this kid knows what's really important:

raccoons. one of many joys awaiting you in Clarence.

We've been having a raccoon problem lately. And by "we" I mean, of course, my mother whose birding (yep, that's a verb) obsession has drawn a good deal more than Cardinals and Nuthatches to the backyard. I'm actually surprised that she has the sense to label this a legitimate "problem" instead of following what I know is instinctual for her and embrace it as an “adventure.”

The thing is, we’re (again, why am I using plural pronouns?) – she’s not particularly choosy when it comes to bringing a new life into the Hall household (human or otherwise). Our house – and yard – operates under a sort of revolving door policy. People, babies, animals, furniture, food, etc. always going in, always coming out. Can’t say I share her sentiments, but my mom welcomes all of God’s creatures with open arms and loads of leftovers. Including skunks. Including stay felines with more diseases than a homeless prostitute from 18th century Europe. So.

So. I was surprised when she finally broke down and admitted that, although cute and cuddly from the distance of her wildlife magazines, she could no longer tolerate a 20-pound scavenger who was destroying her birdfeeders and devouring her birdseed.

I don’t like to think that I ever take Paul for granted, but it’s times like these when I especially appreciate his masculine I-can-put-this-together-in-5-seconds-flat approach to life. He set the trap with almost frightful eagerness, offering to grab his bowie knife, you know, in case my mom wanted a bloody pulp of fur to deal with in the morning. Thanks, Paul!

8 am comes around, and we race to the yard like tykes on Christmas morning. Yow-za. We had caught the Goliath of raccoons. And boy was he pissed-off. He was sputtering (in a non-rabies way…) and clawing, and there was no way in hell I was going near him. Naturally, Paul, being the can-do kind of man that he is, swooped up that cage (with gloves on, of course) and threw it into the back of his Volvo to trek it out to the country.

Relief. Except, maybe, for my mom who “felt bad for the poor thing since he might have a family in the area and now he’s going to be thrust into a foreign environment where he won’t know any of the other raccoons.”

Yeah.

That was about 3 weeks ago. And apparently Rocky still has some friends carousing the streets of Clarence because my mom’s birdfeeders continue to receive thrashings in the night. We set the trap again last Saturday. This time I was the one who felt guilty: “but it’s pouring rain, and what if he drowns!? Or catches pneumonia!??”

He didn’t catch so much as a cold. Because we didn’t catch him. No, we caught something much, much better. After a night of Monopoly and alcohol (always a good mix) at my sister’s, I knew something was up when my mom told us to check out the cage.

Hello Mr. Skunk.

Now what do we do!?! I literally had to google “how to release a skunk from a cage when you’re too moronic to get rid one lousy stinkin’ raccoon”

So, he’s still on the prowl. Demolishing one bird lover’s paradise at a time.

son of a bee sting!

I am staring at my left thigh, about three inches above the knee - a dime-sized splotch of swollen pink skin with a red pin-prick of a dot in the center. I can't believe it - this weekend I got my first ever, ever bee-sting of my whole life. It didn't hurt as bad as I imagined it would, it just itched for a few minutes.

I'm mostly dissapointed that I've forever lost one of those rare "distinguishing facts" that you can use to introduce yourself in a group setting. "I've never, ever, ever been stung by a bee" works a lot better than "my favorite color is blue" when you're asked for your name, hometown, and "something interesting about yourself." Which I've always thought was a wretched, self-important way to start off any class/seminar/orientation/training etc. What difference does it make if you're double-jointed? How does that fact make you at all more interesting than the person in the next desk? I know such introductions are meant to be ice-breakers or a tool for instructors to remember your name. But they still suck. And now I have to go back to being that girl who's remembered by her favorite flower. At least until I can think of something better.

On a more postive note, I received the sting while lounging outside a coffeeshop in Cleveland yesterday. Paul and I spent the weekend visiting his great Aunt, who I can best describe as OLD. All mortifying restaurant fiascos with grumpy disatisfied old people aside, it was a delightful trip. And she was a delightful lady. (even though her gentleman friend, Dee, made me want to fall through the floorboards when he started giving our waitress hell... I thought I would die. I wanted to die.)

But it was a good chance to get away. To that end, I didn't care where we went. Or how many waitresses we upset.

Job? Apartments? Stable life? Puh-leeze.

It's nearing 2 am. I can't drag myself away from Craigslist. Must. Find. An. Apartment. Tonight.

the horror! the horror!

“Zola goes down into the sewer to take a bath; I, in order to cleanse it.” – Henrik Ibsen

I’ve re-entered my modern drama craze. I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Also, had a fleeting temptation to re-read Heart of Darkness, but thankfully it passed. Two rounds of Conrad is quite enough, thank you.

Buffalove

Overall, this has been what one might call a very “Buffalo” summer. Probably because it was Paul’s first in this “jewel” of Western New York and we had to show him the sights, so to speak. To keep him from jumping on the first plane home.

So, in our most Buffalonian way, we packed June to August with Labatt’s, Bison’s games with distant French relatives, city garden walks, zoo treks with too many babies and not enough hips to carry them.

There was the gluttonous Taste of Buffalo (too many people and smells, if you ask me) and the “oh-that’s-soooo-Buffalo” rainout of the much-anticipated Neko Case concert. (I’m still shaking my fist at the sky)

We did make it out to ArtPark to see Pink Floyd tribute band, The Machine, which was the most fun I’ve had in ages.

trippy laser show!

There were romantic dinners on Elmwood, awful dinners on the porch with screaming toddlers. There were parties in the country where we drank box wine and played washers. And, yes, there were about 600 times where I was mistaken as the mother of Marek, Gabriel or Michael.

But my favorite moment of summer? This award goes to my finally fulfilled goal of finding Rick James’s grave in Forest Lawn Cemetery. I especially liked the honorary 40 of Bud placed among the flowers.

Classic Buffalo.

ok, ok. Here's your post!

At the behest of my sole reader, I am going to try to bulk up this blog with some actual writing.

Speaking of writing, I have been on FIRE the past two evenings. And by "on fire" I mean like 5-6 pages worth of half-decent story-ish stuff. Which is a lot for me because I'm the slowest writer this side of town.

David Sedaris is coming to UB October 1st. Tickets are like $36. More than my tightfisted self is willing to pay for almost anything these days. So I tried coming up with reasons why I should go:

1. I could take Theresa as a birthday gift. But then I realized if it was really a birthday gift, I'd have to buy her ticket, which would double that 36 bucks.

2. Ok. I could go with Paul for our anniversary (which we've decided pretty much coincides with Theresa's birthday). But then I realized he's never read a single Sedaris book, except for Holidays on Ice, which I bought him as a Christmas gift before I knew Paul well enough to know he has very different taste than me (at least as far as humorist books go). So that would be a pretty crummy anniversary present, for him anyway.

3. Well, dammit, I could still go. Then I did a little youtube action and found Sedaris reading on Letterman (a video that this blasted internet is not letting me post at the moment). Anyway, if you've never heard Sedaris speak - check. it. out. He has (I'm sorry) the faggiest voice on the planet. After listening to him for all of 4.2 seconds I decided I like him in book form better than in person. Still contemplating the splurge to see him, though. He is one of my favorites, after all.

What else?

Becky had her baby, so congrats to her. I apologize if it sounds off center for me to open my first blog in over a month about books and Sedaris readings and gay voices when my sister just had a baby. A baby being born should be a much bigger bit of news than a dry fruitcake reading at UB, right? Yeah, well. Babies are about all I deal with on a daily basis. So I have to talk about books and things that I actually like to keep my head on straight, if you follow my meaning.

Anyway, his name is Patrick Ryan, he's a little peanut, and he's a healthy little peanut.