Bloodletting in Rogers Park

So last night The Boy I sit for reached into the recycling bin in his kitchen and sliced the bejeeezus out of his finger on a metal can. I arrived today to find the kids smiling and happy, and the boy with a hospital ID on his ankle and his finger wrapped in Band Aid. He'd taken four stitches, but was handling it very well.

"The T-shirt is ruined, though; it's covered in blood," the dad said. I was disappointed; it was one of my favorites, a yellow T-shirt with a cartoon picture of fries and a shake, and some Japanese lettering.

If it were up to me, I'd keep the shirt, get a fabric pen, and write "baby's first mass murder" on the front.

But that's just me.

Yep.

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The more, the less.

So a side-effect of almost four months of baby sitting, despite the fact that "my" kids remain reasonably manageable:

I can't stand kids.

Now, it's no secret that I've never really liked kids, but seriously, I can't stand the sight or sound of them now. I suspect it's not kids per se, but the fact that from what I see, parenting has basically become about doing handsprings to mollify/assuage your child and respond to its every whim in a constant attempt to please it, and when kids misbehave, the rest of us have to be held hostage to the New Leniency, because it's no longer considered bad manners to let your child's behavior ruin everyone's good time.

It's bad. At a party I went to last weekend, one child, five going on six, had a meltdown because he couldn't keep a bottle of beer he'd opened (his dad had allowed him to open beer for people, since the kid enjoyed using the mounted opener). We're talking full-blown kicking, screaming tantrum. The dad just kind of smiled and laughed and held the kid still while he went nuts. Where I was sitting, about twenty feet away, people near me made "poor thing" noises.

I said, "There is no reason for a child that age to behave that way unless he is mentally retarded."

One woman began telling me that no, kids that age...

"And if he does," I continued, "the dad should immediately take him into the apartment, away from the rest of the guests (because guess what Dad - listening to your kid scream is NOT FUN), into a back room, and he should get in his face and tell him he has five seconds to stop or he's going home. And make good on that promise."

And people look at me as though this is some draconian expectation. Good freaking grief.

A man around the house....

Went to a rooftop party in Logan Square today; a former coworker and her husband were hosting it as a reunion. I got to see some people I'd worked with and liked, and it was nice to hang and chat and share battle stories. The hosting couple are very fun; they have the top condo and the entire rooftop. The husband, Sal, is in construction and had decked the entire thing and erected a gazebo. With the blue sky, the (finally) summery weather, and the top-floor breeze, it was fabulous.

The wife gave me a tour of their place, which is very nice, very large, and very well done, since Sal had made many customizations himself. Back on the deck, Sal fired up the grill and deep-fried some Tater Tots. I went to the wife.

"Your husband is awesome."

"Isn't he though? I always say, 'Everyone should have a Sal, but you can't have mine.'"

I asked for dibs on cloning. I enjoyed myself immensely and biked back home, trying to work off some of the ten pounds of food I put away.

I may hire myself out as their housekeeper.

Pretty Much Dead On.

Get Your Cyborg Name

Of Fires and Frying Pans

I recently came across a posting on USAjobs for a Refuge Clerk with the National Fish and Wildlife Service. The location? Galena, Alaska. Here is a blurb from the description:

"Koyukuk/Nowitna National Wildlife Refuge headquarters is located in Galena, which is located on the north bank of the Yukon River, 270 air miles west of Fairbanks. In 2000 there were 675 residents of Galena. Galena is inaccessible by road, relying on river cargo in the brief summer for the bulk of its needs. The 3.5 million-acre Koyukuk National Wildlife Refuge lies within the floodplain of the Koyukuk River, in a basin that extends from the Yukon River to the Purcell Mountains and the foothills of the Brooks Range. This region of wetlands is home to fish, waterfowl, beaver and moose, and wooded lowlands where bears, wolves, lynx and marten prowl."

Other sites tell of -55-degree F winters. Summers, which seem to last all of two months, reach a blazing 70 degrees F.

I thought about this job. I thought about it a lot. The number of the supervisor was actually given for people who had more questions; I'm guessing they weren't expecting a deluge. I kept looking at the number. I thought about the inaccessibility by road. I thought about the harsh weather. I thought about the remoteness. 

I thought how all of that meant little crowding. A slower pace of life. Time to read. Being truly alone if I wanted to be. No Cubs fans.

I was tempted, tantalized. I went over the logistics; I'd sell everything I owned save for the little I needed to start off there. What I could fit into a small U-Haul. I'd rent a cabin with a wood stove. Harry and George could live out their final years in the wilderness.

I did a little more research on the town, and came across some photos of a 2007 commemoration by the police department. They were being visited by their governor.

The governor of Alaska.

I've already had Blagojevich as governor. The pain is fading. But Palin?  Palin, the butt of everyone's political jokes? Palin, who made rape victims in Wasilia pay for their own rape kits? MY governor? "I can see Russia from my house" Palin? MY GOVERNOR?

No. 

Felix Senis, Felis Senix

So I've been noticing that Harry isn't as alert as he once was. I'd attributed this to the fact that he's the cat equivalent of eleventy-seven human years, but lately I've begun to suspect he's lost his hearing. That would explain many things, including why his meows have become deafeningly loud. (If he's not deaf, he's probably wondering what crack I've smoked that makes me sneak up behind him and yell "HARRY!" at the top of my lungs.)

His ears don't even twitch, and after I've sat right by him calling his name with no response, I'll pat him and he'll startle. So.

It makes me a little bit sad, but I'll be less angry with him for waking me up at night with his smoke-alarm yowling.