Brown, Slimy and Bulbous

Yesterday I woke up to banging and crashing outside my bedroom window, which I correctly interpreted to be the fellows beginning work on the deck. I was slightly taken aback when I first saw a larger expanse of the color than the half-inch square I had seen on my phone: pretty bright! But I decided I like it. The pale blue-white actually gives even the inside of the house an otherworldly glow; it almost looks like it snowed outside.

A bit later, there was a happy discovery in regard to my mother’s vacuum cleaner. Months ago, not quite sure what went with what vacuum—there is only one remaining on the premises—we saved a selection of filters and bags.

Not long ago, I found the bag in the vacuum machine overstuffed and took it out, along with a nearby filter. Since this vacuum has been around for many years, it took awhile online to figure out what model it is and the numbers and names associated with those two replaceable items, but I got it all sorted out and felt good about that. I ordered more of the two things.

Yesterday I was organizing the utility closet and went to fetch things from a kitchen cupboard that should go in the closet. Lo and behold, in the cupboard were the supplies for the vacuum we had earlier retained, identical to the two things I had lately ordered (of course—I had forgotten that we had saved some things, and if I had remembered that, I would not have known where they were), but also a third thing, another kind of filter. At first I assumed this must be for a vacuum machine that isn’t here anymore, but it turned out it actually is for the one that is here—had it not been in the kitchen cupboard, I would have gone the entire rest of my life thinking I was doing everything that needed to be done once I replaced the bag and the one filter.

My left knee was aching a bit; I realized I had been foolish in ramping up to 7,000 steps a day so suddenly. I resolved to walk only as much as my knee is enjoying and to move more slowly toward the ultimate goal.

In the evening, my sister came over to treat me to DoorDash to celebrate the purchase of the house. We got pizza. It was really nice of her, and also slightly bittersweet, just the two of us sitting where four of us used to sit for Thanksgiving dinners. (The other sister never came.)

On Friday evening, Tom had mentioned that there was an unusual amount of cat fur on the floor of my place in San Francisco. He sent a couple of photos. It did look like they’d gotten in a scuffle. Their main cat sitter had not seen that earlier on Friday, and yesterday morning, Saturday, she said everything seemed very peaceful.

Yesterday evening, still Saturday, Tom texted that there had been a fire next door, right outside the kitchen door of the fellow who insists on smoking in his apartment or just outside his door, one and the same as the person who yells terrifyingly at his little boys, one and the same as the person who stopped paying rent close to two years ago, one and the same as the person who moved into a studio apartment whose lease says one person may live there and then moved in five people besides himself, at least two of whom appear to have significant mental health difficulties, along with himself. He routinely drops cigarette butts on the wooden stairs outside his kitchen door that lead down to the trash area.

I have long been nervous that the children, who appear regularly to be left unattended, would one day play with their father’s lighter or matches and set their building on fire; that building and ours would be gone within 10 minutes. These are hundred-year-old wooden buildings.

Yesterday our building manager, who most fortunately was home, smelled smoke, looked out the window, and saw that the stairs next door were on fire and that the fire was spreading “QUICKLY,” to quote from her later text message. She called 911 and said later that firefighters were there 1-2 minutes later.

Tom sent a couple of photos of the firefighters. He reported that Marvin had taken refuge underneath the upholstered chair.

After my sister departed yesterday evening, I went for a walk and then I went out to do a little yard work, in particular, to cut the brown parts off a rose bush. There is a little bit of green way at the bottom. Maybe the roses will come back. Entangled with the rose were two black walnuts. My friend’s son was ambivalent about these, but my sister said to get rid of them: They will drop walnuts all over everything, they can make the soil acidic in a way other plants don’t like, and the mature trees will block the sun in one of the only parts of the yard that currently gets a lot of light.

The noise from the power plant has faded not necessarily into the background—it is the exact same as always—but into the background of my consciousness, and last night I was appreciating that, while it emits sound all the time, it also emits light all the time, so I snipped snipped merrily away into the night and would probably still be out there today except that I ran out of lawn and leaf bags.

I was working away from one side and thought I would have to tackle the other side today, but I saw today that I had actually gotten rid of almost the whole entire thing, not without some damage to my skin and clothing. Now what I needed was a sharp stabber thing with a long handle to plunge into the earth to try to get at the roots of the black walnuts as much as possible. Not sure how far they extend. Couldn’t probably dig them out with a shovel.

I went over to Stadium Hardware this afternoon, after having leftover pizza for breakfast, to return some gloves and ask them about the thing I needed. They recommended a Root Slayer shovel, which has lethal-looking serrated edges; it also comes in a trowel size. I got one of each just as my sister was texting me about this very thing. While I was in the hardware store looking at gloves—if there is such a thing as owning too many pairs of gardening / work gloves, I am not yet aware of it—I got a call from the manager of the place my cat sitters work for. I said, “I’ll bet you’re calling to say that Caroline smells smoke.”

Nope. She was calling to say that Caroline had found the cats in a fight. This is thanks to that fucking fuckwad next door, or, if there are children reading, the farting fartwad. (I don’t know exactly what a fartwad looks like, but I would think of it as being brown, slimy and bulbous.)

The manager wanted to know what Caroline should do. I asked if Caroline could please call me, so as not to have to transmit a lot of details through a middleperson. The phone rang while I was at the cash register returning the earlier gloves and buying the new gloves and the two lethal tools. After I was back in the car, Caroline and I agreed that there will be two visits per day until I get home, and that the cats will each receive 100 mg of gabapentin at each visit, and that they will be kept separated until I return, which is scheduled for Thursday afternoon. I am now thinking that I will never, ever leave them again, and I will just have to make do here until the cat-related work is done.

Next to ACE to buy 75 lawn and leaf bags, and Arbor Farms for a few groceries.

I left a message for the renovations place to see if the meeting scheduled for Wednesday morning can be any sooner, and I texted the owner and manager of my apartment building in San Francisco to give my exact-timing-to-be-determined notice that I am moving out. I have had enough. I love my apartment and I love the building, but I literally do not feel safe there anymore. Fortunately, I have somewhere else to go.

My sister said, “If you believe in signs, this does seem to be kind of a sign.” She doesn’t, but I do.

She asked how she can help. The main thing she can do is listen to me blabber into the phone. That is a hugely appreciated service. She is a great listener. I pulled into Trader Joe’s parking lot to stop so I could text my sister to inquire if she could talk on the phone. I stopped in not a horrible spot—people could go around—but not an ideal spot. A woman—obviously an Ann Arbor woman, as an Ypsilanti woman would not have been so foolish, let alone a Detroit woman—stopped to tell me I might not be in the very best spot. I predict she will not again today offer a stranger unsolicited advice. It was not a good moment for that.

My water filter and a stapler arrived at my sister’s today. I went over to pick them up and couldn’t resist doing a little weeding in her front walk. So satisfying!

When my father fell ill (April, 2022), I rushed here and stayed for two months. The only reason I went home was the cats. I didn’t even miss them for the first seven weeks—that was in the long era when Marvin constantly enraged me—but I eventually did, and, anyway, you can’t just go away and leave your cats forever. It’s not really done. So they kept me from just never going home again, and now they appear to be extracting me from an untenable situation. Their vet said months ago that she thought they would be happier if they had a lot more space. I don’t know if I will be happier when they are climbing up my shower curtains here in Ypsilanti, but the universe has spoken. (By the way, I love Marvin with all my heart. He is my favorite cat, unless it is Duckworth I am speaking to at the time.)

Now I must get outside and try my new tools.