City Bird

Slow on the journalizing because of novel chapters. Sucks, but… wait, actually that doesn’t suck at all!

Now

Damn, we’ve got icicles all across the eaves, and they’re falling off like swords driven down into the ground… I mean the snow, which is what the ground is… VOOMP! Scary.

Anyway, what was I saying?

I’ve expanded my repertoire of non-confrontational confrontation. I went to the post office on Wednesday to mail Danny his birthday presents. I was packing them into a flat-rate box, when I was viciously attacked by the tape dispenser. (On the way home that night I was viciously attacked again, this time by a Yorkshire terrier. Funniest damn thing…thought it was a rabbit coming at me at first. I was wearing boots, though, so no harm done.) The few pieces of tape I managed to wrestle from the thing came out mangled, and then it gave me a big old cut on the heel of the hand. So I took it to the clerk, saying, “This thing doesn’t work.”

She looked at my like I was a wayward toddler and said, “You have to do it like this, with both hands, see?” And very carefully pulled off a piece of tape, in a way that would be totally impossible to replicate while holding together box flaps with one hand.

Fine. “Uh-huh. Got a band-aid?”

And she had one right there. Like, maybe this happens all the time, right? After I stood in line and gave her my package, I said, “Thanks. And, sorry about all the blood!” nice and loud. That got some looks.

Then this morning I intercepted the guy whose dog has been pooping on my theoretical lawn every day. (It’s covered with at least a foot of snow, but I know there’s a lawn under there somewhere.) I waited until he made it to the sidewalk in front of my house, then stepped out from behind a big yew bush with a plastic bag, walked over to the snowbank where his dog went yesterday, and picked up the dookie. All I said was a nice, big, cheery, “Good morning!”

If I had any doubts that this person was guilty, the look on his face would have banished them.

Not only that, the dog acted furious that I was out there messing with his stuff. This dog kept looking back at me, glaring pointedly at the bag of dookie in my hand, like it was thinking, “That is mine, bitch! Even this human I have on the leash here doesn’t mess with my product, and he feeds me!”

Beautiful dog. Long black fur, really sleek.

Also contacted the city on two non-shovelers: one absentee landlord and one business, both of whom have been bad about shoveling all winter. The business plows their parking lot and drive-up just fine, then leaves their sidewalk a lumpy, icy mess. The duplex I called on has the sidewalk shoveled between their front door and driveway, but the rest of it is untouched. It’s so hazardous you basically have to walk in the street.

I didn’t report Party Chick next door, though, even though she’s just as bad. That would just be mean. She has an excuse: she’s lazy.

Okay, enough crusading for a while! Man, I feel like some kind of middle-aged superhero, righting injustice and all that.

Or maybe just a grumpy old witch. Hard to say.

I love this race. It’s been a couple years since I’ve really followed it, but this year Aliy Zirkle is in contention, so I’m jumping up and down, keeping an eye on the stats. My girl is in third place. Still early, though.

Some people say it’s animal cruelty, but I couldn’t disagree more. Sled dogs are born to do this, they’re bred to do this, and it’s cruelty not to let them run and pull. Our husky was a rescue dog. Before she came to live with us, she was left in a cellar all day with nothing to do and an untreated thyroid condition. That’s cruelty.

Denali lived for her walks, and for any time she could get outdoors. She liked taking walks, really liked running onleash by the side of a bike, and loved it when I’d take her running with me. I couldn’t always take her, because she couldn’t resist a rabbit, so we couldn’t go fast together. But when I was going on a slow run, if it wasn’t too long, I totally loved taking her with me. She also scared the shit out of street punks. (Can’t count how many times I get asked, “Dat a woof?”)

She wasn’t really my dog. When we brought her home, Kid B and I only agreed to it because Dan and Kid A said they’d do all the work. (Attention mothers: If your kid and husband ever say this to you about anything, anything at all, you email me and I’ll tell you how that went.)

But I loved her anyway. More than that, I identified with her. I’d look in those brown eyes and say, “You know what? You’re right–what are we doing in here, anyway?” Then we’d go out and kick up some snow.

Supermarket Sushi (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Okay, so I was wrong about not having to specify that you want “Japanese sushi.”

At Jenn’s suggestion, I researched California rolls. An L.A. chef invented them to appeal to American tastes. Apparently, many Americans wanted to try sushi, but were put off by the idea of eating either raw fish or seaweed. Since real sushi is basically raw fish, seaweed and rice, this was a problem. California rolls get around this by putting vegetables and cooked fish and maybe an itty-bitty piece of seaweed inside a big sticky mess of rice. Even American sushi that’s not called a “California roll” is often made along this same model. I’ve noticed when I look at sushi, a lot of it’s made that way, with the rice on the outside (which I don’t like). In Japan, you’d just about never see this.

So now I’m wondering if the lovely vegetable-in-ricepaper sushi I get are anywhere near authentic, or if they’re “American sushi” too.