Monday, April 25, 2011

The Small. The Furry. The Enemy.

It's no secret that I love spring.  I love everything from the color of the budding trees, to the warmer weather which allows me to frolic without freezing my booty off, to the animals emerging from a long winter hibernation.  But there is one exception.  The one thing I do not like at all under any circumstances is the squirrel population plaguing my neighborhood. 

Looks cute, doesn't he? Don't let that fool you.
I didn't always harbor hate in my heart for squirrels.  I used to think they were cute and watched them prance across the lawns and from tree to tree.  I defended them against a girl down the hall from me in college who called them "rats with fluffy tails" and promised to kick any which crossed her path.   I even fed them when I was younger, leaving out nuts and hoping that they might come close enough for me to get a brief touch of that tail.  That was before I have been forced to wage all-out war.

Moving to the DC area has changed my view of squirrels.  At first I was excited due to the prevalence of the elusive black squirrel.  They're not exactly uncommon here, as they are in most other parts of the U.S.  For those who aren't familiar with the story, 18 black squirrels were introduced to our area by the Smithsonian Zoo, first in 1902 and again in 1906.  They were a rare find brought down from Ontario, where they are plentiful.  Let's just say those things appear to be more prolific than rabbits, because they're everywhere now.  About 25% of the squirrels in our area are black, with populations surging to around 50% in some neighborhoods.  Being around these animals that many people can't see firsthand seemed fantastic at the time.

But then I had my first encounter with the evil nature of these animals.  While walking with a friend who was visiting from out of town, a squirrel was perched on a fence we were passing.  Instead of running away like I had always seen them do, this one decided to turn toward us, reared up on its hind legs, and started chattering at us.  It wasn't too intimidating until it charged toward us, I freaked out, and squealed like a frightened little girl while covering my head with my arms.  My friend laughed, but I swear to you that thing was going to attack.  I had another similar encounter in the following weeks, but my friend seems skeptical and still says the potential attacks were my imagination.

Around the same time, reports of attacks by the innocent looking furballs were up in our area.  A mother told the Washington Post how she had to fend off a black squirrel that randomly tried attacking her 2-year-old daughter.  A man visiting for the cherry blossom festival talked about how some squirrels had charged his young children and he was worried they would be bitten.  And now, this video, of a squirrel leaping on a person who was making a video of it on the National Mall. 

Researchers insist that despite reports in the DC area, black squirrels are no more aggressive than the gray squirrels.  They claim the animals are exactly the same, just a different color.  I stand by my own unofficial research stating a higher rate of aberant behavior by the black squirrels than gray squirrels... although I think the gray ones have fully caught on to the antics of the black squirrels and have decided to join in the mischief.

Note the pit in the left of my pot where spinach previously grew.
My main problem with these beasts is how they leap onto my balcony from the tree right next to it, and dig up my plants.  Gardening is one of my many simple pleasures in the spring and summer, but the squirrels seem intent on ruining that.  They consistently dig up my planters for no reason whatsover, leaving the plants/seeds/bulbs next to my pots.   I would be more than willing to share some of the fruits of my labor, but these poor plants can't even make it to harvest because of those grubby little squirrel paws.     

Two years ago, I staged full attacks when the brazen beasts would leap onto my balcony and hover over my plants, ready to mindlessly dig.  Chris suggested having a squirt gun to spray them when they'd invade.  Not having a squirt gun, I improvised by keeping a jug of water near the door to the balcony, and flung the water at any furry fiend who dared to cross me.  Although the average person could not hear it, I am certain I could detect cheers from the vegetable plants.  My aunt also gave me some animal repellant made out of black pepper that gives offenders an unpleasantly spicy surprise, but doesn't actually harm them.  (Please know as much as I loathe the squirrels, I could never kill them.)

Last year they seemed to calm down a bit, and I declared that we had finally reached a truce.  For the most part, the squirrels' aggressiveness waned, and they left my veggies alone.   Even random encounters on the street were more pleasant, because for some reason the squirrels seemed to regain their skittish nature.  They no longer chattered and charged at me, and they left my balcony garden alone.  It gave me hope that we had turned a corner and the truce would continue for many springs to come.

Lets just say those jerks hustled me.  This year, they're back and badder than ever.  They've eaten my flower bulbs, upended planters with herbs (twice), uprooted spinach and thrown around zucchini seeds.  They're also eyeing me up on the street, ready to pounce.  You may find this to be a ridiculous claim, but the aggressive nature was corroborated this morning by my dad, who is visiting for the week.  He said he went to the door of the balcony to check the weather, and two big squirrels were sitting on two of my pots and staring at him.  When he opened the door, the smaller one leapt into the tree.  The fat one stayed there until my dad walked onto the balcony, then lazily leapt into the tree as well.  My dad swears those squirrels sat on the branch, eerily watching him and waiting for him to move so they could return to the planters... or maybe not.  Maybe they were waiting for him to appear weak so they could fly across the small gap and jump on him.  Either way, I take this incident as proof that my squirrel hate is founded.

I'm not quite sure what else I can do to ward off the squirrels.  I'm certainly not going to stop planting, because then they would win and I just can't have that.  I also refuse to walk down the street in fear of being pounced upon, so I stare down any squirrel who seems to think it can intimidate me.  I tried to be friendly because there is plenty of space for all of us to live together in this neighborhood.  However, the fuzzy foes broke our truce and have created a hostile work/living environment.  It might finally be time to invest in a Super Soaker.  Until that point, I assure you I will have that jug of water waiting next to the balcony door, quietly challenging the squirrels to rile me just one more time.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Training Day

Oh Metro, you have foiled me again.  I shake my fist at thee, reviled foe. 

For those of you who do not live in the DC area, you may not yet have experienced the joy of riding our subway system, the Metro.  Let me inform you now that this will undoubtedly be the first in what will be a long line of Metro bitching posts. 

It’s fine enough for leisurely travel when getting to a destination at a certain time is not a priority.  That’s why so many tourists rave about the system and claim they wish they "had something like it back home.”  But if getting to a meeting, work, doctor’s appointment, or even a happy hour before the deals end is of importance, Metro is simply not the way to go.

I’m not even going to delve into the high cost of riding and gross safety violations (some of which have led to deaths) in this post.  There’s plenty of time for that in the future.  Today I’m focusing the grumbling on the lack of timeliness of the trains and the annoying nature of my fellow Metro riders. 

But let me get back to the beginning.  I mentioned being foiled.  First, I have a confession to make.  Like most of the journalists in my building, which is one block from the U.S. Capitol, I have milked the system for parking.  In a city where parking is at a premium, yet my pay is not, I just cannot afford to shell out $20 per day in parking fees.  Once the journalists in my building receive our Capitol credentials, we can sign up for a special press parking pass in the Senate lot directly across the street, allegedly only to be used when at the Capitol on “official business.”  Unfortunately for others with legitimate reasons to use the spots, our “official business” is that we don’t want to pay the exorbitant parking fees or be left to brave the Metro.  Alas, the powers that be have now caught on, and a letter was circulated this week saying that too many people are parking in these spots for unofficial reasons.  The number of parking passes is therefore being slashed, and enforcement will be more fierce to ensure the spots are being filled by journalists actually working inside the Capitol, not our building.  Free parking: fail.  Metro: win.  Katie: depressed.


An average Metro car, before the recent influx of riders.
Right now the Metro is packed to the gills because so many people who live far out in the suburbs have found (surprise, surprise) that their hour-plus commute in those giant SUVs is actually pretty expensive when gas prices rise.  That means the normal crush on the trains has become downright oppressive, and fighting for seats has become even more of an art.  It also means that trains have been more delayed due to keeping doors open longer for these scores of people who are unfamiliar with the Metro and take their sweet time loading the trains. I thought scoring a seat would be the end of my worries one morning a couple weeks ago.  Boy, was I wrong.

After being mashed in unimaginable positions for 15 minutes (should have been 8 minutes, but of course there were delays), I gratefully took a seat from a passenger who was getting off the train.  I moved in and sat next to the window, happily reading my newspaper.  Even the group of loud teens shouting their latest sexcapades didn’t phase me.  I had procured a seat.  I was golden.  That was, until Stinky von Drunkerson sat next to me. 

Yes, it was 9:30 am and the man hobbling over to occupy the vacant seat next to me was clearly drunk and emitted an unsavory odor, but he was also homeless so I wasn’t about to judge.  The man walked with difficulty and had to use a cane.  Unfortunately, because of his appearance, or perhaps because of their self-centered natures, no able bodied person in one of the handicapped seats would give up their position.  The man exclaimed loudly about this as he plopped next to me.

Picture an older, scrubbier dude and a packed train.

Once in place, he could tell through his drunken haze that the teens near us were getting rambunctious, and he wanted to better listen to what was happening.  So he slowly worked to turn his body to the side, positioning his back to me and his legs out in the aisle (yes, despite the full train), and he leaned as far forward as he could in his seat without falling over, straining to hear the sordid details of the teen skanks.   As I watched this man’s   laborious undertaking,  I realized my stop was coming up next. I thought I should probably ask him to let me out soon, as I was trapped next to the window and he clearly takes a while to make a move.

As the train driver announced the next stop, I began by saying softly, “Well that’s me.”  Of course, the man’s back was to me and he was engrossed in Teen Skankfest 2011, so he didn’t hear me.  The train slowed and I gathered my belongings with much theatrics, thinking surely he would have to sense the movement.  Still, there he sits, now laughing and mumbling incoherently, back still to me.  As people begin to move toward the opening doors I thought it was a good thing it was the one day this week I wore pants instead of a skirt, because I may just have to climb over this dude. 

I realized each request of “excuse me, this is my stop” was being ignored, despite my ever increasing volume.  Finally, I gritted my teeth and started tapping and poking the man, asking him to move, but he wouldn’t even turn around.  I'm not sure if he was ignoring me or simply oblivious because of his level of drunkenness, but my guess is the latter.  My window for escape was narrowing as I figured the doors would shut in about 5 seconds.  Miraculously, that’s when Mr. Drunky decided he needed a better listen at the teens’ conversation, and leaned as far over in his seat as he could, without fully standing up.  That’s when I struck.
OK it wasn't quite as high of a leap as this, but close.

I held the chair in front of me, leaped over the homeless man’s back like an Olympic vaulter, and made it off the train just as the bell was dinging for the doors to shut.  Let’s just say this is a little too much action for me at that time of the day, before I’ve even arrived at work and faced the day with a coffee.

Although I fully understand this particular incident was not Metro’s fault, per se, I blame the system anyway.  It’s true, all the glaring faults Metro exhibits have tainted my view of the entire service, thus rendering the DC Metro my scapegoat for all things foul.

I have had a recurring dream in my 3 years living here:  I dream that one of these days Metro won’t win.  I dream that the morning commute will not be jammed with rude people who appear to have no concept of personal space or manners.  I dream that on said day, I will get a prime seat and nobody sits next to me.  I dream that my ride will be short and actually get me to work on time, and maybe even in a surprise move, a bit early.  Then and only then, when all of these things happen in a glorious confluence of events, I will raise my arms to the sky as a symbol of a small, yet very significant victory as I exit at Union Station.  Then, my friends, and only then, will I finally have won. 



Sunday, April 10, 2011

C'mon Spring, Work With Me Here

What a long, strange winter it's been.  Most of you probably know I positively abhor the cold.  Don't give me any of that "but you grew up in Wisconsin" garbage.  I have always disliked the cold, as I'm sure my family would attest to, whilst offering a hearty eye roll.  With all the snow and the extra-long cold spell this year, I have been downright grumpy for whole portions of the winter.  I need my gloriously warm weather and blooming plants and trees... even though said trees turn me into a sniffling, sneezing fool due to allergies.  The past few weeks have been a hodge podge of weather, complete with the absolute worst of both worlds--an allergy mess AND really cold weather.  If I have to endure allergies, at least I want to be able to enjoy my time in the pollen-filled outdoors!

Most of you know that in February Chris wrapped up a year-long project in Fishkill, NY that caused him to travel every weekday, forcing us to see each other only on weekends.  January and February proved particularly rough because Chris worked at least 16 hours a day, and on an overnight schedule.  Needless to say, that poor guy who usually needs at least 9 hours of sleep was less than functional.  Oh, and did I mention that during the overnight shifts he had to work outdoors for hours at a time?  In zero-degree, negative windchill weather, during a period when mid-state New York was picking up at least 6 inches of snow, every 3 days.  Let's just say Fishkill looked like Hoth (thank you, Star Wars nerds), Chris was frozen and exhausted, and his nerves were fried.

I didn't see him at all for several weeks at the end of the project, and rarely could speak to him because of the hours.  While thinking about him one night, I perked up because a fantastic Groupon deal popped up for a weekend deal in St. Michael's, Maryland.  I figured a relaxing Chesapeake getaway might be exactly what Chris would need to rejuvenate, and to welcome spring.

Well this weekend we went, and had a blast.  I was sure that by now our spring weather would have arrived, considering we usually get it consistently around mid-March, but alas that was not the case. It was largely overcast and chilly, although we enjoyed the fact that the area was not yet swarming with tourists. 

Despite the chill, we just had to sit on an outdoor deck at a bar and have a "dark and stormy," while overlooking the bay.  Our conversation and pure bliss at having unadulterated together time kept us warm, even though we could see our breath.  The steaming hot crab pretzel didn't hurt either.

After some dinner and evening exploration, we wanted to go back to our huge, cozy room at the hotel.  The plan was to open up a bottle of red wine and snuggle in for Chris' favorite--"The Mystery" (for those who do not know his lingo, that means the Saturday night 48-hours Mystery on CBS, of which he has a not-so-small obsession) followed by more wine and Saturday Night Live. 

Upon entering the room, it sounded like our neighbors had their TV on really loudly, but we thought nothing of it and went on with our night.  Then it seemed to get louder, prompting Chris to turn up our TV volume, as the inconsiderate wall-sharers were "interrupting The Mystery."  As it turns out, that couple was fighting LOUDLY and getting louder.  And not just a short fight.  This went on in excess of two hours. At one point the woman left the room and slammed the door, but came back about 15 minutes later to continue the fight.  At least at this point, the screaming had leveled off to a moderate shouting.  Chris pointed out both last night and this morning that if you pay huge amounts of money to take a vacation on the Chesapeake (I mean, WE didn't pay huge amounts, thanks to the magic of Groupon, but THEY probably did) wouldn't you want to enjoy it instead of spending the entire time inside and fighting? 

Couldn't they have figured out what I did, that the luxuriously huge whirlpool bath and tons of the orange bubble bath are the perfect way to enjoy a brisk weekend in the Chesapeake? Trust me, when the bubbles multiply to such an extent that they threaten to overtake your head, it's really hard to be angry.  Maybe that couple shares my dislike of the cold and had some cabin fever-induced pent up anger that needed venting.  But let me assure you, that bath would have been hugely therapeutic for Yelly McYellerson and Nasty McScreams-a-Lot.  At least they could have tried getting their money's worth.

Now we're back at home, ridiculously relaxed and ready (though not willing) to tackle another week.  Basically, now I'm just twiddling my thumbs, waiting for spring to truly arrive and continue this feeling of contentment.  No more of this now spring's here for a day/now it's not junk.  Granted, the predicted sustained warmer weather this week will likely make the tree pollen explode, rendering me a puffy, drippy, itchy goon, but I don't care.  The calendar says spring is technically here, the weather casters say it will finally start to feel like it, and I'm officially twitterpated.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Free-For-All

A friend told me this week that med school students will do just about anything for free food, and at the slightest sign of gratis grub, the students come out of the woodwork.  While I didn't disagree with this notion, I did scoff and comment, "Yeah, med school students and all the rest of humankind."  I have claimed the same thing about the newsrooms I work in, and have heard similar grumbles from countless friends and family members of various other professions including engineers, lawyers and government workers.

What is it about free things, particularly food, that prompts people to crawl out of the woodwork?  Few things are more frustrating to me than bringing a treat to work for my faithful coworkers who endure me daily, only to have a random person I have never been introduced to from another department saunter in and sniff around because of the rumor of munchies. 

Granted, I myself am a self-described deal whore.  One of my simple pleasures is hunting down a fantastic deal, particularly one including the word "FREE".  However, one thing I've become more cognizant of is whether I actually NEED the free item/food/service.  Too often, it seems complimentary items cloud our senses, forcing all rationality to slip out the window.  Do I really need that free slice of pizza from the new joint directly next to the restaurant I just left, plump with chicken?  No.  Am I really going to use that 30th key chain I received at my 7th race of the season?  Doubtful. Will my dogless household really use those treats being handed out near the Metro station?  Never. But am I going to mindlessly continue to pick up these items just because they're shoved in my face as I pass by?  Probably.  Sometimes I truly question how many suckers I would see standing in line for liver and onions if it were free.  And I question whether I would be one of those suckers.

There's such a sense of accomplishment from scoring a complimentary or deeply discounted item.  In many cases, it's the thrill of the chase. But even if it's just something found in passing, it's a gloat-worthy ordeal.  It makes us feel skillful, productive and deserving of accolades.  Personally, anytime I receive a compliment about an article of clothing or some other freebie, I get a rush of adrenaline and must fight the urge to blabber on about my find.  Once in a while, I succeed.  Most often, I blabber.  I do this even as I'm stuffing my face with the free cupcake, slice of pizza or pudding sample.  Like others who shall remain nameless, I've even shamefully stayed longer at work for a few minutes on election nights or breaking news days to snag a few bites of munchies that were brought in for those working late.  What is wrong with us?  We're all well-educated, rather well-paid people, yet we scrounge and clamber over others like barbarians for the opportunity to snatch up the trinket or treat du jour.

There is one group of people who, not always, but sometimes, will inexplicably refuse a handout--the needy.  Those who could most benefit from aid are, in my opinion, often the first to turn it down.  Have you ever given food to a homeless person on the street?  Often, they will refuse it, or at least refuse to eat it in front of you.  I've even read about people who go through neighborhoods helping the homeless and have to leave food out in plain view instead of handing it directly to the people, because they turn it down in a face to face meeting.  Perhaps it's a sense of pride, the need to hold on to that one last shred of dignity.  Whatever it is, I question why I am willing to allow my dignity to fall to the sidelines when faced with similar handouts.

So what is it about the lure of the "free"?  Is it a sense of entitlement?  Is it simply greed?  The more we have, the more we want?  Personally, I've learned from those who have more need than myself.  I have started refusing discounted items if I know I will not use them.  I've tried to be more consistent about turning down cost-free nibbles if I'm not hungry.  And I try to offer freebies and discounts to those whom I know could benefit from them far more than I ever will. I still become excited over a prime deal, but I'm trying to be more selective, instead of blindly participating in the free-for-all.