rants

Vintage Chenille Designer Fabric Girl Patchwork Quilt with Fuchsia Fringe (Photo credit: Nesha’s Vintage Niche)

Mmm hmm, we’re all human, want to love and be loved, put our pants on one leg at a time; insert whatever cliche feels right to you here. But there are differences between those who worry about paying the rent and those who don’t, same as there are differences between men and women. Then again, maybe it’s just me.

I don’t make too many plans, but for as much as I lecture myself not to do it, I still dream. I dream of my beach house, I dream of a 135 gallon tank stocked with the flashiest fish and corals money can buy. I dream of buying my kids everything they need when they need it, I dream of a brand new fully loaded van, a little hybrid for myself and another one for Man Child. I dream of being able to take Flower Child to the absolute best doctors to maximize her quality of life and her joy, no matter where they might be, or how much it would cost, of being able to search out and pay for a school that truly fits her needs. I dream of Virginia Woolf, and being able to say yes, I have a room of my own to write in, and the time to do so. I dream of indulging the shoe whore who lives inside me, letting her out. I dream of being able to say to the fabulous fancy schmancy schools that have given scholarships to my boys, “Here, take it back. Let me write you a check x 2, so you can offer scholarships to two more kids who need and deserve their shot.”

Dreams don’t cost anything, some would even argue they’re food for the soul. I’m not sure which side of that argument I’d take. Plans, though, plans are something else. Plans are what people do when they have enough, and some extra. When decisions aren’t made out of panic and absolute necessity, but careful thought.

What’s that old saying? Man makes plans and God laughs? I was on Facebook yesterday, trying to catch up on the “news” of my online friends, and saw someone had posted a map of the US, illustrating how many hours would need to be worked in each state at minimum wage each week in order to pay (fair market) rent on a two bedroom apartment. Some were much worse than others, but not one state would afford a two bedroom if you only worked 40 hours. I live here in Gotham City, so that wasn’t exactly shocking. What was shocking were the comments made on the side. So much self-righteousness I was afraid to type a response, surely a viscous sludge that reeked of pomp and circumstance would ooze from between the keys. “Just get another job!…They shouldn’t have had children they couldn’t afford!…Join the army!…Share the apartment with another family!…Who told those people to procreate (yes, I’m well aware I already wrote that, but it was mentioned many times)…Let them go back to their own countries!…”

I don’t know any of the people who posted those comments. I don’t know if they go to the union meeting on Tuesday, the PTA meeting on Wednesday, or church on Sunday. I do know that I, and others I know like myself and my family, used to make plans. It doesn’t take much; the loss of a job, a real estate bubble expanding and then bursting, a diagnosis of a chronic medical condition, to push Average Jane/Joe off the solid weave and onto the fringe. Staying on the fringe and not falling into society’s lint pile, well, that takes a lot. Focus, strength, determination, maybe even the remnants of faith in a better life, possibilities, and dreams.

Columbidae II (Photo credit: Iñaki Mateos)

Pigeons. They aren’t cool, cute, or sweet. They’re noisy and filthy. Yeah, yeah, get off my lawn.

And when I say noisy, I mean loud, obnoxious sounds that make my head want to explode. I thought they were related to doves? a type of dove? These things don’t coo, their sounds are a harsh scraping, like if you turn the key into the ignition too far, but about 5 octaves higher. Do I sound like a cranky old lady? Good, better that than one of the ~~old biddies~~, errr, sweet older women who drag out bags of bread and birdseed that weigh more than they do to feed the things each day.

They produce many pounds of bird shit per bird, per year. Bird shit that covers the sidewalks, buildings, terraces, clothing, hair, and anything else you can think of. When Man Child was in elementary school, there was a woman who would stand at the corner each morning, spreading crumbs so the pigeons would spread their crap. Getting to the front door of the building was like crossing a minefield. The sidewalk looked like it had been painted and the not so little white, red, and brown bombs dropped regularly from above. Hello, pigeons carry diseases, transferred by their shit. Hell, House even had an episode centered around one of those lovely illnesses.

14+ year old workman’s clothing (Photo credit: Aidan Whiteley)

When it’s sunny, they’re scraping, when a storm is coming, they’re scree screeing, when it’s raining, they’re a cacophony of screaming that is not to be believed, if you’re unfortunate enough to be taking shelter under a favored scaffolding–or if you have a neighbor you share a terrace with who does nothing to discourage the things! There’s a divider between our portion of the terrace and hers, but the divider has a sizable gap at the top and bottom. So they can walk right onto our portion of the terrace, and they love sitting on top of that divider, dropping crap bombs on both sides. Yeah, no thanks. I went looking for pigeon spikes, to prevent them from sitting on top or walking through the bottom, but those spikes would have equaled an unhealthy dent in the grocery budget.

So, we’re the urban equivalent of the rural homes people poke fun at. You know the ones, with rusted out Chevys on their lawns up on cement blocks, and bald 4×4 tires propping up sagging porches. Only instead of a front yard, this is my terrace. There’s a nifty thing we reefers use in our tanks, purchased at Home Depot type stores, called egg crate. Basically, it’s sheets of thick plastic gridding, safe to use in a coral reef tank for all kinds of things; frag racks, dividers in a sump, etc. Being a reefer, I of course had some egg crate in the apartment. Husband clipped it to fit the space between the top of the terrace divider and the bottom of the terrace above us. Other assorted crap like not in use orange Homer buckets (another reefing must) line the space underneath the divider, so they can’t walk through. Now they’re nesting, laying eggs on the neighbor’s half of the terrace.

The other day Flower Child and I were walking to the grocery store. We saw a pigeon standing on the roof of a parked car, scree-screeing away. An odd sight indeed. Ten steps further, we saw a dead pigeon on the ground, looked like it had been run over. FC said, “Oh, the other one must be telling his friends to come to the funeral.” I would have sent a floral arrangement, but they’d have shit all over it.