First: my radio silence of late. I think this site is in transition. To what, I’m not sure. Rather than just let things dangle, eventually to wither and fall off, I’m going to redesign cryjack.com. Which, I hope, will make my goals for my blog a little more clear. It’s not that I don’t have things to tell you–I’m just not sure how I want to get my message across.
In the meantime, it’ll probably look a little jinky around here as I try different designs and move things around. I’ve been writing this blog since 2005 and am closing in on 900 posts–no small feat in the fickle world of blogging–and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. I just need to regroup. Please bear with me.
On to the title of this post. This morning whilst skipping to my car to go to work (#sarcasm), I saw two dead birds in the driveway. They didn’t look like they were attacked by a cat or angry squirrel. They were pretty and the same sort of bird–brownish-gray with a yellow-tipped tail. Probably cedar waxwings. James was still home, so I called him out to see the carnage. He smartly identified the likely culprit. Not a cat. The basketball goal.
Closer inspection showed their little heads were slightly askew on their necks, and they were just a couple of feet from the base of the goal, inches from each other. They must not have seen the plexiglass backboard as they zipped around eating berries and singing their little bird song. It likely was instant, so I suppose in the cedar waxwing world there are shittier ways to go. Small consolation.
Finally, Home Depot. Do they have some kind of work-release partnership with a late-middle-age-inappropriate-white-guy farm? The last two times I’ve gone, I’ve had an awkward interaction with an employee. (I realize that awkward interactions stick to me like pollen on a black car, but still.) The Home Depot by our house is rarely busy, so you don’t spend much time wandering around before someone asks if they can help you.
A couple of weeks ago, I was looking for furniture bumpers, only I didn’t know that’s what they’re called. When a guy asked if he could help me, I said, “I need those squishy things you put on the back of furniture.” He didn’t know what I was talking about. So I got more descriptive. “Like, to keep the bedframe from scraping the wall–I just painted it.” I didn’t say this in a scandalous way. There was no raised eyebrow or heh-heh to my delivery. You should have seen the raised eyebrow and heh-heh and oh-yeah coming off the guy, though. Super fucking awkward.
And then last night after work, I stopped in to get a new aerator for my bathroom faucet. The guy helping me said they were near the floor. “They want us to lay down on the floor to get ’em.” Which he proceeded to do. Got down on his side, bent his elbow and propped his head on his hand, as if he were reading a romance novel on the beach. “Do you need a female or a male?” Really, all I needed was for him to get out of my way so I could pick up what I wanted. By squatting, not lying on the floor. When he’d handed me the item, I said thanks and quickly walked away, unsure if I was supposed to help him up. I passed another customer and wondered what he thought about the dude on the floor.
James says that no one offers to help him when he’s wandering around Home Depot. I responded with one word: tits.