On Frogs and Fishing Poles...

So yesterday after I got done with work, I decided to go fishing. I wasn't having any luck at my usual spot, so I braved the weeds and went farther downstream, hoping that the slower waters would have a better, hungrier stock of fish.


I set up at the first clearing I found and, within a few casts, I got snagged on a rock (totally classic, it happens to me almost every time I go fishing) and had to break my line. I was swearing up a storm. As I looked down to grab the end of my fishing line, I noticed a gigantic frog sitting in the water, not even a foot away from the rock on which I was standing. With all the noise I was making, I couldn't believe that that sucker hadn't leapt off the rock in fear. So naturally, I was a little freaked out, but mostly just curious, because it's been so long since I had seen a live frog this big. It was HUGE--I'm talkin' dang near the size of a shoebox. So I'm eyeing it up as I'm putting another hook and worm on the line and, as I look to my other side, I see that another gigantic frog has emerged from the water to sit next to my rock. At this point, I'm just amazed--it was like being smack dab in the middle of a nature show! I was curious, however, to see how far I could push the frogs before they dove back into the water. So I took my newly hooked worm and dangled it about 3 inches above the back of the frog to my right. Nothing. Had this frog no fear? I plopped the worm right on to its skin. Nothing. Huh.

Interesting, I thought. Maybe it's a female protecting eggs. So I swung my line to my other side, to the other frog. Let's see what happens here, I thought, my inner scientist starting to bloom. So I carefully dangled my writhing worm about 2 inches in front of the face of the other frog. Before I could blink, the frog's iron jaws sprung into action and I screamed as I realized that I was, to the bending protest of my small fishing pole, dangling a five pound frog from my line. After my scream subsided (by the way, other frog--still sitting motionless on my right side) I tried to asses the situation as the monster now hung limp from my line. Was it hooked? Did it swallow the hook? How in God's name was I going to get rid of this thing??? I certainly didn't want to touch it, but I didn't want to just cut the line and leave the death sentence hook in its throat either. I dragged it a little bit farther on to the shore. Its limbs were still limply hanging by its side.

Gathering my courage, I grabbed for my pliers in my tackle box belt. Holding the rod firmly in my left hand, I slowly made my way towards the mouth of the beast, pliers poised to get a good grip on the hook that was just barely protruding from its mouth.

Just as I had steadied my hand for its course, the frog turned ever so slightly to its side. With one eye it stonily gauged my intentions. I couldn't tell if it was feeling threatened or not--but with in the next moment, I had my answer. It exploded from its motionless state and rocketed toward me, an amphibious ball of fury. In terror, I again screamed and in panic, tightened my grip on both my fishing pole and pliers, which left me with little with which to defend myself. Again and again it lunged at me, held at bay only by the length of the fishing line. I held the pole as far from my body as I could, my only defense against this vicious attack. Then, just as suddenly as the attack began, it was over. Showing no signs of fatigue or injury from my hook, the frog sprung from my line, disappearing beneath the rippled river surface. In a daze, my hands shaking, I was left on the shores of the Milwaukee River, the frog on my right my stone still companion and only witness to this outrageous event.

I managed to get a hold of myself and toss in one more time--I caught a little rock bass. After that, I called it a night.

On Hating My Job

I know, I know, it's cliche. Everyone hates their job some days, right? I'm not sure if "hate" is even the right word here but the stories I'm able to tell among my peers have long since trumped any potential one-upping. "Yeah, your job sucks," they tell me after I finish ranting about cleaning up runny diharrea in the lobby, urine in the stairwell, or about the fifth time someone has called me ugly to my face. And I'm a good looking girl, goddamnit.

Seriously though, it's getting to the point where I can't even take talking about it. But I suppose I have to in order to get some relief. What do they call it? Catharsis? Oh right, blogging.

Anyway, I manage a 100 unit apartment building on the south side of a crumbling metropolitan area in the Midwest. A former all girls' Catholic High School built in the 1920s, the building, from the outside, is beautiful. Its the inside where things get...icky.

I started here a little over a year ago, taking the reins from a woman who had held the position for twelve years. Initially, I was impressed by the fact that she made it that long--property management is no easy gig. There have been hints that she perhaps did not make it out with all her marbles--the largest of which a confession she voiced to me the day before I was supposed to start.

We had lunch the day she gave me the keys, a sort of ceremonial "changing of the guard". Over salads at the local Chili's, she told me this story:

It was a typical Midwestern summer--hot, muggy, miserable. The heat made the hallways of the building unforgivingly still--the air hung stale and stagnant save for the occasional whisper of a breeze from the open windows. For a couple of weeks, she had noticed an odd smell permeating the first floor hallway. At first, it wasn't so bad--just the unsettling sort of causeless odor that can spring up in the hallways of communal living: a mixture of ethnic food, cat litter, cigarette smoke, and the natural body smells that come with living in a building without A/C. It wasn't pleasant, yet she could find no source. Confused yet determined to take action, she purchased a Glade Plug-In from Target. The apple-cinnamon blended well with the mysterious scent and, for a while, things were all right. About a month went by. The smell continued to get worse, so she bought another plug in--which got her through another week. The stench had intensified to the point where a hundred glade plugs in in the hallway would no longer cover it. The tenants were talking. She trolled the hallways, breathing heavily--inhaling the air like a hound, desperate determine the head waters of this pungent river. She followed her nose around the corner from her office to the door of the model apartment. Nearly overcome with nausea, but bravely fighting her desire to flee, she placed her key in the door and opened it. Like a caged animal, the sharp, pungent smell of rotting flesh sprung from the room. Her eyes, watering slightly, quickly took inventory: everything appeared to be in its place...except, the windows were completely dark and it was midday--it looked like someone had placed black paper over the screens. Odd. She covered her mouth and nose with her hand, and forged onward. With each step, the black paper seemed to change... had some holes in it....now was moving...."Oh my god," she thought as she realized that the screen was coated with eager, hungry flies! She fled the room in horror and called the maintenance man to search the apartment.

The culprit, you might ask?

She had been given a frozen turkey from a tenant a while back. Since she didn't have room in her personal freezer, she decided to store it in the model, neglecting to note that THE FRIDGE WAS NOT PLUGGED IN. So the turkey sat, defrosted, and then completely rotted in the model apartment. I can't even begin to tell you what kinds of warning lights went off in my head as she told me this story, from the model showings that weren't happening to the obvious notion that if the freezer isn't cold, it's not fucking working. I mean, that shit's just basic.

This story gives was a jumping point for my first day and the follies that follow. Though it would seem this position is cursed, I am determined to maintain my sanity while I battle the bizzare from the frontlines of the war zone, my desk.

on being brunette

I recently decided to dye my hair from the bleach blonde of the past 25 years to a dark, reddish brown. Quarter-life crisis? Maybe. Initially, I like, really liked it. However, the startled and shocked expressions on the faces of those I knew as a blonde have been less than encouraging. “Why? Why did you do that??” they demand, like there’s ever a logical reason for coloring one’s hair. I find myself stumbling over justification with every person I know. “Uh, well, I…wanted a change?” Obviously. Or perhaps I’m on the run from the law? The sad part is that explanation has the potential to be witty and funny but I just can’t muster up the wherewithal to properly arrange the sentence to come out of my mouth properly. I’ve tried it. Embarrassing results. It’s like when you try to do an impression of Sean Connery and it’s just not quite right or…funny. You can’t really take it back or pretend like it didn’t happen, it’s out there, man. And you’ve got no defense, just the color creeping to your cheeks and regret filled laughter, which you think might mask your folly. But I digress, back to the matter at hand. After three weeks as a brunette I do not feel qualified to put an answer to the statement “blondes have more fun” however I am able to testify to a few differences. 1) You no longer get the blonde moment to fall back on. As if hair color ever dictated my sometimes space cadet realizations. 2) People are no longer "cutesy" with me. I get far fewer winks from old men. Not that I miss that. 3) People have said I look "smarter". Huh. Wonder what they would think if I wore my glasses.

Wow, this is intimidating

So.  I guess what's new with me is I'm moving.  I'm sitting in my dining room, or what's left of it, staring at the flour that I spilled all over the floor while attempting to dump it from the paper packaging into the supposed "air tight" canister I bought at TJ Max.  These canisters are supposed to help me be neat and damn it, here I am ruining it by underestimating the capacity of the flour package.  Glancing around the room, I can take note of several things that are currently driving me crazy.  From the computer I can see the kitchen sink:  full of dirty dishes.  All of my framed art work has been taken off the walls, leaving the bare, bony nail as a reminder that life once existed there, all my cupboard food is packed into my "green" grocery bags on my usually clean dining room table.  Three baskets of laundry wait for me to get the motivation to search for quarters.  Clothing that didn't make the cut of "laundry day" (usually if it doesn't stink or requires dry cleaning) is draped over my dining room chairs.  A crinkled bag of chips is next to the computer--that's dinner--right along side my can of (yuck I hate saying this) Miller Lite.  Oh yes, people, this is the life I am currently leading. 

God, this place looks like a war zone.  A flour sprinkled war zone.  Okay so perhaps not a "war zone" but I think I'm allowed some drama from time to time.  Call it the middle child syndrome.  

Really the worst part of the whole thing is that I only have about five boxes that I pulled from the basement to pack all my shit in.  Cobwebby basement boxes that are slightly damp, not at all reinforced, and ripped in the corners.  Gross.

Today I tried to make moving easier by giving a bunch of stuff away.  Which is always hard because like millions of people across America, I am a die hard pack rat.  It's not even like I save useful things.  Today I decided to keep six spiral ring notebooks from college that were completely filled up with notes.   Believe me, I'm not going back to read them later--I'm just keeping them because I can.  And greeting cards!  Ah, that Catholic guilt doesn't afford me the insensitive nature required to throw out all the birthday and Christmas cards I have received in the past.  Every time I move I try to throw those fuckers out.  And then I start opening them.  Even though my mother pens the same thing every time ("Love you, tootsie pie! XO XO") I just can't do it. 

I tried to give Goodwill a Styrofoam cooler.  It was a no go.  The guy looked at me like I was trying to pass nuclear sewage off as nourishing soup for orphans in Ghana.  Sorry, dude, I just thought someone might use it for....fishing?  Tail gating? A severed head?

Looking around the room again I realize that I have a ton of shit to do.  And this is the day I decided to start a blog.  Clearly something is wrong with me.