Unluck

Behind my apartment is a small yard, maybe twenty-five feet by eighteen feet. The building manager prior to the current one turned it into a paradise, with lush lawn, beautiful roses, and a burbling fountain. Once she moved out, it declined rapidly and became sort of a jungle, albeit with the couple of rose bushes and a wonderful huge mass of bougainvillea with shimmering fuchsia blossoms.

A couple of weeks ago the building manager started clearing excess plant material out of the yard. When I saw her, I commented on the improvement. I mentioned how beautiful the bougainvillea is (was, as of this writing) and she said that it was kind of taking over, from which I gathered she meant to prune it.

The next time I looked out the window, I saw she had hacked every single blossom off the plant, leaving nothing but mutilated bare branches. She had done the same to the roses, which now are bare twigs eighteen inches long. It is mid-July, the weather is beautiful, and there is nothing to look at in the garden!

I pointed it out to Tom after he returned from the Death Ride last Sunday and he said, “I believe the term for that is ‘scorched earth.’ Gardening does not seem to be her forte.” I complained to my mother about this pruning job (since something very unpleasant would happen if I complained about it to the building manager, with whom I am getting along very well lately) and she agreed that one may find occasion to prune, but not, as a rule, while the prunee is in bloom.

Next I saw that the building manager was soaking the ground around the murdered bush, so I guess she means to tear it completely out. For a time, there were some blooms remaining on the other side of the fence, in the neighbors’ yard, but even those disappeared. The building manager must have gone over and said, “We have to cut this conniving bougainvillea off at the knees before it murders us in our sleep.”

Then we got a note saying she had been doing some work in the yard and was going to have some friends over to celebrate! Evidently these are the type of friends who like to look at hacked-off stubs rather than flowers.

Last night was celebration night. A fire was lit in a grill and a few folks came over with beer and hot dogs. It wasn’t particularly loud, but it was smoky beyond belief. My apartment was saturated, even with all the windows closed.

Hammett, the bedding and all the clothes in the closet ended up reeking of smoke. I had to wear a t-shirt to work today that smelled like it had survived a house fire.

As the manager and I are extremely prone to getting in fights, I wasn’t sure what approach to take; as we know, I'm incapable of the no-approach approach. In the end, I sent a brief note saying it had been pretty smoky and offering to try putting plastic over my windows next time.

Last night, I ended up going up to Tom’s, where conditions were slightly better, but where I also made a sad discovery: His pet rat, Lucky, so named because a snake declined to eat her not once but twice, has developed two sizeable tumors.

In addition, her back has open wounds on it from her scratching herself. Tom tried changing her bedding, but it didn’t seem to have helped, so I was just saying I thought it was time to take her to the vet when I noticed the tumors. I’m afraid poor Lucky is going to have to have a euthanasia experience, which I will pay for ($150, if you’d like to know).

Mission Pet Hospital does not treat small animals, but they referred me to an office that does. Someone there assured me that Lucky’s euthanasia will be painless. She asked if we preferred private cremation, so we could get her ashes back, but I said that since Lucky totally bites and therefore has never been held by either one of us, I thought we’d be OK with the group cremation.

We’ll be with her when she dies, if possible, albeit not within biting range. I can’t blame her for being a biter, after having nearly been snake cuisine twice.

I have finished psychologist Daniel Gilbert’s Stumbling on Happiness, which Tom gave me for my birthday. I didn’t think the writing was all that charming, as did others, but it has given me a lot to think about. Just in the two days since I finished it, I have seen several examples of things he mentions.

I received the Stevie Wonder album Signed Sealed & Delivered, and it turns out “Never Had a Dream Come True” is indeed the song I’ve been hearing in my head for so long. I was so happy, I cried.

I also received in the mail at work a garment whose box blew out of my bike bag on the way home! Now I’m going to have to order another one and I don’t even know if it’s the right thing.