Peace and Quiet....Sorta

While my personal life has (with the exception of Tim, who still needs to STFU, and LJ, who just needs to borrow a clue along with the $800 he owes me) been remarkably peaceful and quiet, that's pretty much ALL that has.

If you're not from Chicago, I'll explain in a minute. If you ARE from Chicago:

That fatal shooting off-campus at the University? Three blocks from here. The other incidents that same night--the armed robbery and the near-robbery-with-gunfire? One was about six blocks from where I'm currently living; the other?

About 100 feet from my building's front door.

It would be ironic, wouldn't it, if something happened to me HERE, after living uneventfully in the 'hood for four years? (And I use "ironic" in the sense of "...and also really, REALLY bad.")

For you non-Chicagoans: a doctoral student from Senegal, a chem student here at the University, who had just successfully defended his dissertation a few days ago, was shot and killed a few feet from his front door on Sunday night. That shooting happened a little after 1 AM; within the previous hour, two students were robbed at gunpoint several blocks away, and a University employee was shot at as he attempted to avoid being robbed (they missed him). The police have pretty much nothing, or at least, nothing that they're saying; a "light-colored" car, men of "average" height and weight...so basically, nothing.

Things are a little tense here, as you might imagine. My mom is freaking out because I walk home in the dark; I try to tell her there's a difference between 6 PM-dark and midnight-dark, but I see her point all the same. Even I'm nervous, a little, and you KNOW how much it takes to make ME nervous. I hope they catch the guys who did this.

Otherwise, all is fairly quiet. I'm still not fully unpacked, largely owing to a lack of places to put my various kitchen items; I'm going to make a Home Depot pilgrimage over the long weekend, and put some shelves in a closet to convert it to a pantry. Once that's done, I can reclaim most of my bookshelves, and unpack my books and assorted little decorative items; then, once the boxes are all gone, I can arrange things more to my liking. It's still a wonderful place, boxes and all, and I'm very happy here.

I took Tim's cat back to him over the weekend, much to the relief of BadCat and the despair of Snick; they were best buddies, and I don't think Snick knows what to do with himself now that his wrestling-pal is gone. He's managed to fill the void, however, by bouncing insanely off the walls--no, that is NOT a figure of speech; the cat LITERALLY BOUNCES off the walls. If I ever manage to videotape it, it will be the YouTube hit of the year. However, yesterday morning he added an unpleasant finale to the performance; he raced around for forty minutes like a crazed thing, then spewed his breakfast over a six-square-foot area of the living room. (It was a momentary upset, what cat owners sometimes refer to as a "snarf-n-barf"--cat eats too much, or too fast, or goes crazy too soon after eating, and ...blorggh.) Shortly after the blorggh in question, he started meowing to be fed again--apparently, having emptied his stomach, he felt he was entitled to a second helping. I grudgingly gave him a spoonful of food, along with dire threats of the vet visit that would take place if he didn't keep THAT down. Chastened, he nibbled at his snack and slunk away for a nap. Since then, he's answered, reluctantly, to "Dr. Pukenstein".

Cat stories, if you've not noticed, are generally harbingers of a peaceful, unruffled existence. And I hope to be telling cat stories quite a bit; they're INFINITELY more enjoyable--for me, at least--than Tim-and-Squeaky stories.

Well, okay, ONE more of those...

My mom drove me to drop off Cassidy. Tim is living with Squeaky and her dad, in the far north suburbs, quite a long way from me. So I pack up his cat, along with a few days worth of food and supplements for when Tim tries to make his own cat food, and the three of us--Mom, Gladys, and cat--ride 45 minutes into the 'burbs (during the last NASCAR race of the season!).

We reach the appointed address, and I call Tim on my cell phone. The first thing he says when he sees us? "Oh, thanks so much for bringing...."

Oh. Wait. That was in a dream world, where Tim acts like a civilized human with a sense of gratitude.

What he REALLY said: "See, I wish you would have pulled around to the back...I thought you were gonna pull around, so I wouldn't have to bring him through the front door...."

I looked at him for a moment, attempted to start an unrelated sentence, and then stopped and simply said "You know, you're WELCOME...."

He covered his embarrassment--assuming that's what he was feeling, which is a pretty big assumption--by yelling at Squeaky about something. But I really, seriously, just wanted to slap him til his teeth rattled. He's really been a jerk lately. (He tried to explain that away over the phone a day or two later--he was talking about how he's in pain--he hurt his foot, and his shoulder hurts, and his teeth are acting up, and....I was like...you know, people manage to be civilized and have manners, even when they're not feeling well, so I really wish you'd just own up to having been a butthead, apologize, and move on. The excuses are getting old. )

Needless to say, I was very glad to get home. Solitude, even with insane housecats, is a wonderful thing.