The Hound of Rogers Park

Today was All Day Twin Day, which means I show up at 6:30, sleep until 10:00 or so when the kids get up, and babysit all day.

I realized after waking that I'd left my cell phone at my place, so I said the magic words -- "Who wants to go for a walk?" -- and we sprung into action: I got the shoes and jackets from the closet while the kids scrambled to sit on the edge of the couch to have their shoes put on. (Our ship is very tightly run.) Before intoning the magic phrase, I'd set up the stroller outside.

We cruised to my place, where they waited in the stroller in the enclosed courtyard at the foot of my stairs. I grabbed the cell phone and then Harry, bringing him out for the kids to pat. They were delighted, patted him all over, and he lay on the blanket across their laps and purred away. He's such good guy. 

Harry safely back in the house, we headed for the cafe, where I got my decaf mocha for me and pretzels for the kids. They elicited the usual curiosity from fellow patrons -- one woman commented that Emma looked like the happy one and Daniel looked serious. I palmed Daniel's face and shook it back and forth to demonstrate that he actually loves to smile. 

We headed out (can I just say I've become adept at getting the double-wide stroller through the door, which allows for about 1/4-inch of clearance?) and began cruising dow the street. After crossing, I saw a small gray hairy dog heading down the street, no collar, no leash. It became clear it was lost and nervous: it darted across the street, missing a car, and passed by the cafe. People were taking notice, and tried to catch it, but it was afraid and darted away. 

I started to follow it down the street, pushing the stroller and calling out to people not to chase it, but to let it come to them. At the far corner of my street there is a bench outside a building where the elderly residents like to congregate; a group was there now. I saw the dog head for them and sit under the bench, then circle around, going to each person and putting its paws on their legs.

"IT'S LOST!" I called. "Pick it up!"

"STAY! STAY!" one old guy began yelling at the dog, who cowered and sidled away. Good grief. I tried to get there faster.

"DON'T YELL AT IT! PICK IT UP! IT WANTS TO BE PICKED UP!" I called.

A young woman was standing in the group, looking down at the dog, who was on its hind legs, front paws against the woman's thighs, tongue darting in and out.

"Are you sure it wants to be picked up?" the woman asked, looking down.

For crying out loud. I stopped, crouched, and called the dog. It saw me and ran straight to me. I picked it (her, I could now see) up, and with the other hand pushed the stroller up the street, weaving all over the place.

She was clean and well-cared for, and very sweet. The kids were overjoyed to have her around while they ate. I called the city's 311 line and reported the lost dog. In Chicago, you can't get to Animal Control directly; you have to go through the 311 line. 

311 is a great service if you are looking for information; if you are looking for assistance, they suck out loud. 

After giving my location and phone number, I was told a report would be filed. This was at 2pm. I brushed the dog in the kitchen, keeping an ear open for the kids, who played upstairs. I heard them gabbling, picking up toys, clapping Legos together.

I brushed the dog, and then realized I heard silence.

Silence is not good. Silence betokens Mischief.

I ran upstairs to discover that Daniel had breached the baby gate, and both had wandered into the home office.

"What are you doing?" I asked sternly. Daniel turned, a guilty look on his face, and held out the mug he'd picked up. I took it, thanked him, and put him back on the other side, securing the fence. Emma sat by my laptop (I sit on the floor when using my laptop), and solemnly offered me my travel mug. Clearly there had been some left, because chocolate was now all over her mouth, part of the rug, and -- no Lord -- my keyboard . I took the mug, thanked her, and moved her out also.

At 4:30 I called 311 again to see how late Animal Control might come. "Until 7:30," I was told.

I'd told the parents that the dog was there; the woman actually wanted to be informed if the dog didn't find its owner, as she would like to have a dog.

By the time I had to go to my class, the dog was still there. The dad called me at 6:45 to say nobody had come. I called back at 8:30 to find the dog still was there. 

Mind you, I was at a class, so I had to keep walking into the hall to make these calls. It was a lot of fun.

The father said he was going to leave her on the front porch as it wasn't all that cold. I was irritated; the dog was a nice dog, clean, well-behaved; why not let the poor thing sleep inside? What the hell?!? I didn't trust the dodgy stone wall to keep the dog in; it was too decrepit and full of gaps. My condo doesn't allow dogs, but I was beginning to think I'd smuggle her home for the night.

I called my cop neighbor for advice.

"Animal Control is swamped," he said. "This is a low-priority call for them; they probably won't come by until tomorrow."

"And clearly their budget has been cut to the point that their phone service was canceled, preventing them from calling me to tell me that," I said, fuming.

Seriously, it's as though every service in the city is designed to discourage any citizen from ever trying to do the right thing. It's as if the city machine exists specifically to write parking tickets.

"Here's what you do," my friend said. "Bring the dog to the local police station and say you found a stray dog. They'll hold it until Animal Control comes. But DON'T tell them I told you this."

"Are they equipped to take her?" I asked. "I mean, will they care for her? She's a nice dog."

"Sure, they got cages, they'll feed her. They're a bunch of animal lovers there. But you didn't hear it from me, remember."

I called the dad and said I'd be by at 9 to get the dog and bring her to the police station.  He agreed to keep the dog inside until then.

I got off the El and headed to the twins' house. As I approached a mailbox I saw a MISSING DOG posting and held my breath. I got closer, and sure enough, someone had made a nice printed sign complete with photo. A photo of the dog, whose name was, apparently, Precious, and she lived just up the street from the twins' house.

I called the number on the flyer and told the woman I had her dog. She was ecstatic. I got the dog from the twins' house and carried her to her home, where her owner was thrilled to see her; she'd been missing for a day. Her collar was off because she'd been given a bath, and had then gotten loose.

So all's well that ends well.

Napper in the Rye

Yesterday I drove out to my friend M's land in Michigan. If you recall, this is the place where the land is lovely but the house needed a can of gasoline and a lighted match. After an exorcism. M's cousin and I were trying to dissuade her from putting any money in the house. Sensing she still had hopes that a solar panel and some paint would cure all the house's ills, I'd convinced her to have the house inspected so that she'd have an idea of what needed to be done. My rationale was that hearing it from a professional would be more convincing than hearing it from me. I often find that is the way.

I agreed to be present for the inspection to ask any questions that needed asking, and to provide general support. I'd also agreed to help with some planting.

The land is now quite lovely, being in total summer bloom: the trees are fluffy and huge, the grass is green and long, and wildflowers are everywhere. The hill and land behind the house and pole barn was thigh-high with vegetation, which M told me was rye. It had been planted before she bought the place.

First I helped her put in a few dwarf trees. Fortunately, the earth is sandy so the digging went easily. M believes in shamanic approaches, and informed me that she'd asked the trees where they wanted to be, and they'd told her.

"OK." I said. "Just tell me where they want to be. I'm the chick with the shovel."

You may think this sounds kooky, but I've become accustomed to city folk who decided to Go Rural and apply all sorts of mystical approaches to farming. There are devices to capture and direct energy, biodynamic preparations that border on voodoo, and any number of fairy beliefs. Some of it is fun to think about, some makes its own sort of sense.

And some just seems like an excuse for people to not put their back into it or avoid reading a book on how to plant trees. 

So I planted three trees and dug 4 beds for asparagus, and at some point during this I lay down in the rye and took a power nap. Sleeping in a field of rye in my dirty overalls with the sun overhead and a fragrant breeze blowing was marvelous.

As for the inspector, if you imagine Dewey from Malcolm In The Middle as a bald 70-year-old man with a deliberate, measured manner and crisp plaid short-sleeved button-down shirt, you've got the idea. He slowly went through everything he'd found, showed us around the property, pointed out the dangerous electrical work, the sagging floors that needed attention to the joists, the need to replace the chimney and furnace, the bird holes in the exterior walls. He described the method of construction, and why it's not used anymore (it gives the house no strength and is a firetrap).

I think the deciding moment may have come when he calmly pushed his screwdriver deep into one of the outside boards and mentioned rot.

Nothing he said surprised me, absolutely nothing, but it was good for M. to hear it from a professional. At one point, she stopped asking how much it would be for each repair and asked how much it would be to demolish the house. The price range she got was pretty reasonable, so it looks like a tear-down party is in the future.

But I loved being out there, digging and planting and snuggling the neighbor's cat. On our ride back from lunch, a wild turkey hen crossed the road in front of us with her babies and after I'd left, M called me to tell me a doe had come out of the woods to watch her.

I'll be back soon with my tent for an overnight.

 

Poem of the Day

(Courtesy of SP, who forwarded it to me after pulling it from Jenny G's blog, because he's such a fan!)

You can hunt and you can forage,

Pull your dictionary from storage,

Open every clasp and door hinge,

Look for solace in your porridge,

But however strong your courage,

There's no word that rhymes with purple.

"Soon it will be YOUUUUU who comes begging to MEEEEE!"

So today my pal B and I went to see Drag me To Hell. I love horror movies, but have no stomach for the gruesomely violent, often misogynistic slaughterfests that are offered up these days. DMTH not only got decent reviews, it looked really goofy and fun and predictable in that good way.

And it was all of that. Unfortunately, we were burdened with a row of teens in back who NEVER SHUT THE FRICK UP, but it's not like any plot was lost among the endless giggling and chatter. 

Like any good schlock movie, there were holes in the logic that you could drive a truck through, but that only added to the fun (Why is it that a woman with the power to conjure up the top demon from hell can't conjure up a mortgage payment? How is it that a twenty-something loan processor at a tiny bank can afford to live alone in an adorable house right outside LA? How was she able to excavate an entire grave by herself in just a few hours? And really, who cares?)

Justin Long (also known as The Mac from the Mac/PC ads) is edibly adorable as the stand-by-your-demon-haunted-girlfriend guy. I whispered to B, "Know why he's so reliable? Because he's a Mac." But when the ADORABLE kitten entered the picture, B whispered, "Nothing good can come of this," and she was right. When Perfect Boyfriend handed the kitten to the protagonist you could almost see "NOTHING THIS CUTE EVER HAS A BRIGHT FUTURE IN A HORROR FILM" flashing on the screen.

She had a Mac laptop; he had an iPhone (NUDGE NUDGE). It was delightful to see a copy of Vegetarian Planet in the girl's kitchen: she's a vegetarian animal-lover who volunteers at the animal shelter; we know this because she blurts it all out in one sentence to a spiritualist-- this is what passes for character development here -- during a discussion of the kinds of stresses that can drive people to animal sacrifice in order to appease demons. (It was at this point that B and I looked at each other knowingly and mouthed, "ADIOS, KITTEN.")

All in all, very good fun if you don't expect epic movie making and prefer your characters simple. The shock was all soft-core gross-out clearly aimed at teens. No sex, no real gore, just lots of goo and crawlies and nosebleeds and spooky good fun (The Evil Haunted Hankie alone is worth it). 

Go, enjoy, and may all your cakes be eyeball-free.

Just when you thought there couldn't be room for one more queen...

Congratulations to SP, who is now the proud stepfather of several thousand daughters and a few layabout sons. With the arrival of his new hive of bees (a.k.a. Anastasia BeeverHausen), SP has taken on the mantle of Beekeeper.  SP tells me that his musical sponsor is Sting.  

"Look, Penelope! All the ModCons!"

SP: Bride of Beekenstein. (I wonder who got him such a nice veil?!?!?)

For the video, which picks up SP's aura (either that, or he's beaming down from the Mothership), click here.

Sometimes the voices in your head make the most sense.

SP and I were discussing today our inability to stay focused and unfragmented. His job makes him crazy, and he's dealing with visas for his upcoming trip to Mongolia. In my case, because I'm very goal-oriented (think Miranda when Steve just wants to cuddle: "How long? I do best when I have an endpoint.") I feel best when I'm working on something, when I have structure. Thing is, now that I'm unemployed, the overarching obsession is that I'm missing an opportunity to Discover My Purpose. It's been three months; should I have started a certificate in counseling? Learned a computer language? Become fluent in Spanish? Instead of a biological clock, I have an ontological clock, and its ticking just keeps getting louder. 

I read an article about people who retrofitted a vintage Airstream trailer with self-sustaining power systems, and I curse myself for not spending money -- when I had it -- on life on the open road. I could have bought a pickup, an Airstream, and be living in Montana, working as a waitress at a diner and screwing cowboys until the next wind blows me back onto the road.

I could start a Master's In English. Learn German/French. Teach English to Mexicans. Attend an Obama for America healthcare-campaign meeting. Justify every breath I take.

You see how it goes. I did sign up for a class in QuickBooks 2008 to brush up my skills there, which took some of the pressure off. (It's at a city college - if you've seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, it's where she goes for computer classes. It's near an El stop that reeks of grease from the fried-chicken store underneath it.)

So in between sending out resumes to employers who never respond, I've begun stripping the woodwork in my living room. Doing this while keeping yourself/your cats/your rabbits from getting cancer is no small feat, and my living room looks rather Downtown Mogadishu-ish

(-esque?).

Mondays and Tuesdays are my non-babysitting days, so I try to make the most of them (I'm already getting worked up because I feel that I should use them to the max, i.e., drive to Milwaukee/Minnesota/Indiana-James Dean's grave. Tick, tick, tick...) So after sending out a resume and mailing my sister's birthday card, and riding the bike for a bit to keep the kinks out of my hips (and because with all this time I should be able to have a perfectly worked-out body. tick, tick, tick..), I settled down to the next leg of window-stripping (I've cut myself some slack and have as a goal just the windows at first).  The process is heat gun, then paint stripper to remove residue, then scraping, then sanding. Then muscle cream and natural relaxants.

So I was outside heat-stripping a window sash and I realized I hadn't painted any more paintings, and had though to get a series done. Tick, tick, tick...

"But this needs to be finished," I thought.

Then the voice said, "But it's not making you any money."

Ah. Good point. Excellent point.  I finished the sash, put it in the basement, and tomorrow will start the next painting.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A Good, if Meteorologically Schizophrenic Day

Yesterday was bright and warm so I biked along the lake to The Loop to the Cook County Recorder of Deeds to get some condo documents. Along the way I passed by my old neighborhood, and saw a building transformed.

On the corner of a busy street is an old building that used to be an auto-repair shop. You could see that is used to be beautiful; tall decorative cement sculpted ornaments adorned the front, but its windows had been covered with plywood and it housed broken cars.

Now it had a new brick exterior, a lovely blue-grey, and the cement ornamentation had been cleaned. It look gorgeous, although not completed. I crossed the street to get a closer look at the permits posted to see what it would be. A woman stood looking up at it.

"This place is beautiful," I commented. "What a difference."

"Thank you," she said. 

"This is yours?"

"Yes."

The designer was also there, and she introduced me. He gave me his card and they told me the plans for the place: it's going to be an art gallery and public space, and the city is going to bump out the curb so that people can sit. It sounds great.  They told me I could come back and take a tour of the inside; the way they described it, it's fantastic.

Then to the bank, then to the lake. After a short ordeal with a microfilm machine and city bureaucracy, I headed to my old building to meet a former co-worker, who had agreed to scan the document for me and email it to me.  We're having lunch tomorrow. 

I headed back, enjoying the bike through The Loop towards the bike path, which is far less death-defying when it's not rush hour. I stopped  at a women's restroom along the bike path. Chicago still maintains its old brick public park bathrooms, and can I just say, the place was clean, and there were soap and paper towels.

When I emerged, it was raining. Ok. I kept biking, turing off at Foster to head up Clark. At Devon I went to Clark-Devon Hardware to get some sanding supplies, and when I got out the temperature had dropped 10 degrees. It was CHILLY. I pedaled home as fast as I could, freezing in my tank top, shorts and Tevas.

Finished one of SP's birthday presents, ate some watermelon, and now it's time for bed.