Salt in Your Coffee

i’m not dead!

Wayback Wednesday!

My sister is awesome.  She’s probably one of my favourite people in the world.

It wasn’t always that way.

Now, every sibling relationship has its ups and downs.  Prove me wrong, but I don’t know of anyone who has not, at some point, wanted to ship their sister or brother off to charity out of aggravation.

But in this instance we are talking about a two-year-old.

“Oh, Brandie,” I’m sure you will say, “That’s why they call them the terrible twos!  That’s normal!”

No.  This is not the same.  Those two-year-olds are not insatiable, unrelenting vessels of hate.

As my mom would say, “You were such a sweet little girl.  And then we had your sister.”

I am four years older than Sister and she scared the hell out of me.

Believe me, I had good reason.

We shared a bedroom until I was 14 years old.  For some reason, even though we had bunk beds (weird, right?) she slept on a waterbed across the room.  We slept facing one another, only caddy-corner.  

She had a tiny orange kitten named Molly that she would sometimes bring to bed and sleep with.  As soon as the lights went off, the Pokey Little Puppy nightlight framing her face, Sister would squeeze that little kitten.  It would, naturally, cry out.  She would then stop squeezing and look at me across the room.

A devilish grin would creep across her face as she locked eyes with me.

“Heh, heh, heh,” she would utter, barely audible.

I had a serious problem with nightmares until about the age of ten.  Imagine that.

(Actually, they were about Critters, which I was forced to watch by a not particularly nice family member.  In a change of pace, though, I did dream that the Critters and I teamed up to take out the Care Bears once.)

Get the idea?

So yes, I was afraid of my little sister.

A couple of years ago, Sister fondly recalled, “Hey Bran.  Remember when I used to beat you up in fights?”

Like, “Ha ha… you’re four years older than me and I used to win.  You failed at fighting a two-year-old.”

I’m not sure what fights she attended, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t the same ones that I was at.

Kids – especially siblings – fight.  It happens.  It is completely normal for there to be pushing, arguing and occasionally hitting when you grow up with a sister.  

Honestly, I’m sure that I tried to fight back at first.  I’m sure I attempted to hold my position as the stronger one between the pair of us.  I mean, come on, I was the older one and she was much, much smaller than I was.

But, you know what?  I like to think of myself as a fast learner.

Gentle reader, if faced with the following options, which would you choose?

Facing a tiny toddler fueled by hate and an unquenchable thirst for blood pain tears violence?

OR

Do you desperately attempt to defend yourself from her blows, keeping in mind to protect your eyes and other, squishier bits?

You still wouldn’t end up coming out of it unscathed.  There would likely be war injuries, but you probably wouldn’t end up in (many) tears.  

I was not going to open myself up to vulnerabilities while in the process of counter-attacks.  That was just stupid.

And I couldn’t RUN.  She had learned to open doors some time ago.  My retreat would only result in backing myself into the corner of our bedroom, watching Sister open the door slowly, a wide, slow grin crawling across her face, delighted at the thought of the upcoming torture.

My Pap-paw likes to tell the story of the one fateful Easter Sunday.  

Sister and I were standing side-by-side on my grandparents’ front lawn in our Easter dresses.  I don’t remember why, but our mom had dropped us off there and gone somewhere else.  

Sister, for some unknown reason – I can only assume it was a craft decision made through rage-filled eyes – yanked firmly on my dress as I stood next to her.

Pap-paw: “Don’t do that.  Don’t pull your sister’s dress.”

Sister met his gaze.  I’m sure it was with steely determination.  She yanked on my dress again, I guess to show Pap-paw who was boss.

Pap-paw: “Do NOT pull on her dress.  I will spank you.”

It was like watching the wheels turn in Sister’s head.  I think Sister would have been an impressive poker player at this age.

Sister called his bluff and with a look of sheer disbelief on her face, she was picked up, pulled over and spanked.

My Pap-paw was my hero that day.

Our mom returned to pick us up and immediately was told the tale of the dress pulling.

She cautiously turned to look at my sister, who I am sure looked no different than she always did.

To me…

To Pap-paw…

The story is a legend to this day.  

Sister?  Can I just say thanks for not growing into a monster like we all feared?

And Pap-paw, even though I know you’re not reading this, thanks for saving me.

The neighbour chronicles: Part I

I haven’t had the greatest luck with neighbours.  It’s not just this apartment, which I have lived in for an outstanding four years now.  (Even more than a year in one place is a rarity for me.)  I have bad neighbours following me from place to place.  It’s like I’m on a list posted somewhere where odd, unusual, nosey and generally annoying people go to find their annoyees.  Yeah, I sure did make up that word.           



The list is far too great for me to delve into it all in one sitting.  Consider this Part I of the “Neighbour Sagas.”  You’re welcome.



I think it’s best for me to start with my current strange neighbour.  I don’t know too much about her.  Most of her life remains shrouded in mystery.  I kind of think that all it would take was me asking her though.  She tends to offer information that I never asked about nor wanted to know.

She has no filter.

This woman lives alone with her yappy little Yorkie named Tinkerbell. 

You think I’m joking, don’t you?  I mean… “Tinkerbell?”  Isn’t that a bit cliche? 

Perhaps it is if you’re a glamourous 20-something fashionista or heiress.  I mean, that’s the name of one of Paris’ dogs, isn’t it?  I think?  I don’t particularly follow that sort of thing anymore.

So.  Let’s call my neighbour Jeannette.  Those of you who know who I am talking about know her real name, but let’s attempt to provide her with some sense of anonymity for the sake of my sanity.  I don’t know that I could handle it if I got on her bad side.

The first day Jeannette moved in, she cornered me outside.  I don’t particularly like people I don’t know.  I am too paranoid to trust someone who just randomly comes up to me and starts a conversation for no real reason. 

It was in these first 15 minutes of meeting Jeannette that I figured out she was a few tools short of a box. 

I try desperately not to judge people by appearances.  When I was younger, I was judged a lot by my own appearance and I try not to impose that same habit on others. 

But Jeannette is five foot nothing, at least 300 pounds, has a limp, one lame eye and a very, very loud voice. 

Normally, I would just look past this, figure she’s a poor woman who’s been judged on her appearance her whole life and let it go.

Normally.

Jeannette moved in around August 2009.  I remember vividly because it was during the period that my car had completely died and I was stuck at home about 85% of the time.  Jeannette chose to ask me about my car, offering the help of a mechanic she apparently knew.  It was nice of her and I appreciated it.  At least, I would have if the conversation had stopped right then.

“I had to move because I used to work in the police force and the mafia are after me.”

Interesting.  Not exactly what I expected to be told considering I was a complete stranger to this woman and had shown absolutely zero interest in hearing about why she had moved in across from me or what drama her life held.
                   
I sort of found a way to wrap that conversation up really fast and returned to the sanctuary of my cozy apartment where I could pretend that my neighbour didn’t exist for the sake of my own sanity.

Over the course of the next year, I would become accustomed to Jeannette loud, scratching yelling outside my door.  I’m completely convinced that she stands outside in the foyer and waits for people to walk up to their apartment and then she springs an hour long conversation on them.

Sometimes I think she even waits by her peephole and watches for people she can engage in small talk.

The biggest problem I have with this is not the fact that I have to really reinforce my safety before I exit my door – though that isn’t a plus by any means.  No, the biggest problem I have with this is the fact that she’s so damn LOUD. 

You wouldn’t believe the volumes she can reach.  It’s something that is very difficult to describe to someone who hasn’t actually witnessed the spectacle.  She will stand outside, right in front of my door, for as long as she can muster, holding conversations that I can, in fact, hear with my work headphones on during the day, even with their noise reduction feature.

I’ll hear the slamming of her door and then a screech: “TINKERBELL!  GET OFF THE PORCH!”

At first, I tried to ignore it.  It was too difficult.

At one point when I was teaching myself how to drum, I had a small electronic drum kit on a round table next to my “office.”  After about two hours of Jeannette outside talking so loud to someone else that I couldn’t even work, I laid into the drums, thinking that perhaps if I made enough noise she would go away.

I kid you not.  I played so loud, drumming along with various songs I had on iTunes or on my harddrive.  I played with such vigor that it literally wore me out. 

And when I stopped, she was still out there.

That’s when I gave up.  It was a losing battle and there was no way I could out-noise her. 

I guess in a way I have kind of gotten used to it.  That doesn’t mean that I like it anymore than I did the first time, or that I’ll ever grow fond of it.

And it certainly doesn’t mean that every single time I see a moving truck in the parking lot I don’t secretly wish and hope and pray that I’m free of her.

Getting caught by Jeannette in the hallway is like being cornered by a bully on the playground.  You just know you’re in for trouble, but it’s never quite clear what the trouble is until she starts talking.

I have learned more about this woman than I have ever wanted to.  There’s so much more I could say, but I guess I’ll save it for now.  Expect regular updates.

The Dragon in the Bathroom

Because it has been over a year since that fateful night, it’s time to remember the night of the Dragon. 

Below is the original story, in all its glory.

I have an irrational fear of bugs.  No, let me rephrase that.  I have a completely ridiculous terror of all insects.  I’m not sure why, but I have had it as long as I can remember.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a ladybug or a humongous praying mantis.  It scares the hell out of me. 

My worst nightmare come true.

Since I started living on my own back in May 2009, I have just been waiting for this to become an issue.  I wake up every day with the thought of, “Well, today could be the day that I have to deal with a fire-breathing dragon an insect.”  So far I had been lucky.  The only instance of the creepy crawlies was when Gareth was visiting back in June.  Luckily, he is not afraid of them. 

Tonight, at approximately 12:20, my worst fears came to fruition. 

I live in a small one-bedroom apartment in Nashville, Tennessee.  Unfortunately, I also live near a patch of woods.  Woods, of course, means bugs and various other wildlife.  I’ve seen all sorts of things near or around my apartment building, my favourite being the skunk I lovingly named “Pedro” sitting right outside.  There are also the opossums, which I have named Einstein, Darwin and The Ugly One.  At one point Einstein would even let me pet him.

Of course, not all of these creatures are good.  There are a small amount of coyotes in the woods nearby, for instance.  A dear friend of mine once opened up her door to find one staring at her from the foyer.  The same dear friend was graced by the presence of the biggest wolf spider I have ever seen preventing her from entering her apartment one night.  Now spiders don’t scare me like insects do for some reason, but that was a pretty scary spider. 

I am not even kidding.

Along with this fear and hatred of all things six-legged comes an intense desire not to harm them.  I don’t want them to die.  I just want them to be alive somewhere else than my apartment. 

Ideally, it would work like this.

Tonight I opened the bathroom door to find one of the biggest wood roaches I have ever seen on the ceiling above my bathtub.  Ahh, the great outdoors.  These nasty little, pardon the pun, buggers get in occasionally from outside.  It doesn’t happen often, but it happens too often for me to be comfortable with it (aka never). 

If I still had anyone I knew living around me, I would have called them in a heartbeat.  Midnight be damned, this is an emergency.  However, the one person I do know here (my dear, dear friend Tony) is off in Murfreesboro this week.  I was out of luck.

I did what any reasonable, sane person would do when confronted with the situation:  I began to panic. 

My only saving grace was that the timing was near perfect.  Gareth had just woken up and at least I could have him try to console me.  After several minutes of my crying on the phone to him, sobbing about how I was just going to have to move out because there was no way I could deal with this, I remembered the bug spray underneath the kitchen sink. 

By this point, one of the cats had clued in to the fact that there was a giant of a bug on the ceiling and she chirped at it insistently.  I, being of immense imagination, pretended that she was telling it to go away.  I’m sure she probably just wanted it in her mouth.  (TWSS, ohhhh). 

Let me tell you, dear reader, I sprayed the ever-loving stuffins out of that bug.  I must have used a third of the bug spray that had originally been purchased to kill the ants outside on the patio.  Still El Diablo persisted.  He slowed, ever-so-slightly.  He twitched.  And then he did the most horrific thing of all.  He flapped his wings.

“Oh, my god,” I gasped, shivering in terror.  “It can fly!”

My DH seemed non-plussed.  He convinced me to shut the door after corralling the cat out of the bathroom and go sit down for a moment. 

Two cigarettes later, I seemed ready to see if my efforts had been fruitful. 

With, naturally, broom in one hand and dustbin in the other with the phone cradled to my right ear, I turned the knob and stepped back — sort of like you’re supposed to do in all those survival horror games. 

There was much cajoling to get me into that room.

Nothing.

“It’s…gone.”  I managed to mutter in between waves of panic.  “Where did it go?  Is it dead?”

Gareth, bless his heart, tried to talk sense into me.  Completely convinced it was lurking above the door frame and would kamikaze down onto my head should I step through the doorway, I was not one to be rationalised with.  Finally, after ten or so minutes of talking me into looking, I spotted it.  It was behind the door.  It was headed right for me.

I’m sure you all would have been with me on my next move.  I bolted.  I backpedaled so fast you would have thought it was my profession.  Broom in hand, dustbin abandoned on the floor, I careened backward into the lounge.  Obviously, this bug was not only indestructable but also out for revenge. 

“B.  B… B!  It can’t hurt you.”  Was my DH’s lovingly calm advice from the other end of the phone.  “Just step in and have a look behind the door to see where it went.  Get a bucket, hit it with the broom and sweep it up and take it outside.”

Of course that would be the logical thing to do…if I wasn’t so scared of touching it or it being anywhere near me, dead or alive.  Regardless, the roach was gone again.  I had lost sight once more.

Finally, the cats came back, their interest piqued at the sight of me clutching a broom tightly to my chest like it held all the power and courage in the world. 

Sly, the strong, silent type, entered the bathroom, his grey tail swishing.  He peeked behind the toilet.  A curious chirrup. 

“I think it’s behind the toilet,” I informed my DH, giving him real-time updates. 

Sly dug around a bit.  Nothing emerged. 

Then, all of a sudden, it was there.  It looked dead, lying on its horrendous back, not twitching or moving at all.  Sly pawed it.  Azusa sniffed it.  I picked up the broom.

“I’m going to hit it,” I said, sounding quite unsure of myself.  I prodded it gently with the end of the broom.  It began to move. 

I let out something that can only be described as a squeak of terror.  (After all, I do live in an apartment complex and I hardly think my upstairs neighbours would have taken kindly to my shrieking bloody murder at 1:00 in the morning.)  Sly pounced.  He batted it a bit, obviously just wanting to toy with it rather than be my knight in furry armour. 

Raising the broom high above my  head — and putting the telephone on the ground so I could use both hands — I smote the terrible dragon roach mightily once, twice, nay, three times!  It was over. 

Then I realised I couldn’t just leave the corpse abandoned on the bathroom floor.  It was obvious that as soon as I did fall asleep I would immediately forget about it and wind up stepping on it in the middle of the night knowing my luck.  I briefly considered going to Tony’s empty apartment and sleeping there.  The cats would be just fine on their own.  True, I wouldn’t have the comfort of my own bed and I would undoubtedly have to return tomorrow for work, but at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the bug carcass on my linoleum. 

Cue more gentle prodding from the DH.  (Have I mentioned how amazing this man is?)  Okay.  I was going to sweep it into the dustbin.  I could do this.  There was an elastic hairtie that had been dislodged from the counter at some point during the battle and it was lying, defeated, next to the wood roach.  It would have to go, too. 

With one magnificent sweep of the broom, the bug and hairband were in the dustbin.  Success!  I had even managed to do it by pushing the bin over with my toe, thus avoiding having to put my hand anywhere near the creature.  After all… what if it was just playing dead? 

It seemed that every time I thought the ‘worst part’ was over, there was another even worse part to follow.  I had to pick up the dustbin.  My hand had to be near that vile, vile thing.  And I also had to trust my DH’s words that it was, indeed, dead.  I knew if I had to carry it far I would lose my cool and drop it out of terror of zombie bugs coming back to life.  The toilet was the only option.  

After some careful cajoling on my DH’s part, I managed to pick up the bin and dump it in the toilet.  I flushed, leaping back out of instinct.  The toilet roared.  The water surged.  The bug was gone.

Immediately I was hit with overwhelming guilt about killing it.  But you know what?  After all that, I just can’t find it in me to care.

I’m having a glass of wine to celebrate.

ETA:  It’s been over a year since the original dragon in the bathroom.  I’ve only had two incidents in the past year with the intruders.  I’m by no means any better at handling it, but at least I don’t just hide on safe surfaces now and fret.

Orange is the Colour of Evil

I don’t like oranges. 

I have to admit, I’ve gotten a lot better about it as the years have gone by.  I’ve gone from being 13 or 14 and refusing to even look at anything that might taste orange, to being 27 and tolerating a few select orange items.

Just segue this way with me a minute, will you?  I actually have nothing against the colour orange.  It’s bright and pretty and I really don’t feel one way or the other about it.

These little suckers though…I don’t like them.  Not one bit.

Now, I remember being in grade school and not minding them terribly.  I didn’t like the stringiness (is that a word?) of the fruit itself, but i would drink/lick/suck on the orange to get the juice out.  Please get your mind out of the gutter.

It all started when I was 11.  Now, I don’t think the particular circumstances are relevant here, but let’s just say I was awfully sick as a kid.  So sick, in fact, that I got to drink Metamucil about three times a day.

Okay, maybe it was twice.  Honestly, it doesn’t matter.  It was terrible.

I don’t know if any of you have ever TRIED Metamucil, but let’s just say I’m not hurrying you off to the store to buy a big ol’ container of the poison stuff and mix you up a glass.

(Side note: I seriously googled around trying to find an image of this thick, nasty goopy stuff all mixed up, but sorry guys.  No dice.  I did, however, come across a SAW poster.  Metamucil scares me much more than SAW.)

Suffice it to say, I’m not even willing to go out and buy a packet of it to mix up and show you.  That’s how much I resent and/or loathe Metamucil.  I used to try to trick my mom into looking away so I could pour most of it down the drain while she wasn’t paying attention.

And these?

Not any better, Mom.  Thanks for trying though.

They may not taste like orange grime, but I still have a hard time swallowing them.  It’s like eating the driest cookie in the whole world of cookies and then finding out it doesn’t even taste good.

So.  Oranges.  They are my enemy.

I have gotten better about it over the years.  Occasionally you will find me drinking a glass of orange juice in rare moods.  Well, you would so long as there isn’t even one shred of pulp. 

I like orange Tic-Tacs!  And Sunkist orange soda — but only Sunkist.

The rest of it though?  Can we just get rid of oranges?  I don’t really think they would be missed. 

Rocktober

Every year I wait patiently for October.  There’s something so magical about this month.  I don’t know if it is the leaves changing or the crisp weather; the pumpkins or the earlier nights.  There’s just something about October.

I remember being 14 and walking down the rickety sidewalk of my hometown.  The leaves were beginning to change and I was happy — truly happy.  That October I was tutoring a woman to pass her GED.  It was my first official “job.”  The responsibility thrilled me.  I loved learning.  I loved helping people.  There was nothing else that made me quite as happy.  It was a perfect month.

That same October was the month I had my first kiss.  It was awkward and strange and foreign.  To be honest, when it was over all I could think was “Is that all?  Is that it?”  I was so relieved it was over.  I had passed that milestone.  I was like everyone else. 

Of course, it was just one kiss.  And there was never another.

A year later, I had my first real boyfriend.  We started “dating” in October.  I remember it clearly.  We had become friends at school.  He was walking me to my grandmother’s house one day and as I stepped inside the gate he asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend.

Ah, October.  I love October.

Of course, things are immensely different in my life now than they were when I was 14 or 15.  I live here in this small apartment with my thoughts to keep me company.  I pass the day with coffee and cats rather than schoolwork and rickety sidewalks. 

Still.  There’s something so magical about October.  It holds promises and secrets that no other month can compare to. 

Happy Rocktober.

This is exactly what I meant!

Gareth, unknowingly, gave me a perfect example of the way he talks.  RE:  Earlier post.

Chatting on AIM.

Gareth 4:12 pm
(16:12:51):     she looks like the kind of woman who holds garden parties on sunday afternoons and only invites people of a certain class and persuasion

Amused.  Highly amused.