Bugging Out in the ‘Burbs



Not so gently into that good night do the woods and creatures who inhabit them go. Well, they go, because the bulldozer leaves them no choice. But the aftermath of their unceremonious evictions and in some cases, their death, causes reverberations felt by the funky Homosapiens who should know better than to allow this to crap happen.

In 2002, over 70% of the green space in “the unnamed county 30 miles east of Alabama” was cleared for development (commercial and residential). 70%. Now, that may not seem like a lot, but it sure has made an impact on Bambi and ‘em. Incidents involving deer have risen tremendously. I, myself, have had to hit the brakes quite a few times to avoid hitting the ones wandering on Rose Ave. on foggy spring mornings. Said mornings, in the natural scheme of things is when these deer would be out mackin’ because it is their mating season; instead, they are house hunting.

Other animals are just plain pissed. Fox attacks on humans were visibly higher in 2004. With no where to go, these half-feline, half-dog creatures are striking back. And where indeed, are they supposed to go? Should they pitch a tent in the Outdoor section at Super Wal-mart on Hwy. 5?

The wildlife inhabitants of the county are being forced out for more shopping centers, homes that cost an astronomical amount of money and people who really don’t give a rat’s tail about what all this building is doing to the environment.

When territory that God beautifully created and should be left “untouched,” is constantly being invaded, it causes major problems with ants, crickets, frogs, snakes (yes), lizards, spiders, lady bugs (ugh, they leave such a nasty red stain when you smush them), and termites.

The infestation of termites and the fight to keep them out of our home intrigues me, especially with regards to a new subdivision. Heck, the termite is only doing what we have started and continue to do: eat away at stuff and destroy creations of beauty.

Still, we spend hundreds of dollars to get rid of these bugs, slugs and whatnot because we feel they are invading our turf. But hey, weren’t they here in the woods not bothering anyone when we came along and built several houses on top of their houses?

So how can we get upset when there is a new ant trail running through the living room? Or frogs keep hanging around the patio door? Or, if every morning we catch Bambi nibbling on the peach tree we planted in the backyard? If R. Kelly is sitting at home, watching television, and without warning, someone kicks his door in, tears his house down and builds a daycare center in its place, can we blame him if he begins lurking around said daycare center with a video camera…?

Sign O' the Times...

It is so scary to think about the fact that there are very little activities or simple functions in life that do not require one to "sign in." Unfortunately, there is so little trust. And rightly so. One slip, blink or pause, and someone has stolen your identity or snatched some cash from your bank account. Your word is no longer your bond. You must VERIFY who you are.

The most extreme measures of security occur at the work place. Whether subtle or the straight-up requirement for DNA and blood sample prior to carrying out daily work responsibilities, the lack of trust is undeniable. To get on your computer, to check your voice mail, to get into the building, to enter your work time card--all of these functions require a username and password.

It is the password that bothers me the most. With so many to keep up with, I can never remember them. Experts (Clark Howard 'n em) always advise not to use the same one. "Try to mix it up." "Use a variation of numbers or letters." Well, there are only so many variations one can remember. I once worked for a company whose computer automatically requires users to change their passwords every 90 days. Moreover, if you try to use the same password within a six month period, the system rejects it.

Even doing a little research for a column I was writing required that I "register, setup a usersname and password." For pete's sake! But said requirement is simply a part of the Big Brother conspiracy; that issue requires a whole other blog and one I am not sure I want to write. But I digress. It is frustrating to have all of this knowledge at my fingertips but to have to jump through hoops to gain access to it.



Even more frustrating is the two ID requirement for deposits at my credit union. How twisted is that? I have to prove who I am beyond a shadow of a doubt to put my money in my account.

My consolation in dealing with all this madness is that there will be no passwords or usernames in Heaven.



In Other Words...
Those Nine Little Digits

Appearances and (Our) Perceptions

Was at my Grandparents’ place over the holidays. Every time one of us (2nd, 3rd and even the 4th generation) pays a visit, we cannot help but complain about the massive amounts of “non-useful” things cluttering the house. My Grandmother probably has close to 30 pots and pans; yet, it has been 40 years since the last child moved out. The stove that was replaced recently is on the back porch; it is not quite 10 years old, and my Grandmother does not want “anybody” to have it. You see, the computer chip in said item is busted ($300 to replace), causing the oven not to function; still, the top of the stove itself is in perfect working condition. To people of my Grandparents’ generation, it would be a waste to throw it out; save it for someone who “might be able to use it.” To someone like me, who is trying to rid their life of junk, the fact that a broken stove was taking up space when it should be in the trash, could have, if I would have allowed it, driven me nuts. But I digress.



Then there are the giant-sized tins in the cupboard. I had not really noticed them before, but now they stood out like a sore thumb. They have been there forever and are all rusted over. There used to be a design or drawings on them, but they have long faded away. “What possible use could one have for these things?,” I wondered. On the second day of our visit, I inquired where the grits was stored. “Look in the tins,” was the reply I received. “Those rusted out things under the sink?,” I thought quietly. Sure enough, inside of the tins were four or five fresh, unopened bags of grits. Amongst all the junk, here was food at the ready. I took the liberty of going through the other tins: rice, canned preservatives, sugar, flour and other items that would come in handy if flood, hurricane, unnatural disaster, etc. were to strike.

My Mother later informed me that these tins are at least 45 to 50 years old. The junk cluttering my Grandparents’ house aside, I thought about how I was so quick to dismiss the tins because they were “old and rusted.” How many times do we, in general, look at something, or someone for that matter, and dismiss them because of appearance?

“Oooh, girl! You going out with him? He has a really good job and knows how to treat a lady, but he is not the most attractive man…”
“These boots are warm and comfortable, but they don’t do anything for my wardrobe.”

There is no stand-out lesson to be learned or anything here. Just something that will probably cross my mind if ever I am in the market to buy a home and I encounter one that is sensible, reasonable, in a near-perfect neighborhood and is bright orange with neon green Berber carpet.