Holy Weirdness, Batman! July 16, 2008

So last weekend, John and I decided to have a little fiesta night and cook up some steak fajitas and Spanish rice.  While John was slicing the green peppers and onions in the kitchen, I decided to run upstairs for a quick shower before dinner.  Now, John is a very even-tempered person…it is a very rare occasion that he finds the need to raise his voice, so imagine my surprise when I hear him screaming at the top of his lungs (not unlike a little girl) “Oh shit, fuck, oh shit, shit, shit!”  Mid-suds I jump out of the shower, throw on a towel, and meet him in the middle of the stairs.  I expected to see the knife he was using to slice veggies sticking out of his side, but instead I see a grown man darting past me on the stairs with both hands covering his neck.

Me:  What happened?  What’s wrong?  Did you cut your neck?

John:  THERE IS A BAT IN THE KITCHEN!!

Me:  Oh, please.  It’s three in the afternoon, there is no bat in the kitchen.  I’m sure it’s a moth or something.

John:  Um, hello, I think I know what a bat looks like…and there is a huge man-eating one in the kitchen!

Me:  Uh, is that why you are covering your neck?

John:  Make fun, but I’m not giving him a chance to get at my carotid.

Me:  I’ll go downstairs and ask the “bat” to leave so you can finish dinner, okay?

John:  Sure, laugh all you want, but I’m telling you it’s a bat!

I huffed downstairs expecting to find a large flying bug or maybe even a bird zipping around the vaulted ceiling in our kitchen.  I grabbed the wicker trashcan out of the office and walked (okay, crept) through the doorway of our kitchen and found…nothing. 

Me:  What are you talking about, John!  There is noth–OH SHIT!

And there, at the very tippy-toppiest point on the wall hanging like some sort of cocoon sack is a brown, fuzzy little bat!  A bat.  IN. MY. HOUSE.  I turned tail and ran out of the kitchen with such force I’m surprised the thing wasn’t sucked clear out of the room!

John peeked his head out of the stairway to shoot me an “I told you so” look and I proceeded to do what any rational person would do…I called the police. 

Dispatcher:  Police Department.

Me:  Uh, yeah, I am going to need a couple of officers to come to my residence stat.

Dispatcher:  What seems to be the problem, ma’am?

Me:  Heh, well, there appears to be a bat roosting in our kitchen.  I would like him removed.

Dispatcher: (laughing, no less) I’m sorry, we don’t handle that sort of thing.

Me:  Um, excuse me?  Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly–There is a BAT in my kitchen!  Isn’t that what your animal control department is there for?  I have a bat–an animal–that needs to be controlled!!!! 

Dispatcher:  Ma’am, the best I can tell you is to open your doors and windows and use a broom to swoosh him out.

Me:  [10-15 minutes of me slipping into hysterics, reminding dispatcher man that I pay taxes and pay his salary, blah blah blah]

Then he hung up.

Alright, so Officer Cop-a-Doodle-Doo says swoosh him out, so that’s what I’ll do, I’ll swoosh him out.  Sounds easy enough.  Officer Doo certainly knows what he is talking about, right?…he’s one of our men in blue, for God’s sake.

I arm myself with the only thing that makes sense at the time–a racquetball racquet–and a broom for the swooshin’.  John, captivated by the hilarity of my get-up, momentarily forgets his fear and helps me tack up a blanket in the archway of the kitchen to prevent the little critter’s escape.  I then drop to the ground on my belly and start a mercenary crawl through the kitchen that would have moved a Navy SEAL to tears.  I open the window and crawl back to safety.  

Okay, ready for the swoosh.  Now, I don’t know how familiar any of you are with bats but let me tell you, there is no such thing as “swooshing a bat.”  As soon as you get the slightest bit close to the thing, he starts flying–fast and high in circles round and round. I took the broom and attempted to brush the little thing off the wall and guide him (gently) towards the window…instead, I ended up banging the broom against the wall which scared the little bugger into a high-flying acrobatics show.  Not even close to the open window.  So, once he landed (in the same place, mind you) I tried the whole thing again figuring eventually he would wise up and use that sonar to guide him into the fresh air.  Land. Tap. Hide. Fly.  Repeat…for an hour.  Eventually, he started to tire (thank God) and after the bazillionth time of the LTHF method, he flew right on out the window.

We were so tired and annoyed at that point we didn’t even bother celebrating.  We did, however, promptly close the window to casa de batcave to prevent  batbreath from returning with his whole posse.

Homeownership is exciting.

Housing Crisis, Shmousing Crisis July 9, 2008

Recently, we did what any red-blooded, economically saavy people would do during an economic downturn and bursting of the housing market bubble–we bought our first home.   When I first brought up the idea, I thought John was going to swallow his tongue from the fit of hysterics he slipped into (part laughing/part crying).  But, the more we thought about it, the more sense it made.  We have each spent the past five or six years moving from rental to rental…constantly worried about rent hikes, location, crime rates, the prohibition of pets, and so on.  Once I had done a bit of research on our mortgage options, what our budget would be, etc…convincing John was much easier than I thought. 

The new place is modest (aka small), charming (aka old), and full of potential (aka needs work), but it is ours (aka the Bank’s).  Surprisingly, though, it’s been kind of fun.  Since we’ve moved in we’ve had plenty of projects to keep us busy and we have been experimenting with colors and ideas.  Sure, it’s no mansion, but we have a nice little .13 acre at the end of a quiet suburban street, not too far from the city.  Best of all, we finally have a place to call home

The sad truth… May 19, 2008

I make $6.24/hour.  No, folks, you read that decimal point correctly–six dollars and twenty-four cents an hour.  That is slightly more than minimum wage and nowhere near a livable wage.  Let’s see, what would one hour of my hard work earn me?  A McDonald’s Happy Meal.  A pair of socks.  A ticket to a matinee movie.  I shouldn’t complain, though.  I mean, there are plenty of people out there that work harder than me and earn the same (or less).  I’m just saying…can somebody throw me a bone?  Let’s look at what an hour of work won’t buy me.  Allergy medication.  More than a gallon of gas.  A movie ticket after 5 p.m.  Let me clarify–this is the first salary position that I’ve ever held.  I had never bothered to do the per-hour breakdown because, frankly, it was more than I had been making previously and it was a full-time gig.  Then I factored in taxes and health insurance and realized that my first retail job when I was sixteen paid MORE than I am making at this very moment.  Now I will concede that my position shilling high-end blouses at the mall was only a part-time gig and I did not have any benefits, but seriously, it’s been TEN YEARS!  Ten years and $150,000 in college/grad school debt later…here I am, scouring want ads for a SECOND job and considering selling my ovum so I can possibly fill my car with gas. 

So, there you have…the sad truth that is my life.