Wednesday, August 04, 2004

16 recyling, the Circle, safe return, rat, grand Cayman

08-04-04 Mayatime: 11 Cauac 2 Yaxkin

It’s so hard to talk to my dad. He called before, when I was out, and talked to Will. He identifies himself, even to us, as his full name: “Hi, I’m Bob Rizza,” like I don’t know my dad’s voice/name after all these years. He’s done that for quite a while. My dad has always liked his name. He’s always had a good signature too, very spiky and dashing. I haven’t seen it lately so I don’t know if it’s still good.

Anyway, he called because he likes to take bottles to recycling. I know, it’s the most BORING thing in the world. I hate it. I wait until I have so many bags of bottles that they barely fit in my Pathfinder and then I spend an hour getting all sticky feeding machines just to get about $4.35, which I promptly spend on hand wipes. But Dad likes to do it, so I let him. I’ve learned not to expect the $4.35 back. The first time he did it for me, he says “I’m going to the recycling place, want me to bring your bottles back for you?” I said fine, and then he kept the money and never said anything about how much it was. But you know what? It’s such a pain in my ass to do it, he’s welcome to the $4.35. My mother and husband think it’s funny because he hornswaggles me out of the money, but I LET him.

I have a few dozen bottles (possibly not even WORTH $4.35) and I figured he would just come and get them, but he did not, so I called him back. He had already gone to the recycling place, and reminding him of it got him angry, because he wasn’t able to cash in his ticket for $8 (probably $8.70, which is twice $4.35, you know) because the counter guy ran out of money. He gets angry more easily now, especially when he thinks he “forgot” something. He still has the ticket, though, so I convinced him it’s okay if he goes tomorrow and gets the money.

We had a long conversation about him mowing my lawn. He asked about the rocks (see, some things DO stick in his head). When my friend from Florida was here on Friday, we moved the rocks (made the circle about 1/2 again as big as it was) and put up a fence. I am going to finish pulling up all the grass from inside and put down weed barrier and wood chips to further divide the circle from the yard. So he should not have to worry about rocks anymore. (I believe I told the story of Dad and the rocks earlier.) And again, it is not mean for me to ask my old Dad to mow or take back my bottles. He likes to feel useful, and he won’t let me borrow the mower to use myself, so this is the best solution.

Last night, I entered a writing contest for made-up words (remember Sniglets on HBO a long time ago? That sort of thing) and I entered a few that my dad made up when I was a child: sniggle, schoochaba, congradulations, as well as many I made up myself and use in conversation all the time, as if they were real words. (Well, to me, they are. And I consider “sniggle” and “schoochaba” to be real too, I’ve always used them.) So if any of my dad’s words get online, I can tell him about it. Not that it’s a real dictionary, but it counts in my heart, right?

I have signed my father up for the Alzheimer’s Organization’s Safe Return program. Dad gets a bracelet with a code number and phone number, and when the day comes that he gets lost, they have lots of phone numbers to call for one of us to come get him. I have to send a picture too, so I found a nice one I took a few weeks ago and printed out a big copy. That’s in case we know he’s lost, but no one’s found him yet, they will fax his picture to the police station. I know that day will be far off.

Friday morning we had some excitement at our house; the cats killed a large rat that had somehow gotten into the house. I am still negotiating with Orkin, who I had already paid $371 less than a month earlier to keep my house pest-free. Instead, I got a rat. The very day my friend was coming up from Florida. Thanks a lot. Never in my life did I have a rat in my house. I am freaking out every time the cat walks by my feet under the desk and his fur touches me– I think he’s a rat. The rat was much much bigger than my parrots and I worry that a rat could get into their cages and hurt them. (Big fat rat is only as big as his little head.)

I also sold two small articles on writing to the T-Zero magazine which is part of Writer’s Village.

I am very sad that I did not get either job which I interviewed for last month. I was absolutely positive I had one, and pretty sure about the other. So I’m back to square one, with no prospects, there hasn’t even been anything in the paper. And of course they won’t say WHY they didn’t hire me. My husband says it’s discrimination because I am overweight. But we can’t prove it, can we?

My dad’s birthday is next week. I spent too much money that I did not have on the ultimate giant $100+ Far Side collection. He loves the Far Side. He has a bag (well, I have it, I meant to organize it but it was too much) of every cartoon for years. Just cartoons, loose in a bag. I don’t think it will get here by his actual birthday, but I want him to have it while he can still enjoy it. And when he can’t, I’ll take it and enjoy it myself! So it’s not wasted money.

I really, really, really am longing for Grand Cayman. I want to swim with stingrays. I want to sleep on Seven Mile Beach. I want to drive on the wrong side of the road and listen to reggae and see feral chickens at the airport. I want to learn to scuba dive.

I was looking for some geographical information on GC & Cozumel, since the island in my novel is loosely based on them, and just looking at a map of GC made me want to cry. I want to be there. I need to swim in that water. I need to be away from here, all the BS & sadness that surrounds me. Universe, do you hear me? (1154)

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