paste-eaters anonymous

No Shoes Is Good Shoes

There have been no slippers, magazines, oddly-addressed envelopes or bags of old clothes left at our door lately. Don't worry, The Admiral--as The Husband now calls our peculiar friend from downstairs--is still very much around, but I guess not feeling as generous as he was a few weeks ago.

The last "offering" was early one Saturday.

"Gee, what's behind Door No. 1 this morning?"  I asked The Husband as he was on his way out to clean more snow off of the car.

Turns out The Admiral was right there, leaving behind the aforementioned bags of old clothes. 

"These are for you."

A nice gesture, but we're not the same size. We had been letting what was left at the door sit there, and later it would disappear as mysteriously as it appeared. Same with the clothes.

He is still very much a presence in the building. Sinatra and Streisand at full volume. Today it was some kind of rap, which I find pretty amusing. Out of nowhere he'll start banging on his ceiling--our floor--with a loud rhythmic thumping. I don't think we instigate it, unless my knitting is too loud. It scares the hell out of the cats, but everything scares the hell out of the cats; I can only assume it was a traumatic kittenhood with children. Anyway, except for those occasions, it's been pretty boring around here.

A friend is convinced that he's going to burn the place down and that he's trouble waiting to happen. It did smell like burnt toast in the hallway last night. But that could have been any of my neighbors. It was the landlord that accidently started the last fire, so who's to say?

He must have about 4 or 5 people who check in on him often, as well as two women who stop by to take his laundry, so I know he's not completely alone.

So maybe the meds have kicked in, or the folks around him are retrieving stuff before we notice. All I know is when I find nothing at the door I'm relieved I'm not involved in someone else's insanity but also a bit disappointed that I can only dwell on my own.

The Return of the Madman

"You have too many shoes, I'll give you more"

He knocked on the door at 8 a.m. on Wednesday. I was still in my jammies and not feeling well--some kind of stomach bug--so I didn't catch every word. Something about telling Anna that he loves her dearly, he is not a thief and that he has a court date on the 5th. I "okayed" him until he left and I went back to bed.

I chalked it up to being an interesting way to end the year.

I think his date with justice might have something to do with an item I read in the local paper's police beat about stolen gifts found at my apartment building. There were no arrests, but The Husband did see two police cruisers outside the building on the day of his last "visit."

All was quiet until yesterday, which was still quiet, but when we opened the door to go ice skating we found these slippers. Again, we snuck them back downstairs to his welcome mat with no repercussions.

I'm still trying to figure the reasoning behind giving us more shoes. I thought for a moment that maybe it was a hint that we make too much noise, but the dude is deaf as a haddock; let's just say he loves his musicals. And much to my dismay, our apartment has wall-to-wall carpeting.

I can only assume that since we have a habit of taking our shoes off before we go inside, he has seen them and decided we like beat-up old shoes.

He does have folks who stop by and check in on him and there have been other "visits" to my neighbors. I think that his court date might be more about being able to live on his own than about stolen gifts.

Too bad. I think we have the same shoe size.

Dog Christmas

We're out throwing sticks. This is a repeat from last year:

 

You can learn more about Clifford at Buddy Dog

Are you Celebrating? Dog Christmas falls on the first Sunday in January after the third.

According to the husband, that was when an uncle of the baby Jesus stopped by and gave him a puppy.

Saint Joseph was not happy. "It's hard enough to find a place to stay and now you throw a dog into the mix?"

But the puppy, whose name is lost to history, grew to become Jesus' trusted companion.

Always a good dog, he obeyed when Jesus ascended into Heaven and told him, "Stay."

Legend has it he roams the earth today spreading goodwill towards all animals.

Of course, Jesus' dog was a Shepherd.

Old is the New New.

I made a comment on Facebook that Dick Clark’s appearance on ABC last night creeped me out. I regret putting it that way.

I regret it because I have too many friends and family members who have had strokes, and I know how incredibly hard it is to come back from one. I fear that what I wrote may have dismissed all of the hard work and challenges they face to get back to “normal.”

But he did creep me out. During the rush to ring out the terrible, wonderful moments of 2008 and finally get on to 2009, I was taken aback by what means New Years to me—Dick Clark, always accused of never aging and counting down the seconds of an old year—struggling to be heard, defiantly kissing the missus at midnight. It creeped me out because it demonstrated how fragile life can be.

But it also gave me some encouragement. While I am trying hard not to fall to the cynicism of having a contract to fulfill, I like to think that ABC was bold enough to let Dick Clark do another countdown because they wanted to show the tenacity of his spirit, as an example of strength and determination.

Perhaps that’s a Pollyanna way of looking at it, but as this country attempts wring out the last nasty bits of the decade of the big lie, maybe we can get down to the truly necessary; learning to ferret out the difference between want and need and bounce back, once again a nation that will stand up for justice and benevolence.

I like to think, “Yes. We can.”