Merry Something or Other

Last week, I put up Christmas decorations in my apartment for the first time.

Now, to most of you, this may not seem like a big thing. For me, it's sometimes difficult to get into the holiday spirit. Between entirely too many years spent in retail and an uncanny history of really crappy things happening in my life in the winter months (yeah, still no news on the car thing...), I have a tendency to fall into the "Bah humbug" crowd. (I also tend to do most of my shopping either online or at stores that are open 24 hours in an effort to avoid people.)

Christmas decorations don't have a great track record in my household. Several years ago, my roommate decided it would be a fun idea to decorate her 6 foot tree entirely in purple decorations. Purple ornaments, purple icicles, purple garland and tinsel, and in place of an angel tree topper, a Barbie wearing a purple evening gown. It was hideous, it was tacky, but we had a blast decorating it. Unfortunately, my cat thought attacking the tree every morning was a blast as well. Since the only purple ornaments we could find were of the glass ball variety and we had hardwood floors, there was an ornament casualty nearly every day. (Yes, I know that glass ornaments, hardwood floors, and pets do not mix. We were young and foolish, OK?)

The morning ritual of attacking the tree culminated on the 27th, when I awoke to find the tree lying atop the coffee table. (Elvis, having completed his mission of killing the big purple thing, was nowhere to be found.) I sighed, went to make some coffee, and spent the rest of the morning taking the tree apart, sweeping up shards of glass, and untangling lights while watching Reservoir Dogs, chain smoking, and cursing very very loudly.

I tried again when I moved out on my own. Elvis knocked my tree over almost every day, as well as pulling down the stockings hung from the bookcase. Janis, the "default" kitty (I was supposed to watch her for a few days while a friend got settled after moving back in with his parents. He never came back to get her.), voiced her opinions on my holiday decorations by throwing up on the tree skirt. (But then again, Janis threw up on everything. I think I know why her owner never came to retrieve her.)

After that, I tossed all of my Christmas decorations into the back of my bedroom closet, where they proceeded to stay for the next five years. I had inclinations to put up the tree every year, but always decided it wasn't worth the trouble. I even went so far as to buy a slew of ornaments from the Warner Brothers Studio Store. They were still untouched in the shopping bag when I moved last year.

Since I had moved in right before Christmas last year, the last thing I wanted to do was unpack yet another box (and then repack it a week or so later), so the stockings and lights and ornaments went straight into storage. This year, I decided (with some hesitance) that I would give it a shot and try to put up the tree. I imagined that I would probably end up putting up the tree several times, given Ma Huang's lack of grace and Kismet's curious nature (and propensity to try to climb everything in the apartment).

I decided the best way to do it would be in stages. I put up the tree and adjusted the branches; after being in storage for six years, it was completely flat on one side. The cats watched with interest as I lugged the decoration boxes up from storage and placed the new green thing in front of the windows. Ma Huang tried to chew on one of the branches, but no one tried to knock over the strange new addition to the living room.

I added everything in stages. Add lights, wait for reaction. Add garland, wait for reaction. Tree topper. Ornaments. So far so good. (I was exceptionally nervous about the Warner Brothers ornaments, since the store has gone out of business and I doubt anyone is currently making a Pinky and the Brain ornament or a Marvin the Martian tree topper.)

The only casualty so far has been the tree skirt (now minus cat vomit, thank you very much). Apparently there's untold joy to be found sliding and pouncing on a green piece of fabric decorated with a candy cane pattern. Kismet is intrigued with one particular ornament (a red panda ornament from the Zoo's ADOPT program), but so far she's content to just bat at it. Both cats seem to enjoy sitting under the tree, which is very cute until one of them takes a swat at the other. I doubt the tree could sustain a round of Big Time Kitty Wrestling.

Putting up the tree has helped get me in the holiday spirit a little bit. I went to a cookie baking party with a few girls from work over the weekend. I strung up lights from my curtain rod in the living room. I wrapped all of my presents in one evening. I dyed my hair just in case I get what I really want for Christmas. I made snacks for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's annual Christmas Eve party. I watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and sang along. (I also picked up on the outdated sexist themes, but I chalked it up to the age of the show.) I bought a cats an early present - a Cat Scratcher. It's essentially a block of corrugated cardboard (with the honeycombed side up) and supposedly works much like a regular scratching post. My cats haven't quite got the hang of it yet. They essentially licked all of the catnip off the top of it, pulled the cardboard out of the box, chewed on the cardboard, and pushed the box around the floor. However, neither of them sharpened their claws on the furniture last night and they pretty much left me alone while I was working on things in the kitchen.

In the midst of decking the halls and making yummy treats, I managed to find a use for guilty pleasure of arts and crafts projects. Mind you, I have the artistic ability of a retarded squirrel, but that has never stopped me from browsing the aisles at Michael's, looking for a new project to go awry. Some have gone quite well: one year, Rosencrantz and I painted daisy-shaped whirligigs and gave them as gifts for Mother's Day. I've also managed to do two halfway decent fairy sculptures from Fimo. (Granted it took me several hours each time, and I've had more failures than successes with clay modelling, but I'm still quite pleased with the ones that actually turned out right.) There have also been spectacular failures: last year I attempted to make candles. It didn't go well. I still have wax in the kitchen carpet.

This year's projects included decorating candle votive holders (painting and beadwork) and making soap. I highly recommend soap making for the craft-challenged. It's pretty much idiot-proof, and clean up is amazingly easy (because it's soap), plus your kitchen takes on the scent of the cooling glycerine and whatever fragrance added. Last night it was vanilla and cucumber melon. Yummy.

So now I've got a ton of soap in various shapes and colors and flavors. I've got a boxful of votive candles that I'm not sure if I should give out since they look like they were decorated by a seven year old. I've got pretty lights and a tree in the living room, and presents wrapped and stashed in the closet. (Presents don't go under the tree in my house, unless the present is supposed to be covered in kitty drool and teethmarks.) I've got apple cider in the fridge, to be heated and mixed with cinnamon while the Great White Death envelops the city. I've got hair with a funny chemical smell from the new dye job (went with a new color - Cinnamon Stick; it sounded festive). I've got a bottle of cheap champange set aside for New Year's Eve (which will probably be spent watching Pirates of the Caribbean on DVD; after bartending for all of those years, I don't enjoy going out all that much on that night). I've got a letter to Santa, and milk and cookies to leave out. (Of course, since I'm the only person who plays Santa in my house, I might forego the milk for a cup of tea. Or maybe a beer.)

Yeah, this is what Christmas looks like at Chez Myo. Happy holidays, everyone.

Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am

Sometimes I wonder if the Universe wants me to forfeit my driver's license. It seems that every car I've ever had has had some sort of magnetic attraction to other cars. Last night, the Aspire was added to the list.

Rosencrantz had called me at work. It seems that Guildenstern had dropped her off in Clifton so she could take care of a few things, but due to unforeseen circumstances, she wasn't able to do so. (Guildenstern had a calendar full of appointments and couldn't pick her up, so essentially she was stranded.) I volunteered to pick her up once I finished up at the office.

Since it was rush hour, we decided to take the back roads home rather than the expressway. The traffic was pretty heavy, but it allowed us plenty of time to catch up while waiting for the cars in front of us to move.

We were about fifty feet away from the intersection where I needed to turn to get to her neighborhood. Traffic had stopped again, we were chatting about my recent release from Chris and Tammy's House of Torture, and...

WHAM!!!

A driver behind us, impatient to get into the left turn lane (that didn't start for another thirty feet or so), had whipped into the safety zone, misjudged the distance in between my car and hers and clipped the Aspire, denting the hell out of the back panel, scraping the back door, and taking out the driver-side mirror.

Rosencrantz and I immediately assumed crash positions: I flipped on my hazard lights and she reached for her cell phone and called the police. "You're not at fault," she reassured me as she waited for the dispatch officer to answer. "Their insurance will cover everything."

"If they have insurance," I replied. The last time I'd been in an accident, the other driver had no insurance, and I drove with the back bumper attached by bungee cords for the next seven years.

"The car's a late model Cadillac with vanity plates," she observed. "I think chances are good that the driver's insured."

The police arrived and instructed us to both move our cars to a side street (out of rush hour traffic), and asked me and the other driver to wait in the back of his cruiser to exchange information. I grabbed my purse and slid into the back of the police car.

There's something strange and offputting about sitting in the back of a police cruiser, with the hard plastic seats and bars in the windows and the clear plastic barrier between the front and back seats. I'd never done anything that had required a visit to the back of the police car before. And from the look of things, neither had the other driver. She was an affluent older woman, wearing a fur coat. (I decided not to get on my soapbox and proselytize about how fur only looks good on its original owner. But I think I did visibly cringe.)

The woman admitted fault in the accident, although she also proved she wasn't very bright. (She told the officer that she'd been going about 30 miles per hour when she struck me, because she knew she was in a school zone. The last time I checked, the speed limit for a school zone in the state of Ohio was 20 mph during school hours. I doubt school was in session at 5:45 in the evening.) She also proved that she was a complete suck-up. As I was getting out of the cruiser, the police officer was writing up a citation for her and she was name-dropping. (She was telling him that she was on her way home from a party at so-and-so's house, insinuating that he would recognize the name. Apparently her deceased husband was a lawyer, so their social circle probably contained several people in the legal/governmental field. Being a poor-as-hell Zoo employee, I didn't recognize the name and wasn't all that impressed. The officer didn't seem to be impressed either.)

I've been on the phone all day with my claims adjuster. I should be hearing from the other driver's insurance company this weekend. Hopefully I'll be able to get the car fixed next week, since I'm on vacation and won't have to bug anyone for rides to work. While the car is drivable, I don't feel comfortable driving without the side mirror or left taillight, especially at night. This threatened to mess up my weekend plans; the NaNoWriMo Thank God It's Over party is coming up Saturday night. Thankfully one of the other writers got in touch with me and offered to pick me up. (Turns out she lives in my part of town. Small world.)

It could've been much worse. The car could've been totalled. There could have been injuries. I could be paying for the damages (or not paying for them, as I'm still paying off my hospital bill). I suppose that should make me feel better.

I'm still ticked off, though. This is not what I wanted for Christmas.

The News According to Myo

Sometimes current events in Queen City make me shake my head....

Once again, Cincinnati is a lead story on CNN. Once again, it's regarding a death of an African-American man while being apprehended by the police. This time, though, the public has been provided with surveillance tapes from the police cruiser as well as the White Castle where the incident took place. Videotape should clear up the details, right?

Wrong. On the one hand, watching the police subdue the man is horrifying. As far as I can tell, less violent means of getting the situation under control like pepper spray were completely skipped over in favor of nightsticks. The fire department and ambulance (who had reported to the scene before the police were even called in) seem to have left and had to be called back after it became apparent that the man was not breathing.

But on the other hand, the guy was coked up and was smoking PCP-laced cigarettes. He verbally provoked and physically attacked the police. He continued to resist arrest and refused to comply with orders to stop. And this was a large man. If I had been in the shoes of one of the officers on the scene, trying to restrain a violent flailing narcoleptic guy hopped up on coke and angel dust, I'd probably feel more than a bit fearful for my well-being. I can't say what I would do in a situation like that; thankfully, I'm not in a position where I have to consider things like that.

The coroner has ruled that Jones died as a direct result of the struggle with the police, taking into account his obesity, heart problems, and the drugs in his system. The report also emphasizes that while his death is ruled as a homicide, "This word should not be implied as inappropriate behavior or the use of excessive force by police. The word does not imply hostile intent."

My head hurts. I'm worried about how this will affect the already-too-strained racial tensions in Cincinnati. I don't judge people by the color of their skin, but I'm not so naive to believe that it doesn't happen. While I no longer live in the city itself, I work in the middle of a predominately African-American neighborhood. I drive through a pretty seedy couple of blocks. If weirdness breaks out again, there is no alternate route to the Zoo. (I'm thinking - hoping - that things won't get as bad as the whole 2001 riot scene. There's been a lot of outrage, but so far everyone's just talking, trying to find answers to incredibly muddy questions.)

But enough about that trainwreck. There's so much more.

In regional news, there's a sniper targeting I-270. I'm quite glad that I won't be traveling anywhere near the Columbus area in the near future. For those of you who live there, or may just be passing through, be careful up there.

In the news that no one has bothered to report, the city of Cincinnati has proposed cutting curbside recycling to reduce the city's budget deficit. Apparently having a landfill (affectionately named Mount Rumpke) that is widely believed to be the highest point above sea level in Hamilton County wasn't big enough? How can you pat yourself on the back about having one of the largest curbside recycling programs in the nation while trying to underhandedly get rid of it at the same time? Bright move, guys. What happened to that whole "Don't Trash the 'Nati" campaign?

But then again, this is a city where Cinco de Mayo means drunken riots near the UC campus. This is the city where the city charter bars council from passing anti-discrimination laws based on sexual orientation. (And I shouldn't be so hasty to do my high and mighty "I don't really live there anymore" dance. I now live in a city where council is threatening eminent domain on a block of houses and businesses so they can clear the path for office buildings and retail space.)

In sad anniversary news, yesterday was the 24th anniversary of the Who concert tragedy. I remember my father picking me up that night from a dress rehearsal of the school musical (Oliver!, for anyone who might be interested), and hearing the news come across the radio. Yesterday, WEBN played "Behind Blue Eyes" while I was driving to work, and the whole scene came rushing back, down to the nasty smell of stage makeup and Pond's cold cream. Not a great way to start the day.

But just when I start to think about Cincinnati being a sad or scary place to live, I think about the strange stuff that goes on here. Apparently the nearby city of Fairfield is being overrun with coyotes. (In the immortal words of Rosencrantz, after I told her about the initial sightings a few years ago, "Yay Nature! Go Nature!") First a rogue cow, now this?

And then there's the surreal news... after years of being a Jay Leno punchline, the Bengals are winning. THE BENGALS ARE WINNING! They're tied for first in the AFC Central division. The last time the Bengals had a winning season was 1990. Who dey, indeed.

I also discovered today that Cincinnati has the highest rated CBS affiliate in the nation. Huh. I knew we had an inordinately high percentage of Survivor watchers here, but I had no idea it spilled over to encompass all of the CBS lineup. It was probably my newfound obsession with CSI that pushed us over the edge.

But it's entirely too late at night to be thinking about the news. I need to get some sleep to prepare for the most frightening news of the week: the first winter storm of the season is on its way. (I think Jim Borgman summed up the typical Cincinnati reaction to winter weather advisories pretty well... scroll down on that link to the December 17, 1995 cartoon towards the bottom.) Yeah, I can hardly wait to navigate that new employee entrance at work going downhill on an iced-over busy street. Fun stuff.