Thursday’s Bumper Sticker
Mysterious Ol’ Facebook
A small mid-morning rant, category: technology.
Facebook notifications won’t load/display this morning. After playin’ with it five minutes as I sipped coffee and doing a few searches for fixes, I shrugged it away and reported it. Not a big deal, really.
After reporting it and sending a screen shot, I noticed my FB support inbox was showing four new messages. I opened it.
None were new. One was over sixteen months old. They were all about my violations of their community standards. They’re a laugh.
One was a Bored Panda post I’d shared about people working from home and dealing with their dogs. This affronted Facebook’s spam standards.
Whaaat? They don’t want me to share humorous animal stories because they’re ‘spam’? Geez, I think I’ve been using FB wrong lo’ these many years.
Two others were messages updating me about my protests. They’d blocked two others because they violated their community standards. I’d appealed. These were notices that they were wrong, and had restored the posts. Well, good for me. Good for FB.
The fourth was an appeal I’d put in about another post they’d removed. They were reviewing it and would get back to me soon. Dated June 12, 2019, I figured their idea of ‘soon’ and mine doesn’t match.
Now, the most interesting thing is that the notifications that I can’t see on FB, I can see when I’m in my FB support inbox. Intrigued, I went back to FB and attempted to see the notifications through various feeds. No go. But the push notifications still pop up and load.
Well, it’s modern technology, innit? When it works, it’s great. When it fails, it’s a big friggin’ mystery. In the ol’ days, we’d clean the cache, or reboot, or sumpin’. I’m going to have more coffee, and see if that takes care of it.
Blueberry Hunter
Quinn was a compact cat. His silky fur and bushy tail made him look larger than he was and often drew compliments. I was partial to his sharp, jade eyes. His nickname was black paws for the dark fur that covered them.
He passed away almost a year ago, succumbing to cancer. With us for about twelve years, he was a refugee from another house on the street. He’d come in during a cold and windy night when I was out calling my felines. We fed him and put him up. I put out posters. He was identified, and his people came and got him, but he kept coming back to ours until the people gave up and moved away without him. I’m flattered that he chose us.
A strong-willed feline, he prompted me to write about him numerous times. My favorite was just called “Quinn”, which I posted just over four years ago.
Life’s a rush,
When you’re Quinn.
If he’s out,
He wants in.
If he’s in,
He wants out.
And to find a way,
He’ll rush about.
He was also my inspiration for one of my favorite posts, “The Catfood”, from a few years ago. He was always a picky eater, forcing me to procure new offerings. Hence I found myself in a Walmart store contemplating chicken and waffle cat food.
I’m thinking about him today with fondness. My wife is harvesting the last of her cherry tomatoes. Plucking them from the vine, she sets them in bowls in the kitchen to ripen.
Today, she’s talking about using some of the ripe ones in an arugula-pasta-cherry tomato salad. One of our favorite dishes, it’s healthy and easy to make. Sorting tomatoes that could be use, she dropped a green one onto the floor where it disappeared from our sight.
That’s where Quinn would’ve come in. He was terrific at finding things on the floor, and then batting them around. Most frequently, blueberries were involved. We’ve picked blueberries almost every year since we’ve lived here. After picking, we set some aside for immediate use, and then freeze the rest. Freezing them meant spreading them on trays and then placing the tray in the freezer. Once they’re frozen on the tray, they’re transferred to plastic storage containers. We’d need to do that multiple times. Inevitably, blueberries would hit the floor.
Quinn would immediately rush to them and sniff the dropped berry. From the look that jumped into his face, he hated their smell. So offensive was it to him, he’d immediately start angrily whacking the blueberry around until a human interceded and took it away.
Such a fun sweetheart, he was also a bit of a slut. More than once, I saw people passing by notice him and say something. He’d hurry up to them for love and attention.
But he always returned to us, and slept snuggled up against me. I could’ve used him during this week, when tension from the combination of pandemic life and presidential elections is higher than the moon. Besides, he would find that cherry tomato that was dropped.
As it is now, we probably won’t find it until one of us steps on it or we move away.
Ignorant
Unheeding of what they thought or humans tried to do, the skunk removed the board with her powerful front legs and went back under the house. A robin changed positions, looking for a meal.
Indifferent to changing clocks, pending elections, economies, and pandemics, nature shifted gears, changing colors and striking down leaves and blooms in the northern climes, and refreshening and enlivening the landscape south of the equator.
Oblivious to watching eyes, hopes and despairs, and lies and promises, the sun rose, and the stars shone, and the moon reflected on it all.
All of nature and physics remained ignorant of the human worries and events, as though they were a drop in the bucket, a blink of an eye, or a mote floating through the firmaments, and not the end and beginning of everything.
The wind, as he thought about it, sighed, and went on.
My Venn Diagram
It’s like I’m all over the place – everything and nothing.
To Begin
A knock came on the door.
During these COVID-19 times, knocks (or the doorbell) are always a freezing moment. Eighty percent of the time at my house, it’s a delivery person leaving something on the porch. That other twenty is divided by neighbors and friends, depending on local events and who’s in town. Our friends like traveling and have the money to do it.
My wife and I froze with the standard who-can-that-be wonder in our expressions. I recovered first, saying, “Who’s that? It’s ten o’clock at night.” I was thinking, I didn’t hear a car, and I was thinking, it must be an emergency, and I was looking at the clock to confirm the time (and discovering that it was actually almost ten thirty) (time to take my pills), and also thinking, where are the cats (because something may have happened to them). My mind is a busy place when the unexpected arrives. Finding the remote, I paused Endeavour on PBS on Prime.
My wife, though, said, “Go see who it is. I’m in my jammies. It must be important. Look out first.”
Annoyance fluttered through me as I went to the door. As if I wouldn’t look out first. Who in America doesn’t look out first, except in television shows and movies? Well, and sometimes novels.
As I navigated the way, I saw one cat watching, the rear end of another heading for cover somewhere, and the third doing a prairie dog impression on the sofa. They were all in and safe, so…?
I flicked on the light and looked out through the side glass (and wondered if I should have a phone in my hand (in case I needed to call the police), or a weapon). (Like, what weapon? A knife? I’m not a knife fighter. Where is my baseball bat? Did I give it away? Maybe I should get a frying pan.)
I didn’t see anyone on the porch, and no box or delivery (not even flowers), but then, someone was there. Not large, but bearded, dressed in green. I gasped as recognition vaulted through me.
It was a fucking leprechaun.
“Who is it?” my wife called from the den’s safety.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how. The leprechaun looked up at me and winked. I jumped back. “What the fuck.”
It had to be a joke. It wasn’t Halloween yet. What kind of joke was this?
Swallowing hard, my throat tightening and drying, I pushed one cat back with a foot, informing him, “Stay back, damn it,” and thought again about weapons. Then, screwing up manly courage, I opened the door.
A cold wind blew in, chilling me through. A shake began in my abdomen and rippled through my body.
The leprechaun was smiling and holding up an envelope. The envelope looked like it could have a bill. Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe it was just mispitched mail. Could this be one of our neighbors? I don’t think I’d ever seen a leprechaun in the neighborhood…
“Michael?” the leprechaun said. “Yeah, I know it’s you. Saying your name is but a formality.” His Irish accent was like Chris O’Dowd unfiltered, strangely heavy for one who didn’t have much mass to them.
“Number one, because people always ask, yes, I am a leprechaun. I won’t ask you to let me in. I know the time. Not a good time in your mind, but it’s the best time for us to come. We used to just break into people’s houses at night, but we lost a few of our people that way, especially in this century in America, if you see my meaning, leading to a policy change. But we don’t go around in the daytime, if you see what I mean. Little folk running around always draw attention, people making jokes about pots of gold, being stoned, and Lucky Charms cereal.” He fluttered the envelope at me. “This is for you. It’ll explain matters but you need to take it, open it, and read it. Do you understand?”
Meowing, the cat tried to get out to check out the leprechaun. Pushing the cat back with a foot, I nodded.
A smile lifted the leprechaun’s expression. “I’d appreciate it if you can give me a verbal response for the records and also take the envelope. They have your results.”
“My results?”
“From your 23 and Me DNA test. You’re part leprechaun, lad.”
“What?”
“Your DNA shows that you’re part leprechaun, Michael. Congratulations.”
“What?”
“I know it’s a lot to comprehend. Take the envelope, open it up, read it, and you’ll understand. The documents include our website and a passcode to let you in.”
I’m a leprechaun, my brain was saying, but the words kept just going around and around, like a music box in my head. I’m a leprechaun, I’m a leprechaun. I think it was playing a plinking little tune, too.
“The envelope, please,” the leprechaun said with less patience. “Do you mind? I’m on a schedule.”
I took the envelope.
“Again, do you understand? Say the words.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. Thank you.” Smiling and nodding, the leprechaun bowed. “I’ll see you later.” He disappeared.
“Who is it?” my wife called.
I closed the door. The moment was so 2020. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Steelers Deodorant
Someone brought me some Pittsburgh Steelers deodorant. They know I’m a fan. They thought it was funny.
Coming in a black and gold container, it’s called “Steel Curtain”. Likenesses of Joe Greene, Troy Polamalu, James Harrison, and Ben Roethlisberger share the label.
I like it. The little paper that came with the box said it was formulated “through a variety of hands-on experiences” with the team. They were thorough, talking about “capturing the essence of watching film with Ben Roethlisberger in the quarterbacks room,” “the gritty combinations of linemen working out and running during OTAs,” and “the musky scent of proud men celebrating victory in the locker room,” among other aspects.
Yes, I catch some of that in its smell. It’s earthy, slightly woody to me, with a tincture of soggy, muddy grass and complex undertones of sweaty clothing, a spit of coppery blood, and the sharper, almost ethereal tang of victory. When I roll it on after my shower, my confidence vaults to higher levels. I’m ready to spring a hundred yard run. Passers-by are in danger of being tackled. The cats get wild-eyed as I sprint around the house, stiff-arming imaginary defenders, spiking the ball in the end zone, and loosing unbridled celebratory shouts.
My wife, on the other hand, raised her eyebrows at me. “What’s that smell?”
“What smell?”
Setting down her laptop, she’s glancing around. “Did something die in here?” She wrinkles up her face. “Did a cat shit in the corner?”
I sniff with indignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
* NOTE: This is not a real product, that I know of. I’m kind of surprised. I figured someone would’ve been all having unique deodorants, or maybe colognes for all professional teams in the U.S. Maybe they do exist. If they do, I’m sure I would’ve seen commercials or adverts. I could google it, but I’m a writer and prone to lazy fantasizing, not working.
Michael Seidel, writer 