My Murder of Crows

This person at work was telling me about how there is a black market out there for baby crows. People will find a nest, scramble up the tree, and while their cohorts wait in the car, they grab the babies while the mama crows are all cawing and pecking at them, menacingly circling their heads. (Doesn’t your job suddenly seem a little better?)


I kind of didn’t get it, but thought that may be because I am a bird hater. But I mean, of all the birds, crows are my favorite. I think I can just relate to them; they like shiny things, sound somewhat coarse, and mimic people. I read that when you sit there going “Hello! Hello!” the crow will eventually repeat it; then you move on to a new word, and soon you can have this verbal crow. Their life span is between 3 and 5 years; so it’s like a cooler version of the parrot (I mean, really—crow can kick parrot’s ass) without the serious commitment. You don’t have to worry about how your grandkids will feel about the crow. Also, you can get a bunch and call it a murder. Apparently scientifically they do call it a flock and it is more just poetic to call it a murder. But that doesn’t make it wrong!

So now I have this plan of getting a murder of crows, and having them do my bidding. I can sit home and be like “crow, get my slippers!” and send the crow into my room. I bet with their intelligence and sharp beaks, they can even open my beer. Or, I can be out somewhere and just yell, “Bring me home, my pretties!” and my murder will all swoop down and grab hold of me, lifting me into the sky and to home. Hopefully their talons won’t just tear my clothes off and I go falling naked from the sky. But my crows wouldn’t let that happen.

A mother's love...

So I was on the phone with my mother the other day. The very woman who gave me birth. And she says to me, “I pray for you ever day because you are going to hell.” So I pause for a moment and then ask, “Why?”

“You don’t go to church. So you are going to hell.”
Me: “So your God is a forgiving God, eh?”
“If you don’t go to church, you go to hell. Do you even believe in Christ?”
Me: “I believe that Christ makes a good story...”
“WHAT?”
Me: “I mean, I can’t believe in the bible, I think it was made up by a bunch of men. Stories to teach.”
“Have you ever even READ the bible?”
Me: “I took a course in bible studies in college. So I read parts.”
“Well, you are still going to hell.”
Me: “What about everybody else?”
“You and Cara are going to hell. Your other sisters go to church.”
Me: “But they don’t believe in it. They just go because they think they are supposed to, and feel like they have to bring their kids.”
“Well, they still go. When Jesus returns, he won’t bring your soul up to heaven.”
Me: “And is he going to take a plane here?”
“NO, he is going to come on a cloud.”
Me: “I studied clouds. They are just dust particles surrounded by water. You can’t float on that.”
“Jesus can.”
Me: “Then why wouldn’t Jesus use something faster? More efficient?”
“Maybe he will just show up. You know, appear.”
Me: “Like Star Trek?”
“I never saw Star Trek.”
Me: “Me neither, but they do that. They ‘beam’ places.”
“Then maybe, yes.”
Me: “Well, I guess I’ll just be in hell then. Thanks for the call.”

Moving truck horror

Right before I left for college my parents were selling the house in White Plains. They had nowhere to go, so most everything we owned was being put in storage. Now, the house wasn’t a mansion, by any means. But it was pretty roomy. There are 5 of us, and we all had our own room. There were even 2 apartments in the basement, and an attic full of crap. So we are talking a lot of stuff.

Moving day comes, and for some reason me and my closest sister are the only ones around to deal with the moving men. They load up this gigantic truck, and it was packed to the brim. They had this one really skinny guy in there at the end, cramming things all over. I think they couldn’t have fit another couch cushion in that thing. So we are supposed to head over to the storage place, meet them there, and then watch them unload everything. On the way, we realize that we need to buy a padlock, so we stop off for a few minutes to get one. As we are 1 block away from the storage place, we see the movers standing around on the side of the road. As my sister is saying, “What the hell are they all just doing standing there?” I look down to the right (I was in the passenger side) and go, “oh. Ohhhh.”

The moving truck had apparently not been able to make it up the hill and the brakes went out (personal opinion? They overloaded it) and when the truck started to roll backwards, all the guys jumped out of the cab and the truck slid back, then turned and lodged itself sideways in this tiny ditch. It was a perfect fit. The cab was sticking up, but the box part was practically made for this ditch. And it is the ONLY ditch on the entirety of 9A that I know of.

So we go over, park the car, and run down there, then call my dad on a pay phone (ahh, the simpler times before cell phones were everywhere) and tell him about it. He just got all quiet, then said, “...is there a fire?” And when I said no, he kind of relaxed. So there was nothing else we could do and we ended up heading home.

Basically, people from the area ended up getting lawn chairs and sitting on the side of 9A to watch this whole fiasco. (Really, why??) They got one of those construction vehicles to come and try to pry the box out of the ditch. But the truck was so heavy, so every time the back of the backhoe thing (backhoe? Is that right?) would lift up from the weight, and then it would drop the truck. So it was repeatedly slamming the truck, and all of our belongings, up and down in the ditch.

They put chains around the truck to try and lift it out, and the chains were rubbing and causing sparks. So they had to get the fire department there, and they were waiting with their hoses for the whole thing to just burst into flames. Luckily, that never happened.

Finally, it got to the point that they decided to just cut a hole in the side of the truck and slowly lift things out of it until there was enough weight gone to lift the truck out. At this point, my parents decided to just go out to dinner. (I was too young to realize it was much more about the wine than the dinner, but I’m betting that was the important part.)

My friend Leigh came with us out to dinner, and on her way home had to drive by the incident. Even though it sounds weird in the retelling, the whole thing was extremely dramatic; she sees the flashing lights, firemen, hoses, police officers, trashy people on lawn chairs, and calls me hysterically crying. “Diane!! I JUST SAW YOUR TV ON 9A!! IT IS JUST SITTING THERE IN THE RIGHT LANE! OH GOD! IT’S AWFUL!”

Eventually they got the truck out and as they turned it over, glass and mirror just came pouring out of the hole. The good side here was that my parents had this hideous, awful, nasty mirrored wall unit thing in the living room, which was completely destroyed. Heh.

So all of our stuff went into storage, but we had to get 2 storage rooms—1 was for the stuff that seemed to be ok, and 1 was for everything that was completely broken so that the insurance company could come and look at it and go “oh yeah. Broken.” And determine how much money our broken crap was worth.

So anyway. I have yet to hear of anybody else who has had a worse moving experience.

Seinfeld

I had to share my favorite quote from Seinfeld:

"Ah, you're crazy."
"Am I? Or am I so sane that you just blew your mind?"
"It's impossible!"
"Is it? Or is it so possible that your head is spinning like a top?!"
"It can't be!"
"Can’t it? Or is your entire world just crashing down all around you?"
"Alright, that's enough."

I like to say this to people.

Entrails

Nobody else ever seems to have the kind of problems that I do. I was driving down 684 one evening, going to meet 2 friends at Playland. It is a fast-paced road; I was probably going about 80 mph and there were a number of other cars. So by the time I notice the giant deer carcass in the middle of the lane coming up, it is too late for me to switch. There were cars on both sides, so I just had to smash right over it. I thought everything seemed ok. My car was still working, I didn’t skid over it and smash or anything. So as I am driving, I realize that there are these nasty bloody bits of fur splattered all over the windshield. “Gross!” I thought, then parked at Playland and went to meet my friends.
We spend a few hours there and when we are coming back, I was telling the story about the deer and how nasty it was that it splattered onto my window. So one friend looks and goes “dude, look down there.” On the front bumper, in that little space are entrails. Deer entrails. That somehow, by driving over them, wrapped themselves around in that little space and were dragging all over. So while I was driving, I just had these flapping entrails with me.
“Ugh!” we 3 said in unison. Then tried using a stick to get them off. But from the drive, they had also bonded themselves there and were not budging. I had to go to my friend’s house and they used a hose, sticks, gardening tools, and anything else possible to pry them off of my car.

As far as I have heard, this situation was still pretty much unique to me. Especially as someone who lives in the Bronx.

WWE pipe dreams (but without the opium)

I have this great plan about when I become a professional wrestler. Right before they announce me in the arena, they will turn all the lights down. Then from behind a white curtain you will kind of see my silhouette as the announcer says, “Tonight, the forecast calls for partly cloudy with 100% chance of...” [at this point he reaches a frenzied level of screaming] “...D-STORM!!!”
And then there will be the crashing sound of thunder, and while the lights flicker on and off, I can bust through the curtain. I still have to work on my outfit. Because in my mind, I am wearing a rain cloud that basically ends up looking like a tutu. But I have a golden lightning bolt across my chest. And for some reason, those shoes with wings on them like that little girl had in Adventures in Babysitting. Maybe I need to confer with a costume designer in the WWE.

The 2-door Saturn

This story is never as funny in the retelling, but when I try to talk about it, or even just think about it, I laugh so hard I cry.

My friend Do had her car for probably at least 5 years at the point in time in which this story takes place. We were hanging out one night; some of us were drinking. I am always one who is up for drinking, but on this particular night, I wasn’t that drunk. Do was driving her boyfriend and me back to his house for sleeping. He had gotten tired earlier in the night and went to her car to nap. So when Do and I got out there, he was in the driver’s seat passed out. Do went over to try and get him to wake up enough just to move to the passenger seat, and I went to the passenger side to get in. So while she is standing over him, gently going “you gotta move, ok? Hey, can you move? Psstt?” I am standing on the other side, growing confused. He decides that he can just scoot over from the driver to the passenger side without getting out of the car. He is mumbling all sorts of sleepy words, but they aren’t all that coherent. Do is standing there going, “I don’t know, I think maybe you need to just get out and walk around. Uhm, are you sure this will work? Ok, can you please just get out and not shove over?”
I, meanwhile, am standing at the passenger side and am trying desperately to shove the front seat down. For some reason, it just isn’t folding. I was really confused, and starting to get angry when Do looked up and saw me struggling with the seat. So while her boyfriend has one leg on each side and is straddling the gear shift, I am going “wait, I need to get in first! Don’t move over yet!” She finally goes “WHAT are you DOING?” and I say (like she is totally daft), “I am trying to GET IN THE BACK! The seat won’t fold!” So she stares at me for a minute and then says, “I HAVE a FOUR-DOOR CAR!”

At this point I think both of us were laughing too hard to do anything but stand there clutching our stomachs. And poor boyfriend missed it all, because he was passed out on the console.

Morocco

I was just getting coffee in the break room at work and someone in there was talking about my recent trip to Morocco. I never wrote about that here...
So a few months ago my friend agreed to go somewhere with me, and we settled on Morocco. I am not sure why I always wanted to go there, it just seemed like a cool place to visit. So we look online, find a tour, and book a trip that was to take place in about 2 months. (Neither one of us are big on the whole "plan it way in advance" thing. I think the two of us are both too antsy.)

First, we are on the flight and end up sitting next to this little girl. Her parents were placed in different places on the plane, and she didn't want to switch with someone to sit with her dad, she wanted to stay with us. So my friend (who had to sit in the middle after the heinous experience I had on the way to Paris) ended up taking care of this little girl--reading stories, helping her eat, etc. She did steal her cookies though, so I guess that was worth it. But the flight wasn't awful.

We get off the plane and meet with our tour, get to the hotel, and get ready for seeing Casablanca. Now, we were bold in Paris--we got there and walked right out of the hotel and all over the streets and took the Metro and talked to people and stayed out at night. All that. So at 1 p.m. I decide we should go for a walk around the hotel and see what is there. We get 1 block away and a man walks by making kissy sounds. I was like, "wow, I knew that would happen, but still weird!" A few seconds later, another man walks by going "bonjour girls. Hey ladies." A few more steps, and it's "Hey girls! I know where you're from! {kissy kissy} I know you!" This guy follows us for a block talking and making sounds, and now I get really uncomfortable. My friend is all "who cares?" but I can't handle it, so we go back to the hotel. And right there was when my adventurous spirit died.

We did the tour thing and it was fine. The country was amazingly beautiful, and fascinatingly different. But somehow, I am a HUGE hit in Morocco. When we were in Fez I was telling the tour guide, Hassan, about how it was when we left the hotel. He whipped around and said, "You left the hotel?! Here? AT NIGHT?!" and I felt like I did something wrong. I said 'no, not here. It was in Casablanca. In the afternoon. It was light out... I'm sorry Hassan."
And he said, "If you want to go somewhere, tell me. Call me on my cell phone if you are going out at night. You can't go out at night!"
Rather than feeling like I had a companion, I felt amazingly uncomfortable. To have a stranger (albeit a stranger who is being paid to make sure I make it out of the country alive) flip out like that made me feel much less safe.

We go to Marrakesh, the last stop on our tour, and on one of those day tours, Hassan was pointing to a wedding chair in this museum we went into. He decided then that he would come tell me that the men of Morocco really favor pale skin and child-bearing hips. Hunh. Should I be insulted? I mean, yes, in my family the babies practically just fall out. All 3 of my birthing sisters had babies when the nurse swore it couldn't be time, and ended up with the doctor not being ready. One of them even had a doctor with 1 glove on, yelling for his other glove as the baby was coming.
But perhaps having my first real boyfriend tell me a few weeks into dating him that I had child-bearing hips made me a little touchy. Why did Hassan have to go and point that out?

But I had my answer: I was such a hit in Morocco because I am the palest person around, and I look like I could bear a man many fine, strapping sons. Hunh.

In Marrakesh then we end up just going to sit at the hotel bar. I was terrified of leaving at night, as though all the men would just see me reflecting the moonlight and flock to me. We walk into the "jazz club" (in quotes because that name was a real stretch; they should have called it the "cheesy American music that even my parents find too soft" club).
We sit down and order a bottle of wine, and everything seems to be fine. But the guy playing the keyboard just keeps staring over, and smiling. Then he starts winking. Luckily, the way the place was set up had me sitting in such a way that he was straight ahead of me, and thus it was hard to NOT look at him.
On the second night, we are both walking by this place and he sees us through the window. He waves at us, and waves us in. We are greeted with a giant smile and winks as he plays through another painful rendition of a song I never really liked in the first place. We sit, my friend getting a soda and I had a campari and soda. She gets tired and heads up to bed while I finish my drink. I am sitting alone reflecting on the vacation that was going to end soon, glancing through the pictures on my camera. Just as I look up I see the piano guy staring at me, grinning, winking, all very over the top, and then he sings: "Hello? Is it me you're looking for?"
(As a side note, I had a joke with my friend in high school about this song and we always laugh about it. So to now be in this situation, by myself, hearing this guy singing it with a heavy accent and staring at me suggestively was almost too much.) I am grinning behind my hand, but know I have to get out of there.
I call over the waiter, who was never anything but cordial when I was with my friend. "Yes honey?" (What?)
me: "oh, I'd just like to have my bill"
"well, you only have to pay for 1 drink."
me: "oh yeah? Why?"
"because you are just so beautiful." {wink, grin}

I mean, I wonder if my pheramones were just like, of some type that doesn't exist in that country and I am somehow this hot commodity.

On the last night, my friend was sick and went to bed early. So I am sitting with 2 other girls from the tour and they are saying they have wine but the waiters wouldn't open it. I was like, "oh, just take it to the jazz club. That guy will do it." So we walk in and the waiter is like "Hi! What can I do for you?" to me. He opens the bottles for us and we turn to see my piano guy waving and smiling and winking again. So these 2 girls are like, "uh, do you know him?" and i just told them the story about how he likes to wave at me from afar.

We go to sit out by the pool with some wine, and in about 10 minutes the piano guy shows up. He stands right by the door about 20 feet away, just staring. One of the other girls waves back, and is like "man, that is creepy!" He did that 2 more times, and then when our group moved inside to the couch area in the lobby, he did as well. He took his break by sitting on a couch 10 feet away just staring. And if I looked over, he'd smile. But never did he try to talk to me. Just watch. From afar.

I end up heading upstairs at 1 or 1:30 and have to get up at 3 for our trip home. I was really looking forward to getting home. So at 2:45 I hear my friend in the bathroom.
She calls me. "Diane?"
"yaargg?" (I had a lot of wine, and I had no sleep, so I wasn't quick on the waking up here.)
"I keep falling over..."
Me: "maybe you are just tired and it's making you dizzy?"
"Diane? Can you help me up?"

So I go into the bathroom without my glasses and as I help my friend get up off of the floor, I see a big pool of blood from where she just was. I turn in time to see her about to collapse and grab her before she goes down. (In my defense, she didn't say, "Diane? I am lying a big pool of blood." I thought she was just dizzy!)
So as I am slowly lowering her to the floor she is staring vacantly right past me going "Diane? Diane?" in this eery, child-like voice. So now I am about to flip out. The whole back of her head is matted in bloody hair. She had been about to take a pill, and so they were all over the sink and floor area. It was like a scene from a movie; a bloody person passed out surrounded by pills, the pill container lying on it's side and the top on the floor.
We are back to standing up, and I realize that I can't lift her up. So I end up saying "is it ok if I drag you across the floor?" (Also in my defense, I didn't mean like, by the hair or feet. I was holding her up and just meant to let her feet go because every time she tried to walk, she just fell over and stumbled back into me.) SO we get to the bed and from there, I lifted her back.
"Diane? I just need my power bar. Can you get my power bar?"

Anyway, we end up calling the doctor who came and did NOTHING. He said she should get stitches but that he would drive us to the clinic. Overall, I am really glad we didn't go because he was a total scammer. He said one price and then followed us to the ATM machine (as we were leaving the next day, we both spend up our Dirhams down to just enough for airport food) and then demanded more.

So our tour ended up waiting for us, and we had about 5 minutes to get ready and pack and make it downstairs. We left the hotel room in shambles. It looked like a horrible murder had taken place in the bathroom, and another in one of the beds.

We got to the airport in Casablanca, and find a medical area. I am walking in the room yelling about how there is no doctor, and this other woman on the tour was with me. We are about to start opening up the cabinets when this man stumbles out of a tiny door in sweatpants and says, "are you looking for a doctor?" My friend is brought in and they give her stitches there. Including stitching this gauze to her head.

That was pretty much the trip. I am thinking that I will go back to my Europhile ways and just stick with going to a country where people think I am nothing special. Because that seems to work out a little bit better for me.

I will though comment on the fact that Morocco was really beautiful, and being in the medinas was an amazing experience. I wish I had gone under different circumstances, like with just 1 man or a smaller tour. But just look at how beautiful it was.