Soapbox

   A few months ago a young woman "friended" me on Facebook. She has an obviously made up poetry "street" name and I have never met her, but we had a common friend in my poetry group, so I said "yes". All she ever seems to post is the occasional poem. They are very, very different from the stuff I write- but that's cool, right? It's good do stretch. Mostly based on the Bible and sex- which there is plenty of in the Bible. And once in a while they were kind of interesting. (I never read the comments though, because she and her friends all talk in letters, like texters, and usually, in effect, just make silly noises at each other)

     About a week ago, for the first time, she "tagged" me in a poem she wrote, like she particularly wanted me to read it. So I did. It was a rather crude piece about how women are only supposed to have sex with men, and vice versa, because asses are just for pooping and what is your "eden" for if you don't let a man stick his thing in it? So don't believe that crap about gay being the way people are born because there's a reason men are born with Jimmies and women with Edens.

    Yeah, really erudite stuff.

    And I thought "You little bitch. You read the stuff I post. You may not know that I have close and beloved  family members who are gay, but you know my position on gay rights. You've seen my posts about Coming Out Day, etc. And you didn't just write this, you specifically sent your crude little "4th graders playing doctor behind the gym" piece of trash to ME to try to make a statement!"

    But I just didn't have the time or the need to get upset about it. Hell, I don't even know her! I thought for about 5 seconds before I blocked her ass. Gone baby gone, in 60 seconds. And I didn't think much more about it.

     Then today- I got a friend request from her. "XYZ wants to be your friend on Facebook"
      Are you kidding me? Are you f**king kidding me?
      First of all, I was told that once you blocked someone they couldn't find you, even if they did a search for you. Clearly that was wrong information. Second-  are you kidding me? Does she think I accidentaly blocked her? Of course not. So why in the world would I re-friend her ass, if I blocked her once? Does she really feel that strong a need to tell me the purpose behind God giving me an Eden? She's like the street front preacher who, not content with your rejecting their "Repent- the end is near!" crap on the street, follows you home!

     I considered sending her a message saying "Not in a million years. Not if you won a Pulitzer prize for your crude little poetic turds. Not if Oprah personally called and begged me to friend you. "
     There was no "Reject with extreme prejudice" option to the request, so I hid it. It seemed insufficent, but  it was the only option other than accepting it. All I can say is, she'd better not try again. Right now, I just don't have the time to worry about some crazy woman I've never met, but if she keeps bugging me, I could find the time. Oh yeah.

    It's slow right now in custom framing, so today I spent 5 hours in the warehouse, unpacking Christmas decorations. I unboxed and sorted onto carts santa-this and snowman-that and angel-the other things until I thought my brain would bleed.
    It was a little bit surreal, too, listening to halloween muzak and unpacking boxes of Christmas items that were made in China. I finished my shift covered with more glitter than a drag queen. This year almost everything is either sequined or glittered. I unpacked a box of 16 inch high nutcrackers covered in gold sequins. Never saw anything so  tacky in my life.  Started calling them "the Pimp-crackers" for obvious reasons. But you know what? they will probably fly off the shelves. Why, America? Why?

     While opening and unwrapping dozens and dozens and dozens of assorted Christmas cookie tins, I had a flash back to last year, spending hours on the floor putting dozens and dozens and dozens of Christmas tins in shelves, thinking "Enough already!"  But then we'd sell them all, and put out more the next week.
     It is my belief that enough Christmas tins have been manufactured just in the last 5 years that every person on earth should have one by now. Hell, every person in America could have one just from the ones JoAnns has sold. I think peasants in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan probably keep things in old Christmas tins from the USA.
    Our biggest sellers are a set in assorted sizes that say "Peace" "Love" and "Joy". It would be nice to have a set that say "Reduce", "Reuse" and "Recycle" because I"m pretty sure people  just throw these damn things out every year to make room for next years' tins.

      "How are you doing back here?" Rachelle asked when she came back to get something that was on hold.
     "If Santa Claus walked in here right now, I would kick him in the nuts" I said as I ripped open yet another box of stuffed Santa doorknob hangers.
     Now in my entire life I believe the only thing I have ever felt the need to hang from my doorknob was the occasional sweater  that I was too lazy to open the closet for, and yet apparently we anticipate that at least 100 people in Columbus are going to feel that their house is bare and Christmas is not complete without a Santa or a snowman to hang from their doorknob. Go figure.
      I loaded an entire cart with outdoor decorations: Santas and snowmen and reindeers in cute little hats with sticks up their asses so you can jam them in the front yard. Most  of them say pithy things like "Christmas is almost here!" apparently for people whose neighbors do not have calendars, I guess.  
     Whatever. I shouldn't complain. Yes, it's junk and most of it is ugly. Yes, if people gave half the money they normally spend on useless junk like this to charities there wouldn't be hungry children at Christmas… but I should just go with the flow. Who am I to begrudge the world a little decoration during the cold, dark months of the year, right?

    Then I found the 8 boxes of "wreaths" made entirely out of neon colored, glitter-sprinkled bells.

     Yeah, I'm pretty sure the human race is doomed.

     My street, despite being named "Cedar Willow" has a dearth of both of those types of trees, but the sidewalks are lined with locust trees, which possess millions of tiny leaves. Usually they turn colors at different speeds but this year, like girls who call ahead to plan what they will wear to school the next day, they seem to have all decided to change at the same time. I came home from work and the late afternoon sun lit up the entire street, as every tree had changed to a warm, bright yellow and seemed to glow.    
     A few days later, after some pleasant drifts of gold here and there, they apparently said "…aaaaand- all drop!" and they all came tumbling down.

   So now the fun begins.
   Those tiny leaves just will not come up when you mow over them, unlike the nice, curled maple leaves. And even a rake with small tines lets half the leaves pass through with each stroke, so you go over and over the same spot. Fortunately, I am not OCD about my yard. I make a good effort and then figure a few leaves left behind just feed the soil, right?
    I used to have a leaf blower/sucker from Black and Decker that I used to suck up the leaves after I raked them into piles, because not only are they tough to rake together but they're tough to pick up. It chewed the leaves up a bit too, which was nice, and helped them compost faster. I think a little stick got stuck in it last year, but at any rate, the motor burned out. Bye bye modern technology.

    Down the street I have a neighbor who has one that certainly blows leaves. Last week as I headed out to walk the dogs, he was in his front yard, determinedly blowing those itty bitty leaves toward the street. It wasn't easy because they don't offer much wind resistance. The dogs and I went a few blocks and when we came back he was still at it. Then I went to the grocery store and when I returned, 2 hours after I walked the dogs, he was still blowing leaves.
     Either the blower was not up to the job, or he was getting every single leaf out from between the blades of his grass, damnit. I thought about how much electricity it must take, not to mention the time and effort. How much easier is 2+ hours of waving that blower around than 20 minutes of raking? Not much, I think.

    The next morning as I was getting in my car to go to work, he was at it again! Well, there are still a few stragglers on the trees, you know. Plus the wind was blowing from my yard toward his, so I was probably contributing. So today I tackled my leaves. I have 2 locust trees to his one, both of which are bigger than his. In an hour my yard was- certainly not immaculate, but tidied. And I got an upper body work-out and saved electricity.
    I don't get leaf blowers. But I really wish I had that machine to suck them up.

    I think the moral of the story is that no good can come of asking a woman to cook.

    I don't cook much these days for a variety of reasons: among them are that I'm lazy, no two people in my family seem to like the same foods any more and I never was a very good cook anyway. But I feel guilty about that, also for a variety of reasons: the added expense of eating out, the questionable nutrition and all those commercials about how your kids will flunk school and end up on drugs if you don't eat dinner together at the table.

    So at the last minute I decided to cook a little something Thursday night. After the meal I was cleaning up the kitchen (oh yeah, that's another reason I don't like to cook) and grabbed a few utensils that I didn't want to put in the dishwasher: two wooden spoons and the knife I had chopped broccoli with. None of them were particularly dirty, so I held them under running water and gave them a quick once-over with the little hand scrubby gizmo.
    A little too quick, and of course the next thing I know I've flung the things into the sink and grabbed a dishtowel, shouting "Ted! Ted! Oh s**t, I cut myself!" Of course it was one of those super sharp ninja-chef knives too, so as I squeezed, hard,  I was relieved to feel that my thumb was, at least, still attached to my hand.

   Ted, who was in the process of changing out of his work clothes, ran out into the hall.
    "How bad is it? DO you think you need to go to the Emergency Room?"
    "I don't know- I"m afraid to look yet!"
     "Well, can it wait until I get some pants on?"  I carefully wiggled the end of the thumb a bit and, deciding that all major ligaments must be intact, nodded.
He hurried back into the bedroom just as Steve's door flew open and he ran into the hall.
    "I have pants!!" he announced. "What would you like me to do?"
I sent him to get bandages and antibiotic ointment and Ted, now fully dressed, led me back to the sink and persuaded me to take off the dishcloth and let him take a look at the damage.

     I held my thumb over the sink and surveyed the wound. A decent sized chunk of skin and flesh looked to have been turned into to a flap.
     "Huh- it's really not bleeding much…" I murmured.
      ….3…2….1…. ghhhussshhhhh!

     After some discussion and wincing observation it was decided not to go to the hospital: as long as I kept squeezing, it really wasn't bleeding that badly. We washed it, wrapped it in gauze and I wrapped a cold pack around it and lay down to watch television.

   "Ted, I"m wounded" I pointed out after a while. "I really need some medicinal chocolate, and I don't think there's any in the house."
   "You have a son, and he has a car" he observed.
    And pants I thought, but still felt loath to send him on an M&M's run at 9 PM just because I was stupid enough to cut my thumb. At the next commercial break I went downstairs and rooted around in the freezer. A minute later I was back.
    "Never under-estimate the ability of an unhappy woman to find chocolate!" I shouted triumphantly and tossed him a mini Twix ice cream bar, one of the last 2 in the house. "Chocolate, and ice cream, and cookie-   in a 90 calorie package!" I gloated.

     I wasn't sure how work would go the next day with my left thumb not exactly opposable, but when I got up and peeled off the bandages, it didn't look too gruesome. I padded and wrapped it up well, to both cushion it and keep it from bending too much and perhaps breaking open again.
   By this time Ted had gone to work and I realized that I was going to have to wear slip-on shoes, because buckles and laces just were not happening with one monster unbendable thumb. (Zippers, by the way- tough with the right hand when the fly opens to the left)
   I got in the car and headed to work. The first sunglasses I came across in the van were the ones with the cute bright red frames that I got for $4 at the thrift store, but (probably because I got them for $4 at the thrift store) they sit kind of crooked on my face. The car was cold but I could only get my fingers partway in my left glove since gloving my thumb was out of the question. So I pulled up to the window at Tim Hortons, smiled at the women through my crooked red glasses and reached for my cup of coffee with my half-on glove with the flappy fingers and giant white thumb sticking up. She just looked at my hand, and looked at the cup. I hitched around and reached out with both hands for the cup.
    "I have grasping issues this morning" I said.
     "Uh…. huh…" she said.

    All things considered, I was very lucky. I was really careless and that knife was really sharp. If it had hit at a slightly different angle and bitten deep instead of sliding mostly under skin, I would have had a lot worse problems than just trying to tie my shoes. I made it through the day without banging it and seeig stars too many times, and was even somewhat productive. On the way home I thought about how sharp the blade is and remembered the way it felt when it sliced my flesh, and honestly I broke out in a cold sweat.

    So hopefully I have learned my lesson: respect the knives, and call out for pizza.