The school year is not that long. It has many holidays. It is closed most of the summer. The field is directly across the street from my house. It is like having a park outside the front door. Lots of soccer games take place on the field in all seasons, sometimes a little lacrosse (the sport of the affluent) and a lot of T-ball. The little kids are the best. Clumps of them running after the soccer ball. Kids do not annoy me in the least.
People using the field as a dog park cause the most issues. The kids at school do not cause any issues, even though the core age is middle school, and they tend to wander onto the front lawn, the school bus drivers tend to throw their cigarette butts on the same lawn – none of that is very annoying. It is the people with their dogs that really piss me off. Regular dog walkers happen by the house all day. When someone has their dog off-leash in the field – the field without 4 locking fence sections – inevitably the dog gets loose and starts to terrorize the people walking by.
A few months ago, same thing happened. A woman brought her 2 unruly dogs to the park, let them off the leash. They were bounding up and down the field barking like crazy. The couple who walked by the house with their tiny fuzzy poodle were descended upon by one of the barking mad dogs. The man started kicking at the snarling thing and screaming while his wife, holding the poodle in a clutch cowered in terror. I came outside and told them to come in.
And then I let loose on the woman in the field, who had done nothing at all except stare at her dog leaping all over the people. “Get your fucking dogs together and go somewhere else. This is not a dog park!”
“Ok, ok,” she said. “I’m leaving.”
“Do not come back,” I screamed in a not-neighborly way I wasn’t proud of.
“I won’t,” she yelled back in a non-aggressive way.
I am never proud of losing my temper. I am a fiery Italian and I run pretty hot (but rarely cold). It has its benefits, but sometimes I am wrangling myself to calm down. True to her word, she has not returned. It continues regardless. Yesterday a guy with a huge Doberman was running him up and down the field.
On Monday, at work, I slammed my phone down so hard at least 3 coworkers looked up at me. Not great.
I had attempted to cancel a camping reservation for this weekend but the woman would not refund my credit card unless my spouse called. She referred to us as a kind. As in, your kind. That’s so gay-90’s, and it infuriated me to be itemized into a thing instead of a person. Still should not have mashed down that phone, and I didn’t get my refund, either.
It reminded me of when I invited my mother to Mother’s Day brunch at this restaurant called Wildlfower – a delightful little eatery long since closed. She arrived, but she looked uncomfortable from the onset, fidgeting around in her chair like a 12 year old. Before the food arrived, she was out with it. She worried all these people would think she was one of those…you know, like you. Yes, goddamnit, a gay. That still pisses me off, 2 decades later.
Needless to say, it took me a long time to invite her out again. A parent’s word carries a lot of weight, even an unstable parent.
I’m almost done with Tales of the City, book 1. It is fast, easy reading. If I were reading the Kindle version, I would have at my disposal a lexicon for all of the 1970’s jargon, which flies mostly over my head. e.g. Drip-dry shirt, Clip-on four-in-hand tie. Mostly references to social aspects of the period. I like to not obsess over it. One need not know every single thing to absorb the generality of the story.
In the garden last night, the hose hit a tiny bunny whose little shaking body I failed to notice in the dense wildflowers. He leapt and fell (several times) up the river rocks and back down, rolling into a ball, totally freaked out. He made it to the yard and down the concrete basement steps where he ran into the walls several times before I picked him up and held him to my chest. I was a little afraid to pick him up, but he needed it. Cupping my hands over each other, the darkness calmed him down. I set him in the foliage again and pulled a mutant carrot from the garden. Have at it, Mister Bunny.
I’ve been following the story of the killer whale J50. She lost her calf almost two weeks ago, and has been carrying it with her since. Everyone in the Orca J-pod has a number. J35 isn’t doing well, either. She is 4 years old, and has lost a lot of her body weight recently. Everything about this is alarming the human population who want to retrieve the calf and feed the starving J35. Endangered or not, is it on us to get involved? It’s incredibly moving in a number of ways, some of which I find disturbing, such as hand-feeding them the same food supply we have deprived them of.
My friend sent me a picture of her grandmother in her casket (almost live, on location) yesterday morning at work. It’s hard to remember people after they die. Particularly their voices. I keep wondering if I will remember my mother’s. My friend said her mom was not happy about the picture-taking during the wake, but later recanted at the thought of forgetting particulars about the moment. The outfit, the pin on the jacket, the look of it all together.
Thunder is rumbling and it’s time to face the day. I will not mash the phone today.