Ronnie

I was driving down a fairly major street and there was a guy lying half on the sidewalk, half on the meridian, out cold. He was lying on his back, which is an odd enough way to sleep, and as I came down the road, he was not moving. And people were stepping over him, and around him, and drivers were looking anywhere but at him.

And I knew this guy. Not his name, but his face. I'd had seen him, at a soup kitchen we used to volunteer at, around downtown. And I have always been struck by how kind his face looks, and how small and unassuming he seems to be.

I pulled into the alleyway, and got out of my car. And lest you think that I am Mother Teresa in training, I got out of my car, grumbling, muttering.

Why am I always the one to stop?

I counted 5 cars that went past in 30 seconds. Surely there have been hundreds of cars. Surely. Why am I stopping? And I walked around the corner, and thought:

"I'm going to be late for dinner - and - please don't let him be dead."

And I came upon him, and he was not dead, which was a relief. But, given the smell of alcohol, and the fact that certain parts of his body had let loose, and that he was out cold, I debated. Ambulance, police. Police, ambulance. And I knelt, on the side of the road.While cars paused to ask if I needed assistance - for what? Could they not have stopped earlier? Quickly checking for breathing, pulse, bleeding, indication of what might have happened. Was he beaten? Diabetic? Seizure? Stroke? Heat Exhaustion? I debated, recovery position? And I took another whiff of the alcohol, saw no evidence of trauma and decided.

And lest you still think that I am a saint, I put him in the recovery position for his good and my own. For him, so that he would not aspirate if he vomited, and for my good, so that I would not have to go home to change my clothes. And I reflected, as I always do, that I really should get some vinyl gloves to put in my glove compartment. And I rubbed his hand, and told him I was there, and he would be ok. And I equally reflected that I did not like the indignity of wearing gloves where there was no infectious material, that the feeling of my hands on his, they must be a comfort. I wonder who had last touched him with some sense of human care in their mind. And the late summer sun beat down on us, and I called the emergency number and told them where we were. I reassured him. It would be ok.

And I am still not sure what would be ok. He was homeless. He was on the ground. At the least he was drunk. While I waited, I tidied up his few things, put them back in his shopping cart. Tucked his jacket and hat around what few items he had. Reflected that someone had rummaged through his shopping cart, likely taking everything of value. There were a few rice puddings, past their due date, a wind breaker and an old ball cap, much like farmers wear. I wondered if he liked it, or it was merely what came to hand at a clothing bank. A copy of a newspaper that was a week old, and three slices of bread. Perhaps there had been more, but it was gone. Likely a day's worth of bottles he had collected, although it was possible he had spent that money on the bottle of 90 proof grain alcohol that was on the ground, not 3 feet away. Empty now.

And with the sun beating down, I put his things together, to hand to the ambulance attendant. Trying to get what little that was his, what little might matter. I reflected on the rice pudding, and wished that I still carried around granola bars with me, to give out. And I looked at his face, slack in unconsciousness, and noticed how his mouth was caved in, and decided that the rice pudding would still be best, expired or not.

I wondered, in an itinerant life, what you could have of value? Memories perhaps? I am sure, that this old man, with his kind face is not safe or secure in our shelters, and I am equally certain that he too has a story. I wonder if his memory still exists. It did not at 5:15 pm on Tuesday.

And quickly, kneeling beside him, looking into startled blue eyes that had just opened. I told him my name, told him he was safe, and that help was on the way. I stopped saying ok. And he did not tell me his name, merely mumbling and waving his hands, but not trying to get up, not trying to move away. Lost, confused, in another world.

And the ambulance arrived with its clanging sirens and flashing lights, and the techs poured out. In clean sanitary uniforms, taking control of my unsureness. And the woman, as she was pulling on her gloves, and putting on her glasses, she said his name.

I told her that I had come upon him, lying so still, in such an awkward, inopportune place, and I had stopped. And she turned and looked at me and said:

"binge drinking".

And I nodded. She helped him up. With care and concern I had not expected. Gently. I handed the other tech his things, such a small package, even in the heat of summer where not much is needed. Such a small package for such a confused man.

And I thought about patting his shoulder, but they were already helping him away. I looked at the last tech, moving the shopping cart, now empty, out of the way and said:

"that's all, then?"

And the tech nodded yes. And I walked away.

Unsure.

If you wouldn't mind

So, I had an interesting post today about what my neighbour is doing (it's crazy and cool, and I really want to share it) but I absolutely can't figure out how to make my darn photo editing software turn a picture from landscape to portrait, so Laura (the neighbour) is standing on her head (except, obviously not really, in real life) and she looks just strange, and you can't see the canoe, which is an important part of what she's doing, and her partner is just home from seeing her, so I thought I'd go and see what he's got for me. . .

Anyway, so no post about Laura my neighbour. Maybe Thursday. And if you've got some good suggestions on SIMPLE photo editing software, leave a note in the comments. That's Request Number 1.

BUT:

On Friday I discovered that the JuliaS, who's blog (and also this one) I thought I had been commenting on is actually this Julia instead (who, I don't think has commented, although I'm sure she's very nice.)

Anyway, it got me to wondering: are there any more of you out there wondering - "Mrs. Spit, I comment and comment on your blog, and you never even look at mine, never mind comment, and this relationship is just not working, and you are a selfish and thoughtless hag". So, would you mind just standing up and saying - "Hey I read" and if you have a blog, would you mind telling me which one? 'Cause I'm kind of stupid and confused that way. That's assignment 2.

That's all for Tuesday.

The Thursday-Whinge-For-All

Allrighty, at Carol's request: we are having a Whiny Thursday again.

The Rules:
This is your chance to take that tiny little thing, throw it in the comments, fully whine about it. Howl, go on at length, tell us every detail. And you know what?
We will all tell you that it's not fair, we'll sympathize.
We won't tell you to get over it, or be thankful for what you have.
Today, I feel like whinging, and you get to be a part of it.
Tomorrow we'll clean up our act, and we'll go back to the being the grown ups we are.
Tomorrow we'll put on our big girl pan.ti.es and deal with it.
Today we whine.

The Contest:
And the best? Based on a highly scientific system, (like letting the cat draw names out of the hat) I will send two people a prize. One of the prizes will go to Carol. They will be something cool like a gift card or something knitted. It'll be something worth your while.
Contest Deadline: Monday May 19th at 12:01 MST.

My Whinge:

It's about apostrophe's, and using them in possessives. Simply put, if you can say that one item belongs to another in a sentence, it's a possessive. So, if we say Mrs. Spit's garden, it is the garden belonging to Mrs. Spit, and we use an apostrophe to indicate the relationship. We also use them for contractions and certain plurals, but really, this is a blog about gardening and grief and knitting and whinging, not grammar.

Now, lots of people struggle with apostrophe's (and I'm happy to give lessons to all who ask), but, but if you are an editor that Mrs. Spit works with on a professional basis, and you are being paid (rather more than Mrs. Spit, I might add), I should not have to explain to you that I put the apostrophe in, when you missed it in the initial edit, and no it shouldn't be taken out!

Now, come and whinge!

Nothing to see here

No, really. I'm boring today.

Happy Monday.

What's next?

Just over a year ago, my watch broke. Now, I am a planner and an organizer. But, I decided that I couldn't find a watch that I liked, and that it was going to be a great opportunity for personal growth to not have a watch. I was going to learn to relax and go with the flow and be patient and not obsess over plans and just take life as it happens. In other words, I was going to become a person entirely unlike myself.

And I discovered some things. The first leap of faith for me was that there would be a time keeping piece around when I needed to know what time it was. There would be a clock on a wall or on a building, or on my palm or on a friends wrist. And you know, I haven't been disappointed in this - I've learned to have some faith that I will be able to figure out what time it is.

Not having a watch and not having Gabriel have taught me a lot about my tendency to plan too much, organize too much, and always be looking to that next big thing. I was always planning the next project, the next challenge, the next day. And so, here I am, not sure what time it is, and I can't really plan beyond an hour from now. And, that's been ok. It's not a particularly bad way to live. You don't need to plan everything, only some things.

But, on days like yesterday, I fall into that old habit of "What's next?". I mean it, too. I didn't get the job. That was frustrating, but mostly it was just a shitty end to a crappy day, what with the friend from hell. And I'm looking around at where I am, and obviously not liking it, and I'm thinking "what's next".

And I just don't have any great answers. All these options, and no idea what to do.

We interrupt this blog . . . .

To have a whiny, poopy pants, snivel fest.

Really, that's what we are going to do. If you think something in your life sucks just a bit, comment.

Now, I'm not talking about the big stuff, like my baby died, or my husband left me, or my house burned down. If you want to complain about a big injustice, feel free. We'll listen. And sympathize.

That's not what today's blog is about though. Nope, I'm talking about the stupid little thing that just pisses you off. Your husband bought you pink roses. You know you should be thankful for the roses at all, but dammit, why not red ones? You buy pink for your sister. (For the record, Mr. Spit has never done this)

This is your chance to take that tiny little thing, throw it in the comments, fully whine about it. Howl, go on at length, tell us every detail. And you know what? We will all tell you that it's not fair, we'll sympathize. We won't tell you to get over it, or be thankful for what you have. Today, I feel like whinging, and you get to be a part of it. Tomorrow we'll clean up our act, and we'll go back to the being the grown ups we are. Tomorrow we'll put on our big girl pan.ti.es and deal with it. Today we whine.

And the best? I will send you a reward. It may be something cool like a gift card or something knitted. It'll be something worth your while. See, aren't I nice?

Mr. Spit and I are dropping out of Bible Study. Cause, there's a new baby and we can't handle it. And I'm mad, not that we are dropping out (well, I am, but that's beside the point). I'm mad because the bible study leader said "Huh" when I told him we were dropping out. Not I'm sorry, no attempt to talk me out of it, just "huh". I'm not sure how I expected him to respond, and in all fairness, I don't think there was a good way to respond, but I'm disgruntled, and darn it, I'm going to whinge!

What's yours?

PS - For the purposes of contest stuff, I'll take comments until Friday at 12:00 AM, MST. Mr. Spit, the fur children and I will vote on the best written.