mississippi around Red Wing. Living around lakes as I did, it was a common childhood activity to chase garter snakes and try to catch them. They were safe, fast and twisty through the grasses, and my older brother did a much better job of catching them, never letting me forget it. No, he wasn't any meaner than any other older brother, but if the subject came up, or a chase was in order, we both knew where he stood. But I did manage to catch a few.
I have a clear memory from when we lived on the resort of my dad killing a large pine snake. It was several feet long and wider than my (now) wrist, and committed the capitol offense, while hunting rats and other rodents, of being able to scare away our customers. It didn't, it just might have. Daddy took a long 4x4 and pounded the thing until it finally quit moving, then removed all evidence of its presence, scolding us into never telling the customers of its existence. As we had a few farm animals up on the hill behind the cabins, along with a corn crib, it had been doing us a favor. But that didn't matter.
I've always resented its fate.
Once my kids were growing, I acquired some old aquariums with secure and weighted lids, and caught a couple of garter snakes to keep. Eventually they were joined in other cages by a red rat snake, a corn snake, a baby bull snake, even a reticulated python. I'd get minnows for the garters, and raised mice for the others. With my supervision, everybody at least got introduced to them, and many of the kids argued over who got to hold a snake next. The watched skin sheddings and felt the shed skins. When the family relocated to Georgia back in '78, long before security at airports got paranoid, I relocated them in my carry-on luggage inside a stiff tube that was securely tied inside a pillowcase, with no chance of escaping. (I always wondered if whoever was looking at the x-rays of purses and cases was snoozing or just didn't care about several very long and mobile spines.)
So, no fear. I'd made a point over the years of reassuring both kids and parents that nothing poisonous would ever be part of the menagerie.
Once in Georgia, I had to add another lesson to snake education 101. Georgia had at least four poisonous snakes, and our recently built neighborhood with lots of green space was likely territory for them. While never seeing water moccasins or rattlers, we did see a baby coral snake, and once after its beheading, touch a copperhead. Each has its tale.
Our doctor's office had an entry through a terrarium, via a concrete path with railings over water and plants below and to the sides. Doors on both ends. Can't remember if they had turtles or not, though that - or fish - was a likely reason Richard spent his waiting time out there. He was under strict orders to never leave the path nor touch anything. He would have been climbing around otherwise. Within a couple minutes he returned, asking how to tell the difference between a coral snake and the king snake that mimics it. I told him the rhyme, red touches yellow, can kill a fellow, red touches black, poison does lack. I'd never needed to know it but memorized it years before because it was a simple rhyme, and the only way it did rhyme was the correct combination of how the colored bands on the snakes were laid out. Foolproof.
Rich went back to his terrarium, then returned within a minute announcing there was a coral snake in there. I went to check. Sure enough, about 6" long and half a pencil wide, there was indeed a baby coral snake. I went to tell the woman at the check in desk, and she totally blew me off. I repeated the rhyme, to show we knew whereof we spoke. She wasn't about to hear it. I told her I hoped they had some antivenom in stock, then returned to the waiting room to keep the kids in check. Needless to say, Rich was forbidden back inside its space.
The copperhead was a temporary gift from a neighbor, who happened to also have originated in the small town in Minnesota where I was from. His parents owned a restaurant where our parents took us out to eat on a couple occasions. This snake was killed in his back yard in Georgia, since Johnny had two kids of his own to protect, not to mention all the neighborhood kids who wandered through everybody's yard while playing. When I heard about it, I asked could he bring it - without the head - to my house for all the kids to see. We all needed to be informed as to what to avoid. Learning that not all snakes were to be feared, they now needed to learn which were.
So last night, armed with all that experience, Rich went off to the rescue of his friend. The result is a rattler in my fridge. Dead. On ice, in a beverage cup with the lid on. Beautiful. It's a fairly young one, greyer than I'd thought it would be, four or 5 rattles at first glance, just over a foot long and finger width in its middle, not recently fed.
I'm sure he has plans for it, or at least parts of it, but I'm waiting to hear.
Tuesday, June 16, 2020
Buggy
I might almost start to miss winters. Or at least the seasonal cold that kills bugs. Right now we're fighting another infestation. The first was a few months back when we had to clean out the cupboards because food got stored in the wrong place and with only paper between it and the very hungry world.
This one is more complex. The first part was when Steve showed us bright red spots all over his legs and feet, itchy as hell. Nobody else was getting bit, and he thought it might have happened while he was asleep, so the response was to attack the bedroom. Bedding was changed, mattress flipped - and inspected - the floor picked up and laundry done. No bugs were sighted during any of that process, though whatever was biting him seemed to have stopped. After a few days of baking soda soaks and my antihistamines, his bites have faded to pale pink and the itching is no longer something he complains about.
Then it was my turn. While sitting in my living room chair, I started feeling? imagining? that tiny bugs were crawling over me. A few red mites were spotted and squished, but nothing else was spotted. Might they be fleas that hopped away too quickly to be seen, much less caught? Were scattered hair follicles dancing around on their own? Were ghosts poofing in isolated spots on my skin?
OK, that last is ridiculous, at least to a person who doesn't believe in ghosts. I do however believe in the power of suggestion, and even after changing clothes and taking a shower, still felt creepy crawlies while in my chair. Not only that, the little bathroom rug I stand on while getting pills out of my medicine cabinet or brushing my hair seemed to have an abundant supply of invisible tiny things springing up from the fibers to tweak my leg hairs before become again incorporeal.
Finally, evidence of some activity presented itself. An occasional little oval brown beetle got brave enough to crawl across me every now and again. It didn't stop the invisible pests, but just apparently decided to come join the party. Sometimes I caught one, mostly an absent minded swipe at the 137th tickle of the hour. They smushed easily, leaving a dark brown smear.
Ick.
Once they proved real, I made a point of catching some. their top size seems to be appleseed, but in shape more uniform front and back. No pointy parts, just ovals. Some ovals were more fat than others, but still, ovals. Some internet research persuaded me they are black furniture beetles, as opposed to regular carpet beetles or furniture carpet beetles or bed bugs. I've saved a few in a bottle in case anybody wants to do their own research, since it's all kind of confusing. The Raid kills them, regardless.
Steve offered to pick up something to kill whatever they were, and came home from the local drug store with a can of Raid. Kills roaches, bed bugs, and whatever. Precautions on the label, though it took his eye to spot that the label peeled off its top layer so you could read those. Nothing unexpected, keep off skin, ventilated area, etc., and once dry, remove.
So, armed with a little knowledge, a little can of spray, and a little ambition, once Steve and I were ready for bed last night, I stayed behind and sprayed all the likely spots in the living room. We could leave the front door open (cool enough to not trip the AC) and close off our bedrooms from fumes. I took the can with me thinking that the bathroom rug might benefit from a spray... in the morning when I was ready to inhabit the living room again.
You know what they say about plans, right? I actually had my light on when I approached the bed after my shower. My pillowcases were covered with greasy looking little spots! Covered!
Picking up one to see what might be inside, I was greeted by a cupful of little brown bugs, scurrying away to safety. Those spots on the pillowcase were from when my head hit that pillow as I shifted from one to the pother as I rolled over in my sleep. Apparently when I hit the pillow, I really hit the pillow. Plus the bug under the pillowcase.
I did some checking around. They were under the sheets, under the mattress, crawling through the folds of the spread at the foot of the bed.... So now what? I can't sleep here and I've just sprayed the living room fairly heavily. Steve's bed maybe? Go from a queen for one to a full size for two? In this heat? When Steve loves a comforter over him and I overheat with a sheet?
While pondering my (lack of) options, I stripped my bed, hauled all the bedding out to the patio except for the two pillows which went in the garbage can. Hundreds more beetles ran for cover with every new layer peeled away. It was going to have to be the living room couch. I opened the front and back doors and turned the ceiling fan back on to push fresh air, washed sheets, and read a few chapters while I waited out on the patio for the air to clear "enough." I hoped.
There are spare pillows and other bedding in the house, and I didn't bother digging out a sheet. This was warmer than my bedroom since the overhead fan was out in the middle of the room and the sofa, unlike my bed, wasn't straight under one. I was paranoid enough, however, to check under everything that I removed from the sofa that nobody had bothered to find a real place for, and each cushion, verifying no more bugs, before settling in finally around 3 AM.
I woke before garbage pickup, usually meaning 6, and was up for the day. Whee. With the list of further bug control and cleaning to be done, putting chores in logical order by need to use each room, the brain was off and running. A short nap got put in there somewhere, along with another post-spraying shower, a trip for new pillows and zippable covers both for the pillows, and for the mattress once clean and debugged, all chores fitted among all the extra laundry from the under-bed storage drawers, and... uff, no time for more sleep.
Do I get my own bed back tonight? Wait a minute, who said yes? Seriously? When's the last time you came back into a room thinking all the bugs were dead and found that they actually were dead? If you did, goody for you. We didn't. Apparently Raid doesn't kill the bugs it doesn't land on - though otherwise, instant bye-bye. By this afternoon I enlisted Rich's help. He's a perfectionist. I'd sent him in to vacuum up the carcasses, but he wound up chasing critters instead. And spraying again. And airing out the room again.
He says it needs more Raid tomorrow too. I believe him. But I'm stacking up folded blankets and sheets now before going to sleep on the couch. Hopefully a little longer this time.
Steve says he's going to do dishes tonite though. So... maybe a lonnnnnng nap tomorrow?
This one is more complex. The first part was when Steve showed us bright red spots all over his legs and feet, itchy as hell. Nobody else was getting bit, and he thought it might have happened while he was asleep, so the response was to attack the bedroom. Bedding was changed, mattress flipped - and inspected - the floor picked up and laundry done. No bugs were sighted during any of that process, though whatever was biting him seemed to have stopped. After a few days of baking soda soaks and my antihistamines, his bites have faded to pale pink and the itching is no longer something he complains about.
Then it was my turn. While sitting in my living room chair, I started feeling? imagining? that tiny bugs were crawling over me. A few red mites were spotted and squished, but nothing else was spotted. Might they be fleas that hopped away too quickly to be seen, much less caught? Were scattered hair follicles dancing around on their own? Were ghosts poofing in isolated spots on my skin?
OK, that last is ridiculous, at least to a person who doesn't believe in ghosts. I do however believe in the power of suggestion, and even after changing clothes and taking a shower, still felt creepy crawlies while in my chair. Not only that, the little bathroom rug I stand on while getting pills out of my medicine cabinet or brushing my hair seemed to have an abundant supply of invisible tiny things springing up from the fibers to tweak my leg hairs before become again incorporeal.
Finally, evidence of some activity presented itself. An occasional little oval brown beetle got brave enough to crawl across me every now and again. It didn't stop the invisible pests, but just apparently decided to come join the party. Sometimes I caught one, mostly an absent minded swipe at the 137th tickle of the hour. They smushed easily, leaving a dark brown smear.
Ick.
Once they proved real, I made a point of catching some. their top size seems to be appleseed, but in shape more uniform front and back. No pointy parts, just ovals. Some ovals were more fat than others, but still, ovals. Some internet research persuaded me they are black furniture beetles, as opposed to regular carpet beetles or furniture carpet beetles or bed bugs. I've saved a few in a bottle in case anybody wants to do their own research, since it's all kind of confusing. The Raid kills them, regardless.
Steve offered to pick up something to kill whatever they were, and came home from the local drug store with a can of Raid. Kills roaches, bed bugs, and whatever. Precautions on the label, though it took his eye to spot that the label peeled off its top layer so you could read those. Nothing unexpected, keep off skin, ventilated area, etc., and once dry, remove.
So, armed with a little knowledge, a little can of spray, and a little ambition, once Steve and I were ready for bed last night, I stayed behind and sprayed all the likely spots in the living room. We could leave the front door open (cool enough to not trip the AC) and close off our bedrooms from fumes. I took the can with me thinking that the bathroom rug might benefit from a spray... in the morning when I was ready to inhabit the living room again.
You know what they say about plans, right? I actually had my light on when I approached the bed after my shower. My pillowcases were covered with greasy looking little spots! Covered!
Picking up one to see what might be inside, I was greeted by a cupful of little brown bugs, scurrying away to safety. Those spots on the pillowcase were from when my head hit that pillow as I shifted from one to the pother as I rolled over in my sleep. Apparently when I hit the pillow, I really hit the pillow. Plus the bug under the pillowcase.
I did some checking around. They were under the sheets, under the mattress, crawling through the folds of the spread at the foot of the bed.... So now what? I can't sleep here and I've just sprayed the living room fairly heavily. Steve's bed maybe? Go from a queen for one to a full size for two? In this heat? When Steve loves a comforter over him and I overheat with a sheet?
While pondering my (lack of) options, I stripped my bed, hauled all the bedding out to the patio except for the two pillows which went in the garbage can. Hundreds more beetles ran for cover with every new layer peeled away. It was going to have to be the living room couch. I opened the front and back doors and turned the ceiling fan back on to push fresh air, washed sheets, and read a few chapters while I waited out on the patio for the air to clear "enough." I hoped.
There are spare pillows and other bedding in the house, and I didn't bother digging out a sheet. This was warmer than my bedroom since the overhead fan was out in the middle of the room and the sofa, unlike my bed, wasn't straight under one. I was paranoid enough, however, to check under everything that I removed from the sofa that nobody had bothered to find a real place for, and each cushion, verifying no more bugs, before settling in finally around 3 AM.
I woke before garbage pickup, usually meaning 6, and was up for the day. Whee. With the list of further bug control and cleaning to be done, putting chores in logical order by need to use each room, the brain was off and running. A short nap got put in there somewhere, along with another post-spraying shower, a trip for new pillows and zippable covers both for the pillows, and for the mattress once clean and debugged, all chores fitted among all the extra laundry from the under-bed storage drawers, and... uff, no time for more sleep.
Do I get my own bed back tonight? Wait a minute, who said yes? Seriously? When's the last time you came back into a room thinking all the bugs were dead and found that they actually were dead? If you did, goody for you. We didn't. Apparently Raid doesn't kill the bugs it doesn't land on - though otherwise, instant bye-bye. By this afternoon I enlisted Rich's help. He's a perfectionist. I'd sent him in to vacuum up the carcasses, but he wound up chasing critters instead. And spraying again. And airing out the room again.
He says it needs more Raid tomorrow too. I believe him. But I'm stacking up folded blankets and sheets now before going to sleep on the couch. Hopefully a little longer this time.
Steve says he's going to do dishes tonite though. So... maybe a lonnnnnng nap tomorrow?
Thursday, June 11, 2020
Finally Doing It
I've been thinking about it for a month or so now. Wondering if I had to actually go buy or order what I needed. So on my way to my morning shower, passing my sewing box, I decided to check. Were they there? In the colors I needed? Were they even still usable?
I bought them somewhere between 20 and 30 years ago. Never thought to pin down the timeline, but it was back when I was still flying somewhat regularly, aka some round trip almost every year. Sure, not much for some of you, perhaps, but what I could afford. There were trips to Arizona, first to visit my parents when they were still snowbirding down here, for enough years for me to fall in love with not battling ice and snow for six months a year any more, as well as the other charms of the landscape. I continued for a rare visit to friends who'd moved here, but my later flying was often for major vacations. Those were primarily with my granddaughter and my youngest son, to places like Washington State and Alaska.
I didn't want to lose my modest luggage on the baggage carousel. Mom used to tie yarn to hers, but that became very common. I wanted something very different, something unique to me, something even embarrassing to somebody who might otherwise think my whatever would be just the thing to walk away with. I wound up also marking my camera bags the same way, something bright and permanent and indelibly mine.
Bugs! Silly, roughly hand drawn, spotted beetles. Like ladybugs in outline, but all colors. The limit of my artistic talents. What did I use? Fabric paints.
Having little use for them, the bottles were still pretty full, so I didn't throw them out. They still sat in my sewing box, all these years later, even through those summers when we were back north and the house got however hot it did with no electricity to run AC.
After digging them out, I found 5 bottles. I opened the one - blue - that I wanted to use first, picked up an old sock I'd never wear again, and tried it. After a half inch of clear liquid, it came out reliable blue and in a line, not blobs. Perfect!
Why did I want these? To make my own protest face masks, of course. I'd gotten a bunch of plain black ones, much cheaper than anything else, but wished I had some with messages on. I planned all sorts of messages, silly, profound, perplexing. Today I wanted the blue paint.
The first two letters are drying. Since it has a curve, I can't do the other two until I can flip it over to get the right side laying flat without smearing the left. It will say "VOTE". In blue. Thus, "VOTE BLUE." Subtle enough to be worn in the club which frowns on politics, obvious enough for those who think about it.
I think the next one will be another black mask, along the same lines, saying "LIVES MATTER." Letting you extrapolate.
After that, I may just go nuts. Perhaps the purple paint saying "When I grow old" and I'll definitely be wearing purple. No red hats though. Don't need hat hair. Snark may work, something addressing why I wear my mask, why aren't they? Or too selfish to share my germs. Maybe just colors of curliques. Who knows? Maybe the guys will have ideas for something they want on theirs.
I bought them somewhere between 20 and 30 years ago. Never thought to pin down the timeline, but it was back when I was still flying somewhat regularly, aka some round trip almost every year. Sure, not much for some of you, perhaps, but what I could afford. There were trips to Arizona, first to visit my parents when they were still snowbirding down here, for enough years for me to fall in love with not battling ice and snow for six months a year any more, as well as the other charms of the landscape. I continued for a rare visit to friends who'd moved here, but my later flying was often for major vacations. Those were primarily with my granddaughter and my youngest son, to places like Washington State and Alaska.
I didn't want to lose my modest luggage on the baggage carousel. Mom used to tie yarn to hers, but that became very common. I wanted something very different, something unique to me, something even embarrassing to somebody who might otherwise think my whatever would be just the thing to walk away with. I wound up also marking my camera bags the same way, something bright and permanent and indelibly mine.
Bugs! Silly, roughly hand drawn, spotted beetles. Like ladybugs in outline, but all colors. The limit of my artistic talents. What did I use? Fabric paints.
Having little use for them, the bottles were still pretty full, so I didn't throw them out. They still sat in my sewing box, all these years later, even through those summers when we were back north and the house got however hot it did with no electricity to run AC.
After digging them out, I found 5 bottles. I opened the one - blue - that I wanted to use first, picked up an old sock I'd never wear again, and tried it. After a half inch of clear liquid, it came out reliable blue and in a line, not blobs. Perfect!
Why did I want these? To make my own protest face masks, of course. I'd gotten a bunch of plain black ones, much cheaper than anything else, but wished I had some with messages on. I planned all sorts of messages, silly, profound, perplexing. Today I wanted the blue paint.
The first two letters are drying. Since it has a curve, I can't do the other two until I can flip it over to get the right side laying flat without smearing the left. It will say "VOTE". In blue. Thus, "VOTE BLUE." Subtle enough to be worn in the club which frowns on politics, obvious enough for those who think about it.
I think the next one will be another black mask, along the same lines, saying "LIVES MATTER." Letting you extrapolate.
After that, I may just go nuts. Perhaps the purple paint saying "When I grow old" and I'll definitely be wearing purple. No red hats though. Don't need hat hair. Snark may work, something addressing why I wear my mask, why aren't they? Or too selfish to share my germs. Maybe just colors of curliques. Who knows? Maybe the guys will have ideas for something they want on theirs.
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
The Three Trolls Under The Bridge
I'm not making this up, though it's such a combination of crazy, nasty and naive that you might think so. This is the next chapter of Rich's life, as told to us this afternoon.
It started out as an opportunity to do a kindness for a stranger, a homeless vet down on his luck, sheltering under a bridge where Grand Avenue, aka highway 60, crosses over an expanse of nothing between Sun City/Youngton and El Mirage. As a person too familiar with the homeless situation, Rich was given a chance to keep a fellow company, acceptance, and a few bottles of water in some brutal heat. He used his online resources to locate some possible employment opportunities matching the skills the fellow had, thinking that with this guy's military background he knew what he might qualify for.
He turned out to be troll number 1. Vet? Who knows? Veteran crook, maybe.
Troll number 2 again started out as an opportunity to do a favor for another acquaintance in need. She presented herself as a damsel in distress, evicted three days earlier for unknown reasons (I can imagine several, it turns out), out in too much heat, too long, and without resources. Rich brought her home, and we offered her water, food, a "cool" shower (oops, sorry, we lied: no such thing as cool water this season), and a bed for the night. Rich assured me there was nothing romantic, particularly since she was a year older than his daughter. She left the next morning.
Rich left to get some cigarettes that evening, and we didn't see or hear from him for three days. When he returned, he was dehydrated, unfed, and exhausted. Also broke. Not by his choice.
After a day and a half to sleep, rehydrate, and eat, we heard a bit of the story. One could imagine almost any script to fill in the details - and my imagination has in a variety of ways. The necessary parts involve him reconnecting with Troll 1 and Troll 2, and finding Troll 3. They work together. Fill in all kinds of blanks here, but they all end with his pay from his job stolen, other than what little he'd already spent on getting himself a decent phone and three months of cell plan. He had planned to also find himself a workable bike out of some pawn shop so he wasn't dependent on bus schedules and routes so he could find a better, closer location to work, plus a few other things. It wasn't a huge amount, but it was everything he had.
And no, he absolutely does not want to give any more details. Nor press charges.
Only now did he know that the three worked together. He mostly blames himself for falling for whatever they finally did, calling it a long game. Strangely he doesn't blame the young woman so much. He believes she is even more naive than he is, the "honest" one of the group, in denial about what they do and how they involve/use her. She's also in denial about the fact that she hears voices talking to her meaning that she is schizophrenic. Because, well, she hears them, you know.
I can't help but wonder if she's not the best con in the bunch.
Meanwhile, one of the final consequences is that Steve and I have to put him in quarantine for 14 days. No telling what other kinds of nasties he made the acquaintance of those several days, but we won't risk him sharing. He has his room and the patio outside. The room at least has AC and a fan. To enter the rest of the house, he must wear a mask, wash his hands when he enters out space, after leaving the bathroom, and before opening the fridge or freezer. He can remove his mask in his room for eating and drinking rather than join us. If we want to go to the back yard, we don't pass through, our previous direct route, but go out the front door and around. I won't give him a ride in the car during that time. We think we've thought of everything.
But his new phone arrived, just before he did, so he's got his main tool again. It has a new number though, a local one. Friends and family can contact us for the number.
It started out as an opportunity to do a kindness for a stranger, a homeless vet down on his luck, sheltering under a bridge where Grand Avenue, aka highway 60, crosses over an expanse of nothing between Sun City/Youngton and El Mirage. As a person too familiar with the homeless situation, Rich was given a chance to keep a fellow company, acceptance, and a few bottles of water in some brutal heat. He used his online resources to locate some possible employment opportunities matching the skills the fellow had, thinking that with this guy's military background he knew what he might qualify for.
He turned out to be troll number 1. Vet? Who knows? Veteran crook, maybe.
Troll number 2 again started out as an opportunity to do a favor for another acquaintance in need. She presented herself as a damsel in distress, evicted three days earlier for unknown reasons (I can imagine several, it turns out), out in too much heat, too long, and without resources. Rich brought her home, and we offered her water, food, a "cool" shower (oops, sorry, we lied: no such thing as cool water this season), and a bed for the night. Rich assured me there was nothing romantic, particularly since she was a year older than his daughter. She left the next morning.
Rich left to get some cigarettes that evening, and we didn't see or hear from him for three days. When he returned, he was dehydrated, unfed, and exhausted. Also broke. Not by his choice.
After a day and a half to sleep, rehydrate, and eat, we heard a bit of the story. One could imagine almost any script to fill in the details - and my imagination has in a variety of ways. The necessary parts involve him reconnecting with Troll 1 and Troll 2, and finding Troll 3. They work together. Fill in all kinds of blanks here, but they all end with his pay from his job stolen, other than what little he'd already spent on getting himself a decent phone and three months of cell plan. He had planned to also find himself a workable bike out of some pawn shop so he wasn't dependent on bus schedules and routes so he could find a better, closer location to work, plus a few other things. It wasn't a huge amount, but it was everything he had.
And no, he absolutely does not want to give any more details. Nor press charges.
Only now did he know that the three worked together. He mostly blames himself for falling for whatever they finally did, calling it a long game. Strangely he doesn't blame the young woman so much. He believes she is even more naive than he is, the "honest" one of the group, in denial about what they do and how they involve/use her. She's also in denial about the fact that she hears voices talking to her meaning that she is schizophrenic. Because, well, she hears them, you know.
I can't help but wonder if she's not the best con in the bunch.
Meanwhile, one of the final consequences is that Steve and I have to put him in quarantine for 14 days. No telling what other kinds of nasties he made the acquaintance of those several days, but we won't risk him sharing. He has his room and the patio outside. The room at least has AC and a fan. To enter the rest of the house, he must wear a mask, wash his hands when he enters out space, after leaving the bathroom, and before opening the fridge or freezer. He can remove his mask in his room for eating and drinking rather than join us. If we want to go to the back yard, we don't pass through, our previous direct route, but go out the front door and around. I won't give him a ride in the car during that time. We think we've thought of everything.
But his new phone arrived, just before he did, so he's got his main tool again. It has a new number though, a local one. Friends and family can contact us for the number.
Friday, June 5, 2020
Responsibility To Witness
All is not well in the world.
Does that seem like an understatement? Covid cases are climbing, protests grow in streets of cities across America and have spread through the world, economies are contracting/collapsing - take your pick at any given moment - climate change is unchecked, and I'm nowhere near my family.
Turns out it's a bad morning to be the only one awake in the house. Particularly after a choice I made earlier this morning. A choice to witness, from a series of videos posted online, despite warnings that they would be difficult to watch.
They were.
There is a reason we are called to witness things. People lie. Things are covered up. Mistakes are made. Evil is prevalent. If nobody sees, if nobody speaks out, nothing changes. Witnesses are even needed in state executions, not only as proof that somebody has died, but even more recently, that the death can be long, drawn out, cruel, even when the opposite is intended. Juries are called to witness all the presented evidence, produce by a collection of other witnesses, in order to make a decision approaching justice.
Sometimes it's as simple as informing yourself, making your own decisions rather than necessarily just what you are told to do or believe. It's part of growing up, taking a stand, making a worthwhile place for yourself in the world.
So I did that this morning. I watched a series of videos from last night's protests which showed - this time - police rioting. Two stood out, haunt me.
The first was several officers, batons out and swinging, charging into a crowd of peaceful protesters, causing as much pain and injury as possible. The second, from Buffalo, was of an elderly man (clarified later as 76) walking up to police calmly as if to ask a question, when he is shoved backwards. (Note: a second, later posted video lets you clearly hear the nauseating sound of his head hitting the pavement. Something like a watermellon from a tall office building.) It was hard enough that he landed, not on his butt, as I was expecting, but flat out, his head hitting the pavement. He was not shown to move afterwards for the minute or so the video progressed. Somebody was heard yelling that he was bleeding from his ear. Voices called for medical attention - though not by the police, just by the protesters. When one cop starts to bend down to check him out, he's hustled away by his fellows instead.
Accompanying text tells that he had a possible concussion. Later reports on TV say he is hospitalized in serious condition. Text with the first video talks about broken bones among protesters. And just in case you are wondering, all those shown injured were ... wait for it ... white.
I'm not pointing that out because I think whites should be immune from whatever gets dished out to anybody else. We're not "better." But among those who think we are, and have been singling out people of color for whatever kind of abuse they wish to hand out with impunity, they are now, in turn, attacking those who stand with people of color (or different faith or whatever) against the injustices heaped on them.
Because police are no longer immune ( in one publicized case) from the consequences of their bad actions, they are fighting out against all of us. The blue wall needs to fall. Reports are that over 50 police in Buffalo after two of their member were suspended without pay (ONLY!!!) resigned in protest. We don't need them!) No, I'm not advocating war on police. Just removal and justice meted out to the bad ones. All of them. Now. Until we can start trusting them again - if we can. Power corrupts, after all.
So keep those cell phone witnesses filming.
Does that seem like an understatement? Covid cases are climbing, protests grow in streets of cities across America and have spread through the world, economies are contracting/collapsing - take your pick at any given moment - climate change is unchecked, and I'm nowhere near my family.
Turns out it's a bad morning to be the only one awake in the house. Particularly after a choice I made earlier this morning. A choice to witness, from a series of videos posted online, despite warnings that they would be difficult to watch.
They were.
There is a reason we are called to witness things. People lie. Things are covered up. Mistakes are made. Evil is prevalent. If nobody sees, if nobody speaks out, nothing changes. Witnesses are even needed in state executions, not only as proof that somebody has died, but even more recently, that the death can be long, drawn out, cruel, even when the opposite is intended. Juries are called to witness all the presented evidence, produce by a collection of other witnesses, in order to make a decision approaching justice.
Sometimes it's as simple as informing yourself, making your own decisions rather than necessarily just what you are told to do or believe. It's part of growing up, taking a stand, making a worthwhile place for yourself in the world.
So I did that this morning. I watched a series of videos from last night's protests which showed - this time - police rioting. Two stood out, haunt me.
The first was several officers, batons out and swinging, charging into a crowd of peaceful protesters, causing as much pain and injury as possible. The second, from Buffalo, was of an elderly man (clarified later as 76) walking up to police calmly as if to ask a question, when he is shoved backwards. (Note: a second, later posted video lets you clearly hear the nauseating sound of his head hitting the pavement. Something like a watermellon from a tall office building.) It was hard enough that he landed, not on his butt, as I was expecting, but flat out, his head hitting the pavement. He was not shown to move afterwards for the minute or so the video progressed. Somebody was heard yelling that he was bleeding from his ear. Voices called for medical attention - though not by the police, just by the protesters. When one cop starts to bend down to check him out, he's hustled away by his fellows instead.
Accompanying text tells that he had a possible concussion. Later reports on TV say he is hospitalized in serious condition. Text with the first video talks about broken bones among protesters. And just in case you are wondering, all those shown injured were ... wait for it ... white.
I'm not pointing that out because I think whites should be immune from whatever gets dished out to anybody else. We're not "better." But among those who think we are, and have been singling out people of color for whatever kind of abuse they wish to hand out with impunity, they are now, in turn, attacking those who stand with people of color (or different faith or whatever) against the injustices heaped on them.
Because police are no longer immune ( in one publicized case) from the consequences of their bad actions, they are fighting out against all of us. The blue wall needs to fall. Reports are that over 50 police in Buffalo after two of their member were suspended without pay (ONLY!!!) resigned in protest. We don't need them!) No, I'm not advocating war on police. Just removal and justice meted out to the bad ones. All of them. Now. Until we can start trusting them again - if we can. Power corrupts, after all.
So keep those cell phone witnesses filming.
Thursday, June 4, 2020
Rays Of Hope
The protests are still going on, a high percentage of those peacefully. Some cops kneel with protesters, march with them. White protesters form chains in front of black protesters to protect them from police. Black protesters block access to stores to keep looters out.
More cell phones every day out there document what is really going on, whether in protests or police actions, preventing the few rotten eggs from triumphing. When even the shame doesn't stop a murder from happening, it's starting to force prosecutions. Perhaps it will even bring imprisonments.
Whatever Putin's minions are working to do here to seed upheaval, enough to destroy this nation, so far it's not working. (Hey, if you don't believe, go ahead and do the actual work of reading the Mueller Report. I mean, sitting at home, time on your hands, bored.... Right?)
More people are recognizing Trump's serious flaws. Some never will, of course.
I just watched a video of our grandchild's kindergarten virtual graduation. Six small classes in one school, each child having their first name and photo included, taken at home and holding their diploma. I was blown away in awe at the widely diverse classes, the unique names, races and ethnicities, even the acceptance of a headscarf under the mortorboard cap. When all these children can play and learn together, racism hardly stands a chance.
Not all means success. But it does bring hope.
More cell phones every day out there document what is really going on, whether in protests or police actions, preventing the few rotten eggs from triumphing. When even the shame doesn't stop a murder from happening, it's starting to force prosecutions. Perhaps it will even bring imprisonments.
Whatever Putin's minions are working to do here to seed upheaval, enough to destroy this nation, so far it's not working. (Hey, if you don't believe, go ahead and do the actual work of reading the Mueller Report. I mean, sitting at home, time on your hands, bored.... Right?)
More people are recognizing Trump's serious flaws. Some never will, of course.
I just watched a video of our grandchild's kindergarten virtual graduation. Six small classes in one school, each child having their first name and photo included, taken at home and holding their diploma. I was blown away in awe at the widely diverse classes, the unique names, races and ethnicities, even the acceptance of a headscarf under the mortorboard cap. When all these children can play and learn together, racism hardly stands a chance.
Not all means success. But it does bring hope.
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