Goodbye Columbus

I have some questions, in no particular order:

1. Can anyone tell me why we still celebrate Columbus Day?
2. Is it just an excuse for government employees to have a three-day weekend?
3. If so, why don't we all get a three-day weekend?
4. How can a country be "discovered" if it already has human inhabitants?
5. How can the alleged discoverer be hailed as a hero, when the men under his command have raped, pillaged and enslaved the native peoples of this "New World"?
6. Why does the USA celebrate this alleged discovery, when the dude came nowhere close to our soil?

I think it's way past time to abolish this ridiculous "holiday." The only thing it's good for is identifying a specific windstorm that hit the northwest back in 1962.

Portrait of the Writer as a Pissed Off Pedestrian

Today did not start out well. Not at all. The Spousal Equivalent headed out the door at 7:00 a.m., then came back in and up the stairs.

"You're not playing some kind of trick on me, are you?"

"Hmmrrggg?" (half-asleep)

"The car's gone."

I'm not sure what my reply was, probably on the order of what the f**k, but grabbed PJs and looked out the window. No shit, it's gone. After a bout of trying to remember the license number (hey, give me a break; I've moved from Oregon to Washington and back again, so the thing's had three license plates), found the insurance information and called the police. Turns out they can bring up the plate number from the VIN number, so that's good. And they sent someone out right away to take a report, which is not always expected in this town.

I've been sick to my stomach all day, as I'm sure she's headed to a chop shop or over the border. I know it's an old car, not worth much according to Kelly Blue book, but the First Husband and I drove that puppy off the showroom floor the day before my birthday in 1992. Honda Accord EX, fully loaded, green, my dream car at the time. Still handles well and is totally straight except for a cracked windshield. It's had some mechanical difficulties in recent years and I've tucked quite a bit of money under the hood, but (until now) I've known exactly where that car's been and who's driven it. For the $3000 or so that they say it's worth now I could only replace it with some piece of shit used car from post-Katrina Louisiana.

Written 10-5-05

UPDATE

This morning at 2:00 a.m. the phone rings. It's the Lane County Sheriff's Dept. They've found the car, it looks driveable, do we want to come get it or have it towed? Having some dim knowledge of the outrageous impound fees that are possible, I say we'll be there in 20 minutes.

There she sits, in the blinding light of the deputy's spotlight. At the intersection of two lonely country roads there's a large section of flat ground with some gravel, at the edge of a field. The cop says it's evidently a popular spot to dump stolen cars. They got a call from a neighbor saying that it had been sitting there for about 24 hours, which means they must have taken it from our house, driven to this spot about ten miles away, and that's it. The windows are all steamed up, I'm almost afraid to look inside. The kid's booster seat is gone, as are some carved wood panels that the SE had made on his CNC machine. The radar detector is still there, along with several softball bats and a glove (removed from their bag and tossed in the trunk, go figure), most of the tapes that were in the glove compartment, all sorts of stuff. Hell, they even left a two-way radio that was THEIRS.

So I just don't get it. While practically giddy with relief at the car's safe return, I'm stumped as to the purpose of this crime. The damned softball glove is worth far more that the booster seat and bloody well more portable as well. Not complaining, mind you, just mystified.

Nothing is harmed except the ignition, which still works but has something stuck in the far end. A coworker of mine who used to be a locksmith says we can probably just hook that out ourselves, and even brought me her lock-picking set. Don't tell anyone.

P.S. The SE just emailed me the following:

"I just ran up to Burger King for lunch and while sitting in line I found some insurance papers. They were folded up and stuffed between the seats. Check this! they weren't ours!!!!! I can't remember the name but the address is off of Prairie Rd, Junction City. (that's where they found the car - N) I think the dude who stole the car was a big f'n IDIOT. He left his name and address at the scene of the crime."

Over My Dead Body

Finally, some attention is being paid by the news media to the plight of animals left behind in the exodus from New Orleans and other ravaged areas. All along there has been some footage of dogs left stranded on rooftops and such -- which bring me to my knees every time -- but never a follow-up to what happened to the poor beast.

Some would regard me as an idiot. Bleep 'em. To me, my cat is my child. Granted, as an intentionally childless woman I really don't appreciate actual human children as much as some of my fellow homo sapiens. But this is a personal choice and really should be respected as such.

If a catastrophe did strike this area (probably have to be an earthquake here in the southern Willamette Valley) and I was at home when it happened, there is no freaking way you'd be evacuating me and leaving Sir Bentley Winston III behind. This fellow is way more than just a cat.

We found him at the pound, while checking out the dog a relative was thinking about adopting. One of the shelter employees said hey, don't you want to look at the cats? and me, being a cat person said, OK. That's when we were introduced to Resident Number Such-and-Such, a black and white domestic shorthair. Declawed, neutered, 1-1/2 years old. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. (Thanks John Lennon.) Donnie, the shelter attendant said hey, this cat is a bargain! Neutered! Declawed! (yeah, I know, but it was already done.) Don't you want to hold him? Yes. And the rest is history.

This "cat" generally comes running to greet us when we come home. His tail doesn't wag, but he flings himself to the floor and rolls over to reveal his plentious belly, which MUST be rubbed. He comes when he's called. When the weather is chilly he sleeps under the covers with us. He's recently developed the dog-like habit of begging for food in the kitchen.

And just a few minutes ago, while watching the news and then declaring to him (while rubbing his tummy) that I would NEVER never ever leave him behind he looked me in the eye and redoubled his purring efforts. He understood exactly what I was saying. Don't even try to convince me otherwise.

And by the way -- he had been scheduled for euthanization the previous morning, but Donnie (bless you wherever you now are) had begged for a stay of execution. If we hadn't come along that day, there's a good chance he'd be history. And that still tears at my heart...

Ob La Di, Ob La Da

Life goes on.

When the hurricane hit and ran, when the levee broke, there was a strong urge to write about it. But what could I write that others had not already said, and said well. Would it help to rant about the government, from Bush on down the line? Nope, it would just raise my blood pressure. Would it help to state the obvious; that this was one mother of a storm, that it will take years to regain a sense of normalcy, that my heart goes out to those who've lost everything? Nope.

So I'll tell you about the wedding we attended Saturday evening. The bride's second wedding, the groom's fourth. Yes, fourth. The groom's five, yes, five children were in the wedding party, along with the bride's son. It was held at a private residence, overlooking a pond on a perfect summer's day. The wedding had a beach theme, so all of the wedding party were in Hawaiian prints, and many guests wore Hawaiian shirts and casual wear. It all went off without too many hitches, other than a small boy falling into the pond. He was quickly fished out and ran through the crowd screaming, but it was all right. For the rest of the evening his name was "Scuba Steve," and he continued to cause mischief such as sucking on the beer-laden ice cubes from around the keg while his father virtually ignored him and his brother, who had earlier asked us for "matches to build a fire." Charming.

On Labor Day we had a small gathering, and the step-varmints discovered the oversized hula hoops we've made from irrigation tubing. Russell, who's fourteen, caught on amazingly and hooped most of the afternoon. Given that his usual past-time is sitting on the couch with his game-boy, this was a welcome breakthrough. Of course his little sister was appalled that she was not the center of attention and behaved in an obnoxious manner for most of the day. But they're alive, we're all alive, we're all together, and that's no small thing these days.

Back to School!

I've just discovered a new blog and am totally smitten. Check out The Phantom Professor. Educational and fascinating, but of course this is the opinion of a nerd who buys books such as The Facts on File Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins and Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation just for fun...

Is this how it is?

I don't post on here on a daily basis, and haven't been doing this for very long, so I was amazed the other day when I checked out my comments. There were five comments on my last blog! I was so pleased. Someone's actually reading this crap!

Until I realized that two of them were spam. Two different irrelevant comments containing apparent commercial weblinks (damned if I was going to check them out) by an anonymous poster or posters. Is this common? Do I have to forbid anonymous posts?

I know that allowing anonymous comments creates the risk of asswipes randomly criticizing whatever I write. The other day I was reading someone else's blog and was amazed at the anonymous flaming that was taking place there. You know, one of those inDuhviduals who is OK with your opinion as long as it agrees with his, and who is too yellow a coward to back up his invective with a name. (I use the male pronouns as a convenience only.)

So we'll see. One more spam comment and Anonymous bites it.

Doctor FeelNothing

Being an overweight, forty-seven year old desk jockey recently resulted in the inevitable -- a knee injury. Don't ask me what happened, it just started hurting like holy hell one day. Sure, there'd been twinges here and there for a year, and ever since moving into a two-story duplex I've been fascinated with the range of creaking and crunching sounds that my knees could produce climbing the stairs. But one fine spring morning I took my break, went for my usual six-block walk, and could barely crawl back up the stairs to work. There was no sudden snap, crackle or pop. It happened, as they say, not with a bang but with a whimper.

After enduring worsening pain, went to my doctor, x-rays showed nothing, so she referred me to an orthopedic surgeon. Of course the word "surgeon" sends up a huge warning flag; no surprise what comes next. He suspects a tear in the meniscal cartilage, recommends surgery and sends me in for an MRI. (Of course, when he gets the results he says they are "inconclusive" yet still wants to operate since it won't get better on its own. I say, slow down big boy, let's try some physical therapy, since it is getting much better on its own.)

That's not what really gripes me, though. This guy has no apparent personality. Very trim, forty-ish, average looking guy. Walks in, introduces himself, shakes my hand, then starts asking questions. There is absolutely no human connection. I might as well be typing responses to written questions. As I recall he did have me hop up on the table and he did briefly press different spots around my knee, but it didn't last more than 30 seconds (whereas the mere physical therapist examined every square millimeter of knee tissue for what seemed like 20 minutes). Then he prepares to leave, says his assistant will be in with some recommended exercises, shakes my hand again, leaves. Next visit, same thing. The handshake, the ten minute visit, another handshake, goodbye.

Of course I already have friends. I don't require this person to satisfy my need for human contact; indeed, my craving is for less human contact. What I need is to feel that I'm not just an old Buick with a bad wheelbearing. I'm a human and I really prefer to be around other semi-humans, not Dr. Android. And what do you think they're billing the insurance company? $200 per visit. At 10 minutes per visit, that computes to $1200 an hour. Or $100 per handshake.

Nice work if you can get it.