You Are What You Eat

The decision to not eat meat was – for me – not difficult. For many years, I ate very little meat. When I did eat it, I generally avoided doing so in the company of others. They tended to be a bit “put off” by the method that I used to “prepare” it for consumption. I could never eat any sort of meat without first examining it very closely. I would then remove every element of “other” that the meat possessed. All fat, all skin, all veins… Perhaps it was my mind’s way of trying to “de-animalize” it. If cleaned enough, it might seem as if I weren’t eating a creature at all.

This approach was often quite irritating to those close to me. It’s amazing how little tolerance people have, really… I can remember quite a few occasions that I would glance up from my breakfast plate to find multiple sets of eyes fixed upon me, all framed by raised eyebrows. Looking down at my plate, I would regard the bacon – the meat portions neatly stacked to one side, the fat pieces deposited to the side of the plate, ready for disposal. Nothing that warranted the expressions on their faces, in my opinion. Neither were the sandwiches that I had to completely deconstruct in order to “clean” the chicken breast (quite difficult when driving, let me assure you…) or the fact that a burger or piece of chicken had to be immediately discarded should I bite into it and encounter a vein or any other evidence of the “meatiness” of it.

When I finally made the decision to officially “not eat meat,” it was as if a weight had lifted from my shoulders. Ahhh… my mind sighed. Finally. It was the natural course of action, and it seemed odd that I had not taken the position sooner. At the time of my choice, I also made a decision to continue to eat seafood. As someone who spends quite a lot of time caring for my body – through both diet and exercise - I could not calculate a method of replacing the health benefits of fish with any other food source. It has not, however, been easy. I find myself thinking of seafood – and fish – in much the same way that I previously thought of meat. With each bite that enters my mouth, I imagine the flesh in its living state. I imagine the creature – alive. Not pleasant, as you might imagine.

This internal struggle has recently grown much worse. Last weekend, I saw a film at the Milwaukee Film Festival that very nearly put me over the edge. It is called Our Daily Bread, and I must insist that everyone in the world watch it. The film documents the modern food manufacturing industry. This is – to say the least – enlightening. If you’d like me to elaborate, I’ll add the word “horrifying.” The film takes place in Europe – no doubt because the footage would never be allowed to be taken in this country. Rest assured, however, that the processes are the same.

While I can handle the way that the produce/growing industry has modernized, and can even find it quite interesting, I find the lack of sensitivity in the animal industry absolutely deplorable. What does it say about humanity that we can “turn ourselves off” to the sadness in throwing live baby chicks into the garbage because they are so newly hatched that they’re not yet able to stand? I can only hope that the rest of the theater felt the same sense of fury/shock/rage as they watched chicks (and later chickens) thrown unto (LITERALLY) assembly belts and then propelled through chutes into assorted vessels. These same chicks would spend the rest of their lives either in tiny cages or in one big room, waiting for death. On a daily basis, staff would sort through them to remove the inevitable dead bodies.

That was only the beginning…. The film documented the processing of commercial beef and pork, as well. Then there was the part with the fish…. the part that I felt a personal responsibility for. If I eat it, it will continue to happen. I am the reason for the death of those creatures. The thought has hung over me – persistently – for days.

There is – I believe – a time or place in which the consumption of other living creatures could be justified. Some animals, for example, are not even biologically capable of surviving on a vegetarian diet. Humans are not one of those animals. Perhaps the fact that humans have the capability of devising sustainable diets that have a purely beneficial effect on the world is some sort of test? Are we being offered the chance to prove ourselves?

Then there is the question of economy. I would not condemn a young child to a death from starvation by declaring that an animal’s life needed to be spared. There are certainly modern day countries in which it would – even now – be impossible for the people (as a whole) to consume an entirely vegetarian diet. There is no justification for it in my life, however. I live in a time and place of “food prosperity.” I have access to so much – even so many “meat substitutes” – that eating creatures can only be out of a direct desire to do so. So there it is… I now need to either accept the guilt/burden of taking these lives, or I need to determine the best/healthiest diet that I can have without taking more than my share.

I fervently hope that this blog has not created a resolve within you – the reader – to avoid Our Daily Bread at all costs. Regardless of what your personal decision is, I believe that everyone has the responsibility to understand the full impact of their choices. That – again – is part of what separates us from animals.

For more information about the film: http://www.ourdailybread.at/jart/projects/utb/website.jart?rel=en

Generations

Recently, I find that I’ve been quite a lot of thought to the concept of “aging.” This is common – I believe – for someone of my age. I am an adult with adult parents who have elderly parents. When confronted with the generations of genetic influence, it would be nearly impossible to avoid noticing the advancement of time and the effect that it has.

The dramatic effects of aging are perhaps most startling in my Grandmother C, from my father’s side. This is most likely a direct result of the dramatic contrast of her life now, compared to her life “then.” She has always been an incredibly independent woman, living without a husband for the length of my personal memories. In the past couple of years, her health has weakened. Last year she suffered a major stroke, and now – in her early 90s – she resides in a nursing home.

The loss of control has been a heavy blow to my grandmother, who – in her previous life - never answered to anyone. There is no “light at the end” of the tunnel that she now travels and – like many who find themselves in nursing homes – she has settled into a depression that is relieved only when momentarily displaced by desperation. This desperation generally takes the form of “wanting out.” Her children, including my father, do their best to oblige. As often as they can, they take her out to lunch; out to dinner; out for a visit; etc. This is how it came about that Grandma came for a visit the last time I visited my parents.

Last week, J and I traveled to Sparta to help my father in his apple orchard. My father’s plan was to bring Grandma out in the morning: I could “visit” (“monitor”) her while sorting apples in the garage. Modification of the plan was necessary when it was discovered that my Uncle W had taken Grandma for the morning, but he agreed to bring her to the house rather than back to the nursing home. The two arrived mid-morning; Grandma tiny and swathed in five sweaters to ward off the chilly 80-degree weather.

Grandma was seated in a chair inside the garage. When seated, her short stature combined with the chair location to give her a lovely view of either a) the John Deere Gator or b) our feet. She morosely pondered both. Noticing this, I offered to relocate her, but she was reticent. It appears to be a genetic quality, this refusal to better conditions in small ways if one is unhappy with the larger condition. I’ve noticed the predilection for it in myself but – fortunately – work to overcome it. Grandma had no such inclination.

For some time, we worked with the apples while Grandma – for the most part – ignored the activities. Things continued along these lines until my father took it upon himself to leave the garage in order to go make lunch. This was disturbing for my grandmother. In a quivery voice, she asked if he had “left her.” I had to bend over to hear her each time she spoke. No, I assured her, he had merely gone inside to make some lunch. Was she hungry? I asked. She glumly settled her head into her hands, indicating with a head shake that she was not. A few moments later, she asked again about his whereabouts. Once again, I reminded her that he was preparing lunch. Did she need to go inside? I asked. She threw herself as deeply into the chair as she could (this was – actually – not very far) and, with obvious frustration, stated that she didn’t know what “she was supposed to do.” It was clear that this statement reflected more than a simple walk over to the house.

Moments later, she gazed in the direction of the garage door. “I wish I knew where David went…” she declared mournfully, in her small voice.

The entire experience was both sad and amusing. Sad because we were bearing witness to an undeniable decline, amusing because we needed it to be. How else could we mentally handle such evidence of our own mortality? It truly is amazing how the end of our lives replicate the beginnings, how our needs increase as quickly as our abilities fade. It is becoming more and more clear to me that the most important thing in life is who you choose to live it with. Gazing at my grandmother, I know that – should I be fortunate enough to live as long as she – I want to be surrounded by people who can remember what I was/am inside, and I want that remembrance to be powerful enough to translate into their loving treatment of me when I am dependent upon them.

For now, for my grandmother, I am limited in what I can do. We must each prepare ourselves for our eventual decline on our own; must each decide how we will accept the inevitable. Observing my grandmother has taught me this: When someone you care for is struggling, when they have reached a point that their needs will forevermore exceed their capabilities, it is a consolation to be able to “do” for them, to be able to ease their burden – even in small ways. That is a gift that I will give to others. When it is my time, I will accept the offerings of my loved ones. The acceptance of their care, of their affection, will be a testament to the value that I place on them.

If anyone – however – seats me in chair behind a John Deere Gator, leaving me trapped behind the garish green and yellow monstrosity, there will be HELL to pay.

Let Me Eat Cake

This morning, I had – essentially – cake for breakfast. It is widely believed by those “in the know” that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I have no reason to doubt this belief. That is why I feel justified in beginning the occasional day with a completely unsuitable meal.

For the most part, I am quite careful about how I take care of myself. I don’t eat meat; I exercise; I practice yoga; I protect my mind from exposure to unhealthy television, films, or people (my apologies if you fall into that category and are just now realizing it); I take supplements; I avoid processed food; etc. Most days, I begin my food consumption with a strategic plan. This includes the “cake days.”

“Cake days” – I have come to realize – are perhaps the most important days of all. They are they days that I celebrate all of the other days that I don’t have cake. They are special because they are so rare. One of the side effects of a regular yoga practice is that you feel – very quickly – the effects of different foods, stress, sleep, etc. on your body. On “cake day” I will inevitably have a more difficult practice. This is – in my opinion – good. It is an incentive to not have too many “cake days.”

Also, I have come to believe – over the course of the years – in the occasional “dessert first” philosophy. This is closely related to the “seize the day” line of thinking. What if, I sometimes think, I find out today that I am diabetic? I shall never be able to enjoy cake in quite the same way again. I’d best eat a piece – and savor it – just in case. On my more morbid days, I consider the possibility of arising one morning and denying myself what I really want – cake – in favor of a nutritious but unsatisfying dry protein bar. Then, I imagine, what if I began my day, going about in my normal fashion, but never finished it? This does happen to people all the time. Most likely, no one wakes up thinking “This is it. I know where this day is going, and I’m not going out without chocolate cake.”

On those days, I feel the grip of fear as my mortality is brought sharply into focus. I have to remind myself that I have been just as mortal every other day of my life, and that I have faced this exact same situation every morning. I just haven’t thought about it. I choose to interpret this “morbid” line of thinking as a gentle reminder from my subconscious to be present, to really notice my surroundings and the people and creatures that I value. On “cake days” I try to be grateful to be me, be grateful to have friends and family, be thankful for the opportunity to give my pets a home. I strive to be more forgiving toward myself; to allow for my own errors and inadequacies.

Of course, there is always the possibility that I’m being played the fool, and that it’s actually my stomach pulling all the strings. “Ha!” It plots, deep in the bowels of my torso, “her resolve is weakening! Quick, broadcast the “call for cake!” Oh yeah – don’t forget to cover it up with that “awareness” mumbo jumbo that the liver heard about from the frontal lobe last year…”

Adoption

One day, many years ago, I arrived home from elementary school to find my mother and my brother seated across from each other at the kitchen table, both sobbing as if their hearts were being torn from them. This was a touch unusual, and my eyes went immediately to the most obvious likely culprit – a small, white-wire cage in the center of the kitchen table.

Obviously this was some sort of “Pandora’s Cage,” and had released the world’s anguishes or some such thing. Why else would they be enduring such suffering? I leaned closer to see for myself, since neither of my family members was capable of any sort of clear communication. Huddled in the corner of the blue-bottomed cage, hunched so that a tiny little orange-furred back was protruding in an attractively rounded manner, was an itty-bitty hamster. This was delightful, and I could determine no good reason for it to bring about such despair. Then - as I watched -the back heaved and shook in a desperate manner. A sound rose out of the small cage-corner, and I realized with shock that the delicate little thing was crying. The picture became – suddenly – very clear.

This pitiful little creature was clearly miserable, and to witness such agony did tug at the heartstrings. My inquiries as to the cause of this critter’s grief were met with gasps and scattered words: a rudimentary sort of communication that left much to the imagination. I was able to surmise that the little hamster – a female – had been purchased that very day, and that since being separated from her little hamster family she had been sobbing nonstop. This was sad, indeed. I took a few moments to absorb this sadness and then – seeing that nothing could be done for it at that precise moment – retreated to the recliner in the living room to read a book. There I did my best to ignore the sobs and wails from all three parties at the nearby kitchen table.

Things continued, much the same, for quite some time – until my father walked through the door. Upon witnessing such a scene of grief, he immediately (and – some could argue – logically) assumed that something very bad had happened. In my father’s eyes, “very bad” cannot – by definition – include any harm befalling any member of the rodent family. The demise of rodentia could – more often – be classified as “very good” in my father’s opinion. Therefore, he reasonably concluded that harm had befallen a family member. The situation was not improved by my mother’s inability to choke out an answer to his urgent inquiries. The sobs would not allow for it.

Still seated in the living room, without looking up from my book, I explained the situation to my father. His disgust was all too obvious.

From the corner of the tiny cage, in the center of the kitchen table, rose the desperate wail of the furred creature that we had – apparently – destroyed the life of in one thoughtless act. In unison, creating a surround-sound sort of effect, my mother and brother joined her.

"Dis" Own

“I’ve already told you,” stated the woman in a tight but clear voice, “If you do that, I will disown you.”

I paused, my hand resting lightly on the spine of one of the books lining the shelf in front of me. My eyes glanced over the left, and then down to the floor where a female form was seated, leaning against a bookshelf. She appeared to be in her mid-50s. Her attire was conservative – khakis and a polo shirt – and her hair was short and gray. In no way did her appearance seem out of place in the Borders store. Her conversation, however, was another matter.

“No.” She continued. “No.”

This was certainly a titillating follow-up to the first statement, and I found myself trailing my hands over the books before me in a motion that could undoubtedly be recognized as “stalling.” “What,” I wondered, “Was this act that could lead to a disownment? And who might she be talking to?”

There are only so many sorts of relationships that can qualify for the “disowned” status. I ran through them in my head. Son, daughter… The list ran out, as I became distracted by the phrase itself and whether or not this woman was applying it properly. What does it mean to “disown”? Don’t you have to “own” something before you can “disown” it? If so, in how many situations can a person legally “own” another person? As far as I know, we’ve limited those opportunities considerably in this country. Perhaps I should bring this up to her? It seems – after all – that she is trying to make a big impact with her statement. What if the person listening on the other end has had the same thoughts that I’m having? Wouldn’t the efficacy of her threats be drastically reduced?

I pondered this for a bit. She should – perhaps – threaten to cut this person out of the will, or make it clear that she will never speak to them again. “Yes,” I thought to myself, “that seems much more logical.” I took another look at her to gauge her likely level of receptiveness. Hmmm. She seemed quite engaged in her conversation. Perhaps I should wait a bit…

With that thought, I turned my attention to my hands, which had – unbeknownst to me – been engaging in a bit of mischief. They had taken to pulling out the occasional book and holding it up in front of me, as if I were seriously considering it, before tucking it back unto the shelf. The wicked little things had been doing this with an extensive selection of books that appeared to be focused on serial killers and assorted murderers. This apparent fixation with this topic - combined with the undue attention that I had been paying to the woman on the floor - could not look good for me.

Quickly, I moved to the opposing bookshelf, which was filled with Christian literature. That should confuse any observers, I thought with satisfaction. For good measure, I picked up a particularly large and noticeable book with religious words emblazoned across the cover in vivid letters. This I held prominently in front of me as I attempted to reposition myself for optimal eavesdropping.

Unfortunately for me, the conversation did not seem to be progressing much further. I could only imagine that the person on the other end was feeling a bit “put out” by threats of disownment. Sigh. ‘Twas probably for the best, anyway, since I had already extended my “break” by quite a significant chunk of time.

As I wandered toward the front door, it occurred to me that I myself happened to “own” a number of creatures – furred and feathered – and could, therefore, choose to “disown” any one of them for any reason. I smiled to myself, pleased with the realization. “Inigo,” I imagined myself proclaiming later that day to a grouchy rabbit, “If you CHOOSE to swat at me again, I will disown you.”

Hairy Commute

Imagine that, one morning, you are engaged in your routing morning commute. The sun is shining, traffic is moving, and you are rapidly approaching your exit. Ever the conscious driver, you faithfully glance to your left and to your right every few moments, just in case the vehicles near you happen to be drifting into your lane. As you take a routine look to your right, your gaze is suddenly struck by a sight so unsettling that you nearly swerve into the next lane yourself. This near-loss of control is disturbing, but even more upsetting is the cause of the peril: The driver of the white four-door sedan.

Said driver is a woman. In most ways, she appears to have the stereotypical female features: long hair, delicate wristwatch, largish eyes, woman’s blouse, etc. There is one area – however – in which she differs from the normal woman. This particular female is sporting a beard.

I am sorry to say that this image was – in fact – a reality for me this very morning. Imagine my surprise when I spotted this undeniably unusual facial feature on an otherwise groomed fellow woman. Imagine also the risk that I posed when I was forced to avert my eyes from the road for extended periods of time in order to thoroughly study the situation.

The driver was not alone. She had a male companion with her, and he seemed very much at ease in her company. His arm was extended along the back of her seat, and he leaned in toward her a bit. She seemed to be ignoring him, for the most part, and was instead focused on the road before her. This was fortunate – for me – for two reasons: 1 – because it allowed me to study the profile of her face/beard quite well, and 2 – because it increased the odds that – should I veer slightly out of my lane (a distinct possibility when I was so rarely looking at it) she would be more likely to notice and alert and/or avoid me.

The beard itself was nothing flashy. I’ve seen more impressive specimens on 13-year-old boys. No, the accessory on its own held no value. In combination with the sex of its bearer, however, it became nearly wondrous. In terms of size, it was remarkable in one way: It was nearly a cube. I would estimate that it was one inch in every direction – both width and length. This made it – frankly – quite noticeable. It was difficult to determine the exact color, as the windows of the vehicle were ever-so-slightly tinted, but I would venture to guess that it was a medium ashy blond – perhaps a shade or two darker than the woman’s hair.

This entire experience brought on a number of questions. First and foremost, I could not help but wonder if her companion was her “significant other” and – if so – whether or not he found her facial hair attractive. This question has many layers, depending upon where you take it, and it’s best to not explore too much of it. Second, I debated her reasons for choosing to sport the thing. It would be simple enough to shave or wax it. Was she rebelling against society’s unfair and unrealistic expectations of women’s appearances? Was she hoping to become a man, and had she started taking hormones? If so, why was she not altering her attire or make-up?

Unfortunately, resolution was not destined to be mine in this case. It wasn’t long before I reached my exit and left this woman – and her beard – to continue with her life. The effect of what I had seen was, however, long-lasting. As the day passed, I found myself considering this unusual female and her motives for defying the pressures of a culture that – undeniably – dictates that women and facial hair do not mix.

Had I the ability to grow such a beard, I thought to myself, and the strength and desire to wear it about, I think that I would dye it different colors. It would be brilliantly easy, as it’s such a small area. Much like toe and fingernails, I could change it with the season or holidays. Ah yes… I thought, conjuring a picture in my mind, I can see it now… Bright red for the Christmas season, deep blue to celebrate the depth of January, soft yellow to welcome spring… The possibilities are without end.

I daresay, I am beginning to lament my lack of beard.

Still Trippin'

Perhaps you’ve thought that I would spare you the details of the remainder of my road trip? No such luck. On the contrary, I’ve decided to post the memories at random, so that they spring upon one without warning.

Road Trip, Day Two

Location: Rapid City, South Dakota

Perhaps one of the most amazing things about the Rapid City area is that it is one of the rarest of places: a tourist Mecca that actually offers attractions of value. J and I launched our day at the IHOP (you KNOW you’re on vacation when you find yourself at an IHOP.) I have been led to believe (by the promotional materials found in the hotel room) that there is a downtown Rapid City that is filled with interesting culture and independent restaurants, but I have yet to see physical evidence of this claim.

Our first stop: The Reptile Gardens. My suggestion: GO THERE. This is an amazing place, despite what one would instinctively believe. Because it turned out to be so much more interesting than anticipated, we ended up spending much more time there than intended. Unfortunate, as it meant that we ended up at stop number two (Bear Country, USA) a trifle later than we might have liked. As you might have guessed, we were not consumed by bears. We did quite enjoy the Bear Country experience, although there was a ridiculously long delay as we sat in a long line of vehicles. As it turns out, drivers become even more inept when dealing with bears in the road than they are when dealing with other cars on the road.

We finally reached Mount Rushmore around noon. Here we took full advantage of our tourist status. After a lengthy tour, we proceeded to the cafeteria where we paid ridiculous amounts of money for such tasty items as Rushmore Water (no doubt a bottle of Aquafina with the label ripped off and replaced with a hasty rendition of the national monument in question.)

Perhaps the most interesting thing about our morning was this oddity: At two separate attractions, we accepted the offers of individuals offering their photo-taking services. In both situations, the aforementioned parties failed to capture the very large, very noticeable, and very-much-the-point-of-standing-there attractions directly behind us. (The first such occasion was in front of Maniac, the HUGE crocodile at Reptile Gardens. The second was at Mount Rushmore. How that gentleman could possible think that we wanted a picture of the two of us WITHOUT the monument behind us is beyond comprehension…)

Wyoming:

In order to reach Colorado, we drove through a corner of Wyoming. Did you know that Wyoming is the least populated state in the country? I think that’s enough said…




Colorado:

Ah, Colorado…. I quite, quite like it. And I quite like the residents of our target destination, as well... We arrived at the home of Scott and Anita late that evening, and were very well received. It had been quite a few hours of driving (many of them nearly coma-inducing…Wyoming…) but the end was well worth it. As late as it was, our adventures would have to be put off until the next day. I could make up all sorts of things to add a little adventure to this blog, but – in the spirit of honesty – I’ll confess that we actually ended up going to sleep with very little ado. More on the Colorado adventures later…

Reptile Gardens: http://www.reptile-gardens.com/

The Corner Of My Mind

I have found – to my dismay – that my memory is not the true ally that I once believed it to be. Instead of supporting me in the many ways in which it should, it fails me on a regular basis. As if that weren’t enough, it also taunts me by recalling perfectly the most unimportant and/or irrelevant information at the most inopportune moments. (A classic example: When asked what my phone number is, I might not be able to recall exactly what it is but can easily rattle off – say – Jon Bon Jovi’s birthdate.)

There are a couple of theories that I’ve tossed about in my mind in regards to this disturbing mental decline. The first – of course – is that age is the root of this trouble. Unfortunately, 30 isn’t the typical age for the onset of dementia or Alzheimer’s – the two most likely causes. A second possible cause is a serious illness. This is supported by other symptoms that have afflicted me from time to time (headaches, fatigue, muscle pains, etc…) Unfortunately (or VERY fortunately) it is not supported by any medical evidence. A third option: Stress. This one is difficult to rule out, so I shan’t. Finally, I have also considered that it’s possible that there is limited space in my mental memory cabinet, and that the type of work that I do/life that I lead exceeds the capacity. I need to upgrade, but I have yet to determine how to do so.

I am tormented by the decline of my facilities on a daily basis. Just this week, I began listening to a book on CD – something that I frequently do when traveling. This particular book had struck me as a bit familiar when I picked it out at the library, and I even paused to consider whether or not I had already heard it. Since I was uncertain, I checked it out. From the moment that I started listening, I knew that I had already heard this book. The worst part – however – is that I STILL can’t recall it. Every word that comes out of the narrator’s mouth is recognized (oh yes, my mind says… NOW I remember that…) but I am unable to predict even ONE sentence ahead. This is SUCH a disturbing feeling that I am forcing myself to re-listen to the entire book as punishment.

The bizarreness of this situation is the fact that my memory recalls certain material brilliantly. I can often recite conversations verbatim, and have never been the sort of person who struggles to connect names to faces. I can remember facts concerning the development of the Twinkie, but can’t remember the plots of 50% of the books that I’ve read. I might be able to tell you the names of every Labrador Retriever I’ve ever met, but wouldn’t be sure of what I did on any given birthday. This is – obviously – another one of Nature’s jokes.

As for what to do about this, I’m undecided. (This is code for “I can’t figure out what to do – or what can even be done, but am unwilling to concede this”.) I once had an idea about it – based on a book that I read – but the exact advice dispensed has slipped my mind. If only I could remember the name of that book…

Mid-Year Resolutions

1. I WILL become a more disciplined writer. Clearly, I suck at this. My blog attests to this fact. Tactic: I will – temporarily – become more lenient in my definitions of “writing.” This, for example, will count as a legitimate blog posting.

2. I will begin legitimately preparing for business meetings. “Winging it” will become the exception rather than the modus operandi. Hmmm. Now that I consider it, however, the “winging it” approach has had no dire consequences. On the contrary, others seem rather pleased with the outcome of business meetings. It might be that my mind was temporarily fooled by the “standard business practice” of pre-meeting preparation. Ha! That was a close one. Strike this resolution from the record. I will NOT be any more prepared for meetings.

3. I will accept that – at this point – I have not the skills nor the knowledge required in order to defeat my greatest foe: Time. Until I possess the aforementioned requisites, I will acknowledge the limitations that the current situation presents. As a result:

a. I will not be angry with myself if I am not able to give each and every pet an equal amount of “one-on-one” time on a daily basis.

b. The apartment does not NEED to be spotless at all times. I will learn to accept this. Yes, I will. I most certainly will so. STOP disagreeing. I am NOT compulsive.

c. I cannot expect to find the time to read a new book every week. Sure, I used to read at least a book a day – when I was in high school. (Or perhaps I was not so much in school… I didn’t exactly attend much of high school… but that’s a different story.) As an adult – with a full time job and pets and hobbies – I simply cannot read as much as I used to. Sigh.

4. It is NOT necessary to have a cupcake every single day. Not only is it not necessary, it is probably not a good idea. At least, I don’t think that it’s a good idea. Unless you factor in the mental health benefits… No, it is definitely not necessary. If, however, it is a “special day” – like a birthday, or the first day of the week, or a Wednesday, or perhaps a day that you have to buy gas, or maybe a workday – then a cupcake is a legitimate need.

5. When I am very tired (like now) I will learn to prioritize rest. To illustrate the strength of my resolve, I will immediately cease typing this blog and take myself off to bed. (After a quick vacuum, and perhaps a cupcake. Oh – and Petula’s been a little short on petting today, so I’ll have to swing by her cage for a moment…)

Trippin'

There has been – over the last week – a noticeable lack of posting to this blog. This was, I assure you, intentional. The Significant Other (SO) and I took an eight-day road trip looping through a number of states. In order to really feel as if we were “getting away,” we imposed a number of restrictions upon ourselves. One of these was “no computers.” When one combines that restriction with the fast-pace of the trip itself, one realizes very quickly that no blog-posting will be taking place.

On the plus side, the vacation has provided enough though-provoking experiences to feed a number of interesting postings, which you will undoubtedly be subjected to for some time.

J – my SO – had never been on a true “road trip” prior to this past week. When I revealed this fact (with no small amount of relish) to friends, I encountered many expressions of concern – even some preliminary condolences on the certain demise of our relationship. I can now say – with my feet safely planted in Madison – that this was not the case. As it turns out, J and I are quite compatible travel companions. This is good, as we traveled through seven states in eight days – an unusually bad idea in the eyes of many people.

While I won’t get into the entirety of the trip in this posting, (why ruin it when I can drag it on…and on… and on… in multiple postings) I’ll recap our first day – which entailed a mere 12 hours of driving.

Hour One: Wisconsin

Wisconsin was nothing new to neither J nor me, and was – therefore – not exactly exciting. We stopped at Starbucks, where we got into an unfortunately long discussion about the merits of the organic apple juice boxes. (As it turns out, the manager was resistant to stocking this particular item for some time. The cashier cannot imagine what her problem was, and now that they’re stocked they are one of the best selling items.)

Hours Two – Fourish: Minnesota

A lovely state, certainly, but it’s no Wisconsin. Their most attractive areas lie along the Wisconsin/Minnesota border. Unfortunately, that’s the area that we left behind early in the day.

Hours Five – Twelve: South Dakota

Every time I drive through this state, I am struck by the absurdity of the unbelievable length of time that one can drive through corn fields. (More on this later…. Watch for upcoming postings.) In my opinion, the universe took all of the “coolness” allocated to this state and piled it into the Southwest corner. The rest of South Dakota has been – obviously – shafted. Miles and miles of nothing…. And nothing…. And nothing… (Fairly traumatic for J, although he did have Day 1 Of Vacation Energy going for him.)

To J’s credit, in the interest of time he did opt to make a major sacrifice by not insisting upon visiting the “real General Lee” (the car from the Dukes of Hazard.) To make up for this, and to create a true “South Dakota” experience, we visited the Corn Palace in Mitchell. (Again with the corn…) Anyone who has not seen this particular building MUST stop by. The torture should not be limited to a select few. To tide you over - while you make your travel plans – I’m including a link to the website: http://www.cornpalace.org/

In actuality, there is something impressive about the perseverance of this iconic site. This year’s theme – in case you haven’t had a chance to look it up yet – is “Rodeo 2007.” Also to note: There is a LOT of ice cream available for purchase in Mitchell, South Dakota.

After Mitchell, the only exciting stop available to us (other than the truly impressive Badlands) was the world-famous Wall Drug. Wow. What a nightmare-inducing experience. I have never seen such an explosion of tourism in such and undeserving location. When one considers the absurdity of their success, it actually induces a bit of appreciation. (Note: Once again, the ice cream abounds.) See photos if you would really like the tourism point driven home.

Final destination: Rapid City, South Dakota. To summarize: Dirty hotel. I think I lost my jacket there. Or perhaps at the IHOP, one of the few acceptable restaurants available (and this coming from a staunch support of “local businesses”) and the location of both our dinner and our breakfast the subsequent day. Sigh. I really like that jacket.

Bad TV

Most everyone who knows me knows that I have a fairly low opinion of television programming in general. Certainly there are exceptions to my dislike of shows; I enjoy a number of them – on DVD – regularly. I am, however, completely opposed to commercials and advertising. (Which is where the DVDs come in…) I won’t go on too long about this, but suffice it to say that I firmly believe that there is no amount of television that one can watch without it affecting their brain at some level – whether it be conscious or not. With that in mind, it’s wise to consider what sort of show one is watching.

This topic is at top of mind for a very specific reason: JT. JT is a 15-year-old young man with Down’s syndrome, and I am paired with him this week for a bike camp that teaches children with disabilities how to ride a bike. This volunteer role has been incredibly interesting, and also quite thought-provoking.

Today, the fire alarm went off during our regular hour and fifteen minute session. (The alarm had been pulled by a toddler; the criminal act was witnessed by many and still charges were not pressed. This is clearly evidence of the deplorable breakdown of our criminal prosecution process.) While we milled around outside, JT’s mom shared a story with us, which I will summarize:

JT was home alone one day when he found himself in a terrible quandary: His bag of potato chips absolutely refused to open. This was a very large problem, as JT fully intended to eat those chips and was – in fact – counting on them to assuage his hunger. The solution that came to his mind was inspired by one of the many television shows that he enjoys: Reno 911. (Those of you who are not familiar with this show: Bless you. May you continue to live an unadulterated life.) JT picked up the phone and dialed 911.

When the operator heard his emergency – that he couldn’t get his bag of potato chips open – she sent help immediately. It wasn’t long before the Sheriff’s deputies arrived on the doorstep of the home. At this point, another important lesson was remembered: Never open the door to strangers. Thus began a very strange sort of stand-off. On one side of the door, JT explained his dilemma. The police were sympathetic, and opened the bag of chips passed through the door to him. When entry continued to be denied they departed, calling later to recount the situation to JT’s parents.

This tale provoked a number of television-related thoughts for me, most of which I will spare you. What I will say: JT talks often about TV, and what show he will be watching that evening. At his level of development, he is like a child – unable to differentiate between what is viewed onscreen and actual reality. This is what we’re subjecting our children to on a daily basis… disturbing. I can’t imagine what a horrifying place the world must be through the eyes of a television.

Digitized and Pixelated

In my former veterinary career, I used to take on the occasional pet-sitting job as my schedule permitted. When I departed that field, I left the pet-sitting behind – at least until Pixel and Digit entered my life. Pixel and Digit are Papillons, a small breed known for their luxurious coats and – especially – for the way that their fur cascades from their upright, pointed ears. Their dad – P – is a graphic designer that I met through work. We had a friend in common, for whom I used to cat-sit, and one day our conversation took a turn toward pets. The next thing I knew, I had acquired a regular client.

P and his wife travel, and the “kids” do not care to travel with them if it can be avoided. That’s where I come in. In addition to Pixel and Digit, the household counts two felines as members: Stray Girl and Crumbcake. Both cats were originally strays. The dogs tolerate these feline intruders, for the most part, although there are regular moments of tension.

Together, the canines create an odd – yet oddly compatible – couple. They are close to the same age, seven or eight years old, but are very obviously from different parents. Digit is a boy, and he is practically a caricature of himself. His eyes are large (frankly, they’re a bit bulgy) and they protrude from the sides of his head in a comical fashion. One of the eyes seems to stare slightly off in the wrong direction at all times. He has a tendency to run about with his tongue sticking out of his mouth ever so slightly, and his personality matches his appearance in every way. His entire body vibrates with enthusiasm, and – when pleased – he cannot help but wiggle every which way. When encountering any sort of comfortable resting place, whether it is a bed, a pillow, a blanket, or even a yard, he throws himself at it and rubs his body to and fro, making snorting noises the entire time.

Pixel, on the flip side, is like a porcelain doll version of a Papillon. She is absolute perfection in a tiny four-pound package. Small and delicate, her itty face holds beautiful doe-brown eyes. This appearance is most deceptive. She is fearless, and patrols the yard for signs of any intruder. As a sufferer of small-dog syndrome, she doesn’t seem to realize the truth of her diminutive size and would not hesitate to take on a raccoon, despite the fact that a raccoon would see her as nothing more than a light snack.

The two dogs are delightful to care for – most of the time. Things get a little tricky at night, when I am trying to sleep. P specifically requests that I stay overnight at their house, as he doesn’t like the dogs to have to spend the hours alone. This would be fine, except for the fact that Pixel and Digit seem to believe that nighttime is a time to take care of many odds and ends (snacking, tormenting the cats, etc.) and that it is also important to be extra vigilant for intruders. To be on the safe side, they bark at anything that might be a noise. This is disturbing, particularly as the home is located in the country, where there is no external lighting. In addition, the house is filled with large, uncovered windows. This – effectively – puts me on display for all to see.

The first time I stayed with “the kids,” it took me some time to relax enough to begin to feel that I might be able to fall asleep. I lay in the bed, one small dog curled into each side of me, concentrating on relaxing each individual part of my body. As fatigue began to overcome me, and I finally starting a slow drift toward sleep, the night was split by a horrific yowl. I very nearly leaped out of bed. What in the hell, I thought, was that? My mind briefly ran through every horror movie that it had ever seen, searching for that particular sound in the “noises to be very concerned about” database. I didn’t locate the sound, but this was not all that comforting as I watch very few horror films – expressly to avoid fueling my already-very-active imagination.

As I lay frozen, the yowl came from the darkness again, but this time it was much closer. Pixel, lying next to me on the side closest to the noise, stirred slightly. What kind of watchdog is this? I wondered. It barks at nonexistent noises, but completely ignores the sounds of an approaching monster. Once again, the horrific noise cut through the night. It very much sounded like it was coming from the space right next to the bed. This time, Pixel lifted her head and growled. The noise responded. Pixel growled. I realized that this mutated noise was the cat, Stray Girl. It appeared that her mangled, roughen-up appearance – a result of her years on the street – coordinated with this garbled version of a feline voice.

Despite her looks, Stray Girl is a sweetheart. She loves attention, and it appears the night hours – full of darkness and silence – bring out the loneliness in her. The only cure for this ailment, of course, is affection. Unfortunately, Pixel was not about to let a cat on the bed that was reserved for the higher ranking members of the pack. As Stray Girl – desperate – leaped unto the end of the bed, Pixel sprang into action. With a fierce spattering of barking, she threw all four pounds of body weight toward the pitiful feline, who turned tail and jumped off of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she let out the first of what would be hours of plaintive, complaining yowls.

Pixel, satisfied with her performance, curled back into place next to me. I sighed, feeling a sense of foreboding about the actual amount of sleep that I was likely to get. My fears were not misplaced. Just as my ears had finally learned to ignore the freakish cries of the despondent cat, and I began to doze off, the dogs spontaneously sprang from the bed and run – barking frantically – down the stairs toward the front door. I found it odd that they alone had heard anything that might prompt such behavior, but – since I was now sitting straight up and was wide awake – thought that I might as well check it out. I moved toward the stairway and down the steps only to find the two dogs munching on dog food in the kitchen, looking happy to see me as I passed through the doorway. Oh good! Their faces said. She must have come down to reward us with a treat.

By the time we reconvened upstairs, I had given up on sleeping. Resigned to a long night, I turned the television on and distracted myself with bizarre late-night offerings. Pixel and Digit, meanwhile, had made themselves comfortable and soft snoring emanated from Digit’s slightly open mouth. Off in the distance, I could hear the sound of my companion in sleeplessness, Stray Girl, whose yowls waxed and waned as she wandered in and out of rooms. Occasionally, as the sounds grew louder, Pixel would growl softly, not bothering to open her pretty little eyes.

A Progressive State Of Mind

Last night, I was taken out on a “date” by J. The entire evening’s event schedule was restricted; information was provided on a need-to-know basis as the night went on. Things started out uneventfully: We had a lovely dinner, during which we conversed and tried not to be overly concerned about the strangeness of our waitress. (A modicum of concern was necessary. She was very odd. And she walked very strangely. Perhaps she was not – in actuality – human? It’s wise to be aware of such possibilities when out and about.)

After the meal, I was transported to a nearby bar, where I was presented with the evening’s entertainment: a Chicago-based progressive rock trio making their Madison debut.

For those of you who don’t know, J is a progressive rock journalist. It is his full-time hobby, and he is very good at it. Too good. So desired are his reviews that he receives near-daily shipments of CDs from bands and labels. (Needless to say, his CD collection numbers in the thousands.) His “hobby” takes him to festivals and concerts, and he’s often contacted by artists for a myriad of reasons. He had met this particular band at a festival earlier in the month, and they’d asked him to come out to see them when they played in Madison. The convenience of being able to cross “date night” and “see band” off of his “to-do” list at the same time was too much to resist, and so fate played her hand.

This I did not mind. I am quite fond of music, and have found myself quite intrigued with much of the music that J has introduced to my ears. What was – perhaps – the bigger surprise of the evening was that this band was second in a line-up, and that they were to be preceded (and followed) by “heavy metal” bands. This generated – in my mind – immediate sympathy, as I imagined that anyone who might have come out to see them would have noticed this and made inaccurate assumptions about the music that they play. I felt even more pain for them when I noticed the sparse population loitering about the premises of the venue. I would venture to guess that – between J and me – we comprised roughly 1/10th of the listening audience. This was even more disturbing when you factored in the fact that both bands awaiting their turns were also counted among the viewer numbers.

For some time, as J chatted with the band members of Aziola Cry (the trio that we had come to support), I watched the first heavy metal group go through some sort of elaborate on-stage ritual that spoofed actual band preparation. They seemed young, and I had the distinct impression that they were playing the roles that they imagined that a heavy metal band member should play. The lead singer wore a look of deliberate sullenness, and heavily utilized the “gaze off into the distance” method of cultivating the appearance of great emotional depth. He would – for good measure – occasionally fix the odd audience member with a scowl that was undoubtedly meant to communicate suppressed rage – the sort that could only be expressing through loud, jarring music and screaming voices.

After some time of “tuning” their instruments and moving random items about, the four band members onstage were apparently struck with a simultaneous need for alcoholic refreshment and abandoned their posts to satisfy this requirement. This was most interesting because they were already behind schedule. No doubt they believed this disregard of audience member’s time to be yet another key element of the success of a “heavy metal rock star.”

When the show finally began, and the loud chords and yelling washed over me, I felt a brief sense of nostalgia. I was – momentarily – transported back to my high school days, and the concerts that I had attended. Damn Yankees, Poison… it all came flooding back. Unfortunately, my trip down Memory Lane was cut short by the reality of the sounds emanating from the stage. They were – to put it bluntly – not very pleasant. I spent most of the show reviewing these points/questions in my head, where they alternated in the top position:

• I think that the lead singer perms his hair, and I think that he does it specifically to make it a more effective head-banging tool.
  
• I can’t believe that people still head-bang.
  
• How did head-banging ever begin? It’s not at all logical. There’s no way that it is not harmful to heads and necks.
  
• Why does the guitarist even try to head-bang? He practically has a crew cut. It looks absurd.
  
• I wonder what the singer’s voice would sound like if he were to actually sing with it. It almost sounds like it has potential.
  
• How do they make that weird, demonic voice? (This question was usually accompanied by quite a bit of neck-craning and shifting about in the seat.)
  
• It is SO dorky to wear black shorts with black socks and black sneakers. I can’t really think of a cool way to wear black shorts like that, but it’s DEFINITELY not with those socks or shoes.

Finally, the men that we had come to see were allowed their turn (literally) in the limelight. I had been introduced to them earlier, and they are – not surprisingly – very nice. They are a purely instrumental trio. I was looking forward to hearing their music, and was particularly intrigued by the fact that one of the three played a very unusual instrument – a Chapman Stick. As it turned out, I was not disappointed. They were very, very talented. Also worthy of noting:

• The drummer very much reminds me of my high-school friend Jerico, but with blond hair. I had to repeatedly tell myself that the man onstage was NOT Jerico with a wig.
  
• The drummer is also VERY talented and incredibly fun to watch.
  
• Drumming would be a very, very good arm workout.
  
• The Chapman Stick player reminded me of a cross between Paul Rudd and Christian Bale. He has much more of the Christian Bale presence, however; very hooded, shadowy, mysterious… That, coupled with the strange and difficult instrument that he plays, makes you believe that he knows things that the audience does not…
  
• The guitarist was playing with a broken finger. Seemed oddly impressive and stupid at the same time. Certainly played well, regardless of the wisdom of the action.
  
• Playing instruments under hot lights makes people very, very sweaty.
  
• Sweaty people tend to wipe sweat off of their face and forehead, and they tend to use their hands to do this.
  
• To avoid having to engage in the obligatory “nice to see you”/”nice to meet you” end-of-encounter handshake, it is most valuable to be a woman and have a purse that one can occupy both hands with. Men are definitely at a disadvantage in this situation.

To summarize: This trio is worth checking out, and “date night”/”band review night” was a great success. (Check those two boxes off the list.)

To learn more about Aziola Cry, visit the website: www.aziolacry.com

The Force Is With Me

My electromagnetic field is very powerful today. I know this because it has been wreaking havoc all day long, and has – frankly – made my life more difficult than it needs to be.

I should have suspected something right away this morning, when my cell phone – which had been fully charged – dropped down to two out of four bars the second that I picked it up to look at it. Naively, I wrote this off as a fluke and proceeded to “go about my business.” A few hours later, I found myself in a battle of wills with my computer, which insisted upon going through a series of program failure after program failure. As if this weren’t enough, the minute that I would return programs to functioning status it would begin firing irritated messages at me and would beep irrationally and repeatedly. Annoyed, I turned it off and went to yoga class.

My successful yoga class lulled me into a false sense of security, so I was especially unprepared for the afternoon’s largest surprise – the mutiny of the car alarm. My car’s alarm is controlled by a (normally) useful remote control. This control is useful precisely because it tends to function correctly and does – actually – enable or disable the alarm. I assure you that the usefulness of this device decreases DRAMATICALLY when it begins enabling and disabling the alarm ON A WHIM, and very much WITHOUT my input.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself DRIVING a vehicle while the alarm blared – quite loudly – in my ears. Most unfortunately, it was also blaring in the ears of everyone surrounding me. As I frantically pressed the buttons on the remote – disregarding their actual intended purpose – I struggled to both maintain control of the vehicle and to appear oblivious to the honking and wailing of my car.

“What noise?” Is the question that I very much hoped that I was conveying through my eyes, which were fixed on the road before me and refused to make contact with any of the nearby humans. “Shouldn’t someone do something about that car alarm?” asked my slightly raised eyebrows. “Whoever is allowing that racket to continue is a TOTAL moron. Idiot.” added my slightly wrinkled nose, always supportive of the rest of the facial efforts.

In the meantime, my hands were determined to accomplish the mission that they had accepted. They attacked the vehicle’s remote control – which hung, suspended, from the keychain in the ignition – with a vengeance, smashing it about this way and that, searching for its Achilles’ Heel, or – at the very least – for the stupid battery. The poor things had no idea that there was no hope for them: The Force was too great. It wasn’t until my electromagnetic field changed currents that the alarm finally ceased its embarrassing and obnoxious Ode To Chaos.

I should have called it a day after that episode, but – foolishly – I believed that I could save myself by simply avoiding all electronics. How could I forget that we – humans – are made of electricity? That is the only explanation that I can come up with for my bizarrely irrational thought processes for the remainder of the day. I won’t get into the specifics, but I will say this: It is a VERY bad sign when you find yourself arguing with yourself and winning. I’m hoping that my system will whip things under control overnight, and that tomorrow I will arise once again rational, and clear-headed. (I can’t say that this has ever happened in the past, even on the best of days, but if there’s one thing that I can be good at it’s optimism.)

Closing thought: Tomorrow, if you wake up to the sound of your alarm going haywire, or if your microwave decides for itself the length of time that your coffee needs to be heated, take my advice and GO BACK TO BED.

The Secret Lives of Neighbors - Apartment 7

“This,” I heard my neighbor across the hall announce loudly from inside his apartment, “is what I use for my zits.”

I paused, turning the key very slowly in the lock of my front door.

“Zits are p-i-m-p-l-e-s,” he continued. “I squeeze them, and they ooze lots of pus.”

He pronounced “ooze” in a very drawn-out fashion, adding an unnecessary dramatic element to a word that conjures a vivid enough image on its own. How very, I thought, disturbing…

I recalled that I had seen this neighbor departing the building earlier today, with two tall, slender young men trailing behind him. Thinking back further, I now remembered that the few occasions that I had seen people visiting my neighbor, they had always looked very much like these two young men and – more importantly – spoke in a broken, rudimentary English accentuated by some sort of Russian or Slavic accent.

Hmmm. While I had previously felt some sympathy for my fellow apartment dweller, his lack of regular friends was now starting to make quite a bit of sense. What sort of bizarre conversation topics did he introduce to his guests? Even more puzzling, what was he talking about? I tried to visualize some sort of apparatus that one would use on an oozing pimple, but my mind drew a blank.

This particular neighbor is a bit odd in other ways, as well. For one thing, I cannot figure out what sort of hours he keeps. It seems that he comes and goes according to a rhythm that only he understands. When he is home, I can generally hear the television through his apartment door as I pass through the hallway. I’ve come to the conclusion that he either listens to his TV at a ridiculously high volume, or he’s positioned the television directly in front of his door. I’ve also determined that his favorite genre of film is – most decidedly – the hero-takes-all action flick. On occasion, I hear him shout encouragement to the film’s lead, providing much-needed support to the fictional character.

Even more interesting than my neighbor, however, is his roommate - a feline named Percy. Percy is a large orange tabby tomcat with a loud personality and an even louder voice. I hear this voice regularly, in the form of various sorts of meows, as Percy makes his wants and needs known to the world. One of Percy’s wants (that he very much believes to be a “need”) is to be free to roam the neighborhood. This is a bad idea for any cat, but an especially bad idea for a cat that lives on the second floor.

Last summer, I opened the door to the backyard one morning and found Percy sitting on the stoop. As the door opened, he let out a long and prolonged meow of protest (clearly having found whatever wait he had endured to be completely unacceptable) and paraded past me with his tail in the air. I followed as he led me to his owner’s apartment door, and obligingly knocked when he let out another feline wail. After some time, and repeated knocking, the door opened to reveal a very sleepy-looking cat owner. Percy, quite finished with me, deserted my side and sauntered past his dad, meowing loudly the entire way. My neighbor, meanwhile, mumbled a quick “thank-you” and closed the door, both of us quite ready to end the encounter.

As the summer progressed, I learned that Percy had taken to jumping off of the balcony, and that his owner – while he had initially taken extensive measures to prevent this – had given up the battle. If the chicken wire lining the entire balcony wasn’t going to contain Percy, then my neighbor felt that nothing would. (I, myself, can’t help but question the wisdom of letting the cat out on the balcony in the first place…)

Things seem to getting worse as times goes on. Already this year, I’ve been startled and/or awoken by one of two disturbing noises on a regular basis. The more natural – but still jarring – sound is the high-volume yowl that Percy employs as his “I want back in the apartment right now” signal. This can go on for quite some time, as often Percy’s owner is not in his own apartment to hear these plaintive cries. As if that weren’t bad enough, his owner has his own call for Percy – a ridiculously loud whistle that practically rattles my apartment. It sounds like a cross between a “wolf whistle” and a steam engine, and tends to be repeated multiple times, occasionally interspersed with calls of “P-E-R-C-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y.”

Sometimes I visualize the daily life that these two companions lead, Percy talking all day long about topics important only to himself, while my neighbor narrates his own activities to Percy, a habit that - as today proved - can lead only to problems. Since this morning, my imagination has begun drawing even clearer pictures of what life must be like behind door number seven.

"This," I imagine my neighbor explaining to Percy, leaning closer, "Is a nose-hair trimmer. It can also trim ears. Ear hair traps W-A-X. Wax is gross and yellow, and smells bad."

In my imaginary vision, my neighbor places an unusually emphatic stress on the words "smells" and "bad," driving the point home to the disdainfully meowing tabby who - with a final protesting wail - turns toward the balcony door.

Travel Velocity

Current Thoughts:

I am really, really tired.

How in the hell can I make that stupid message light on this hotel phone stop blinking?

Wow - I am tired.

I listened to the stupid message. It was idiotic. Clearly, it was automatically sent to my phone when I checked in. The dorky thing just says that - for my convenience - I can have people call this room directly. You know what would be more convenient? Telling me how to turn the stupid blinking red light off. Better yet, could we just have left the phone message-less? That might have been nice.

I NEED to sleep. I have to get up really early tomorrow for a work event.
M-U-S-T A-P-P-E-A-R P-E-R-K-Y.

That light is going to instigate a seizure. I can feel it coming on.

SO tired.

What can I cover the phones with? What's really annoying is that there are TWO phones in this room, and BOTH are blinking their stupid red lights.

Kind of a red-orange, actually.

I am already annoyed about having to get up tomorrow, and I haven't even fallen asleep yet. Also, there are a number of work projects that I had intended to complete tonight. How many did I successfully cross of the list? I'll tell you: Zero. That's right. And not because the list isn't here, either. Because I didn't finish ANY of them.

Cannot fight fatigue much longer....

Great. I forgot my toothbrush. REALLY great.

I HATE these phones.

Flushed Away

As humans, we each process our lives in very different ways. We find different things sad - because they resonate a little bit differently within each one of us -we take different amounts of pleasure in different things, we find different degrees of happiness in the same pursuits. There are certainly events and/or topics that create a more or less universal response among non-psychopathic people (tragic deaths, lost loves, Pink Panther films) but – on the flip side – there are those quirky responses that are so individualized as to be incomprehensible to others.

I, for example, cannot listen to music early in the morning. It’s far too dangerous. If I were to hear the wrong song before my mind had prepared, it would set the mood for the entire day and possibly even extend into the next day. I’m also terribly disturbed by the sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant (I find this horribly, horribly sad – even if the person appears to be having a good time.) On the flip side, it takes only the briefest thought of the Cheshire Cat to put me in a cheerful mood and to inspire hours of rumination upon the many delightful characters and quotes of Alice In Wonderland (or Through The Looking Glass, depending upon your perspective.)

I try to embrace these eccentricities in humans whole-heartedly, and celebrate them for their very strangeness. They certainly make us a more interesting species. Throughout my life, I’ve had a number of experiences that reinforce the uniqueness of each of us. One of the most memorable – one that I still ponder regularly – occurred during a visit to my mother’s aunt and uncle.

Aunt Gay and Uncle Martin were retired schoolteachers. They lived in what was perhaps the coolest home that I have ever seen. It was created as a model home in the 1950’s and the builders had installed the "top of the line" appliances for that time. This meant that the kitchen was entirely furnished in aqua and pink, and that there was even a built-in blender in the counter. It was amazing. I coveted it immediately.

Gay and Martin loved their home – perhaps not with the same ardor that I felt – but what Gay REALLY loved were her frogs. Being an adorer of amphibians myself, I could certainly see where she was coming from. We differed, however, on one very important point. I like live things. She was enamored of inanimate frog objects. Upon our arrival, she wasted no time in showing us the focal points of the living room; two very large, very concrete frog garden statues. It seems that having these frogs outside was too depressing for Gay; she wanted them located where she would see them on – at minimum – an hourly basis. Gazing at the (frankly) hideous creatures, I pondered this with some bemusement. It hardly seemed logical. Not only was the slap-hazard application of the scarlet red painted mouths frightening, but these large concrete abominations seemed destined to be the demise of toes everywhere.

As exciting as these frogs were, they were not the most exiting thing that we would be invited to share in. We had been visiting – under the freakish, bulge-eyed watch of the stone amphibians – in the living room for some time when the conversation took a decidedly strange turn. "How was our toilet at home?" Gay wondered. This was certainly not something that I had been wondering about prior to the question, but now that it had been asked I, also, began to question the state of the toilet. My biggest question was "What in the hell is she talking about? Does she know something about our toilet that we don’t know?"

Gay’s next comments clarified the situation somewhat. It appeared that she was merely being polite in inquiring after our toilet; she was actually leading up to a rather lengthy discussion about the merits of her new toilet. This was strange. What was even more strange was the expression of rapture on her face as she spoke, and Martin’s affectionate eye roll and comment of "here she goes again…" as he gazed at her indulgently. What we did not realize at the time was that this entire conversation was but a pre-show activity. Before we fully understood what was happening, Gay was standing and waving at us, indicating that we should follow her down the hall.

Call us slow, but my mother and I – no doubt at the insistence of our minds, who refused to believe that this was happening – still did not fully comprehend this experience. Thus, when we found ourselves huddled as a threesome around a sparking white porcelain toilet, we shared looks of consternation. Gay reveled in the moment, looking from one face to another, allowing the anticipation to build. When the tension had reached what she must have felt was the peak, she slowly reached a hand toward the shiny metal handle and pushed.

"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!!!" She bellowed with glee, causing both my mother and I to jump in alarm. "HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A POWERFUL FLUSH LIKE THAT BEFORE?!!!"

Mute, my mother and I shook our head. I could honestly say that I had never seen a flush quite like that before.

Lost in her own joy, Aunt Gay was oblivious to our experience. Then, remembering her role as the gracious hostess, and perhaps finally considering our presence in a slightly different manner, Gay bestowed upon us the ultimate act of generosity.

"Would you," she asked, leaning in close to us and speaking gently, "like to use it?"

Lovebirds

My father could be described as many things: Hard-working; logical; intelligent; determined… The list could go on for quite some time. One descriptor that could NEVER be found on the list, however, is that of adorer-of-birds. At least not the domesticated version. While he has a healthy appreciation for most species of wild avian life forms (aside from the ones that are caught building their nests in absurd spaces or harassing other birds), he considers pet birds to be far more trouble than they are worth.

He does have a point, in some respects. Birds are indisputably some of the messiest creatures around, especially when kept in cages within one’s home. They have a tendency to amuse themselves with games like “How Far Can I Throw My Bird Food” and “Watch Me Take a Bath and Drench Every Object within Ten Feet of My Cage.” While one can see a bit of the appeal of these pastimes, a modicum of restraint on the bird’s part is desired. Unfortunately, restraint is one thing that birds SUCK at. They throw themselves enthusiastically into every part of their little bird lives. Take, for example, Percy and Priscilla, two conures that I (very) generously gifted to my parents a few years ago, under the guise of “can you keep them for a while?” (My father – to this day – threatens to remove me from the will when the birds are acting particularly vile.) The two are bonded, which essentially means that everything that they do is double the fun, double the mess, double the noise, etc.

Percy and Priscilla embrace life with a passion that one can’t help but envy. Every morning, they eagerly anticipate the arrival of the sun and greet it with a loud cacophony of unearthly squawks. This cheerful greeting can go on for extended periods of time – on really good days it can go on for hours. Once the morning salutation is complete, the pair will generally move on to a lengthy examination and discussion of the contents of their food dish. This requires quite a lot of enthusiasm and dedication to do properly, as does every other activity that is undertaken during the day. If either Percy or Priscilla begins to feel slightly neglected, they take matters into their own wings by “causing a scene.” This most likely means either flying wildly around the house, swooping close to humans to increase the excitement factor, or flinging one’s bird self unto the floor. The status of “wing clipping” is the determining factor in this situation. The benefit of both of these scenarios lies in the attention that it draws from the humans of the home.

Still, despite the loud nature and messiness of The Two, my father has more tolerance for them than he does for the other avian member of the household – Ozzie. Ozzie is a small parrot, and her biggest fault is that she absolutely, positively adores my father. Her entire bird world revolves around his comings and goings. She loves him with a pathetic desperation, and it irritates him to no end. He is never left in peace if Ozzie is around; if he is within ten feet of her cage she cannot keep herself from attempting to get on him by whatever means are necessary. This is a problem. She often launches herself toward him with a shriek, only to fall short and land on the floor. Undeterred, she beelines in his direction at a fast waddle, pupils dilated in excitement.

Ozzie monitors the whereabouts of my father at all times. When he goes to work, she grows despondent and spends the rest of the day anticipating his return. As his truck pulls into the driveway, she emits a shriek of ear-destroying capacity and lunges forward into her “anxiety pose;’ the stress of the impending arrival nearly too much to bear. With eagerness, she watches his vehicle until it is out of sight, then immediately swivels to face the door. When it finally opens, and my father steps through, order is restored to her world. With dilated pupils, she clacks her beak in homage. Oblivious, my father tends to walk right past her cage and go about his business.

Ozzie spends all of her waking hours listening for or to my father, and/or admiring him with her head tilted to the side and her feathers fluffed in delight. The highlight of her entire day occurs at the very end when – before being put “to bed” – she is placed on my father’s knee by my mother. There she finally receives what she has been longing for all day long – attention from The Loved One. With no small amount of disgust, my father concedes to pet her head for a few minutes before sending her back to her cage. The irony of this situation is that Ozzie’s affection is so misplaced. Were she to take advantage of my mother’s affection, she would be showered with attention and petting all day long.

The irony does not end there. Not only does Ozzie adore my father, but Petula – The Mean Green Attacking Machine – loves him as well. In her eyes, he is second only to me. While she regularly attacks people who offer her attention, she actively seeks it from my father despite a track record of consistent refusal. There have been many times that I have found her at the very edge of her cage, as close to my father’s recliner as she can possibly get, hunched into a pitiful position and peeping softly to herself as she watches him with longing. The times that my father does choose to indulge her with a spot of attention only lead to desperate acts. Sometimes, unable to restrain herself as he walks by, Petula throws herself off the top of her cage, aiming for my father’s shoulder as she hurtles through the air while issuing a series of panicked-sounding peeps.

My mother and I have often speculated on this bizarre relationship that my father has with these birds. The best theory that we have been able to arrive at is that these birds have – like so many women – chosen to waste their affections on a man who refuses to love them in return. This seems to be supported by the fact that Keats – a male bird – shows little interest in my Dad and that Percy and Priscilla – who have each other – regard him as more of a source of entertainment than a love object. The misplaced love that these two female birds feel for my father - the “man of their dreams” – is disturbingly similar to the same emotions that I have witnessed in females of the human variety. Perhaps – I am now thinking – the term “bird-brain” is associated with women for a very good reason…

Haiku For Today

Late spring sun streams in
Sunlight accosts my tired eyes
Warms my sleepy skin

Phones ring; people talk
Worker ants build an empire
I watch; contemplate

Time takes prisoners
Willingly they punch the clock
Calculate their days

Summer sings her song
Nature mourns the changing world
Fall stands on stage left

I wait; ponder; think
Elusive answers hover
Well beyond my reach

So I give a gift
In writing from me to you
A pitiable haiku

Do You Believe In Magic?

As a young child, I had a way of "acquiring" tasty snacks or other useful items from the family kitchen. It was a habit begun very young: One of my baby/toddler pictures features me – front and center – in a pose very familiar to my parents. Standing to my full height of less than two feet, I am pulled up to the edge of an open kitchen drawer, rooting through the contents with intense concentration. Even then, I understood that anything worth having was undoubtedly hidden away.

Fast-forward a number of years, and I had reached an age at which it was my duty to take my younger brother under my wing to show him the ways of the world. These ways included a comprehensive tutorial of desirable things to eat, and how to acquire them. Unfortunately, my common sense of preservation dictated that I could not reveal the true nature of my owner status – which, essentially, consisted of slipping select items out of the kitchen drawers and/or cabinets and relocating them to my room and/or pockets.

I might have been a touch sneaky, but I was not greedy. [In my defense, once I aged a bit more and realized that what I was doing actually fell into the category of "absolutely forbidden according to one of the very-well-known Ten Commandments" I did cease the habit of absconding with the family groceries.] Much of the joy that I derived from my carefully secured spoils was found in the appreciation and wonder in the eyes of my little brother.

Ah… the younger sibling. Mine was particularly delightful at that age, primarily because he was so incredibly trusting and naïve. He never doubted a word that I told him. On the contrary, he became an ambassador for me in my absence.

"Don’t touch that rock!" He would exclaim loudly to my parents as they strolled through the yard. "That rock is Kresha’s!"

A few steps later, the parental units would once again require reprimanding. "Don’t touch that plant – that’s Kresha’s plant!"

By the end of the walk, my brother would have done a superb job of planting the symbolic flag of my ownership over nearly every item on the property. He was a loyal sidekick, and I rewarded him in the best way that I could imagine – by sharing with him the pleasures of the carefully gathered foodstuffs.

We had a good thing going, but – like so many things – it was destined to come to an end. Being an intelligent child, I had determined that the best way to present my stolen delights was under the guise of "magic."

"Watch what I can do!" I would boast, before pulling a pack of gum out of my pocket, or a cookie from my sleeve.

"Wow…." My brother would gaze, in awe, from the treat to me, and back again.

One summer day, I had – with considerable aplomb – produced a supreme treat: A package of grape kool-aid. Such a treasure was hard to come by, and I was anticipating the consumption of it with unparalleled excitement. Just as I prepared to indulge, I heard an alarming question coming from another room. Even more alarming was the fact that the voice asking it was my mother’s. "What" the voice questioned, "Are you two doing?"

This was a dangerous moment. Would my young, innocent brother have any idea of what to do here? Undoubtedly not. Stomach sinking, I heard his jubilant response. "Mom!" he exclaimed, with glee, "Kresha can do MAGIC! She made kool-aid appear out of AIR!"

As I ran, feet keeping the pace of a world-class sprinter, I could hear my mother’s voice – far away - yelling my name.

Mean Green Machine

We’re all well aware of the dangers of the animal kingdom. We’ve seen the photos of victims of shark attacks – people with massive chunks of flesh and/or limbs missing – we’ve heard tales of cougar attacks, we’ve witnessed the scarred visages of humans bitten by dogs. We know that humans have fallen prey to the occasional warped bear, and that horses can kick their longtime rider. What most of us have not had to deal with, however, is the horror of the vicious Mean Green Petula Machine.

Petula is the worst kind of terror: She is tiny – perhaps three inches in height – and is rounded in the loveliest manner. Her feathers are made up of various shades of green, and her plump little belly extends in front of her like a friendly little Buddha’s. A small, well-formed beak fronts her cute little face, and intelligent brown button-eyes peer out at the world from the sides of her well-proportioned head. The entire package is – to be completely truthful – delightful. This is most unfortunate, as it causes many people to fall into THE TRAP.

Petula, you see, is prone to episodes of EVIL. Her reservoir of wickedness is ever-refilling and tends to manifest at the most surprising times. Consider, for example, an incident relayed to me by my Significant Other (henceforth to be known as SO.) According to my SO, he was innocently occupying himself in front of the entertainment center one fine afternoon, paying not a smidgen of attention to the bird cages about three feet to his left. Earlier in the day, being the caring fellow that he is, he took it upon himself to open the bird cages to let the birds stretch their little legs by running back and forth between each other’s cage. [This, my friends, is where he made his first naïve mistake. NEVER think that you’re going to get on Petula’s good side by being nice to her. At best, you’ll stay temporarily off of her black list. The way to the good list is long and forbidding.] As my SO continued about his business, he was – without warning – attacked from the left by a small green flying MONSTER. Before he even realized what was going on, Petula had attached herself to the left side of his face and begun a biting frenzy, her small beak a blur, her wings propelling her closer to the targeted skin.

Just as Petula readied herself to take on the secondary enemy – his glasses – my SO reached up and managed to grab her in his hand. [There are definite disadvantages to being a mere three inches tall. (Six if you count the tail feathers.)] The worst part about this story is that it is not the first time that such an incident has occurred. Petula once lobbed herself at her grandma in a similar tactic, and has even taken smaller leaping attacks toward me – her very own mother. There is clearly a faulty gene in this bird’s genetic makeup. I suspect that it’s the very same gene that many successful sports coaches possess.

Petula was acquired to be a companion bird to her older brother – Keats the cockatiel. Unfortunately for Keats, it took Petula approximately .0005 seconds to establish herself as the queen of the castle by – once again without warning – violently attacking her new big brother. Poor Keats has never recovered. The moment of the initial attack, most of the hard-earned bird knowledge that he had in his head was vaporized by the shock. To this day, I still catch him attempting futilely to recite the notes of "Sleigh Ride." Also lost were such favorites as "the wolf whistle" and key segments of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

Still, it is certain that Keats is less lonely than he used to be. For one thing, he has no time to consider it - what with having to keep a constant eye on Petula, who is prone to attacking him whenever and wherever the mood strikes. He’s not the only one. While I am the chosen object of Petula’s deepest adoration, her affection does not save me when she is possessed by The Fury. I am still trying to figure out what lesson I am to learn from this bird. What is it about her – this creature that is, by turn, either attacking me or whining nonstop for my attention – that, once I understand it, will strengthen my character? All I know for certain is that – until I have mastered this mystery – I’ll be sure to wear safety goggles at all times when within a ten-foot radius of her cage.

The Block

A few weeks ago, I resolved to become a much more disciplined writer. As practice, I determined that I would write a minimum of one piece of writing per day, no exceptions. Being the flexible taskmaster that I am, I did concede that the writing could be in a number of formats: personal (not to be shared) essay; essay to be posted on my blog; essay to be posted on my secret blog; or inspired poetry. (Ha! That last option was my inner voice’s way of taunting me; I once happened upon a tortured piece of angst-ridden poetry leftover from my high school days. The memory has inspired many, many jokes from my internal conversation partner.)

I will be completely honest: I have not been writing on my secret blog much, I’m not writing personal essays these days, and poetry has yet to fly – inspired – from my ink blotter and pen. It takes remarkably low powers of deduction to look at the dates of this blog and realize that I have – once again – miserably failed in my attempts to become more structured with my literary powers. What, I have been thinking to myself nearly every day, is my problem? Certainly I’m tired. Of course I have a full-time job. Yes, I have pets to care for and people to spend time with. I’ve fallen embarrassingly behind on my list of films to watch and books to read, true. Still, doesn’t everyone face similar time dilemmas? Yet I happen to know that there are people in this world who accomplish incredible numbers of things. They manage to hold down difficult yet life-changing jobs, parent exceptionally gifted children, volunteer for up to ten different organizations, be champion runners or swimmers or kayakers, and have the time to renovate their magnificent Victorian home on their own.

I am beginning to suspect that the problem may be that one’s levels of personal expectations are based on a curve, and that one can always find someone higher along on that curve that is making one’s own grade look shabbier than one might like. If this is the case, it might behoove us to simply eliminate all overachievers. Failing that, we may have to learn to do something terribly unpleasant like accept one’s own limitations. What a horrid concept. I, for one, shall endeavor to find the hidden flaws in any person that seems to have it "all together." I’ve found – in the past – that this sort of knowledge can perk one’s spirits up considerably.

Sigh. Once again, my weakness of character has allowed me to pursue a tangent that – for a bit – successfully diverted my attention from the sad fact that I am still not the disciplined writer that I strive to be. The sad truth of the matter is that I have, of late, found myself battling the dreaded Block Of The Writers.

The Block is a vile and terrible thing, capable of convincing one’s mind that not a single word is worthy of being preserved upon paper, and that the ideas in your head are too embarrassing for words (literally) anyway. If The Block tires of that particular angle, it often opts for the even more entertaining technique of refusing to allow any ideas at all to enter the waiting receptacle of your Literary Bucket. When in blockage mode, The Block positions itself squarely in the doorway between the Idea Room and the Reception Area of the Literary Bucket. There it waits, huffing under its breath in anticipation as it spots an approaching idea. The poor idea, oblivious, is nearly tripping over itself in excitement as it approaches the Reception Area. It knows that, once it checks in, it’s only a matter of moments before it is brought to fruition – finally able to realize its full potential in the written word. Alas, it is not to be.

As the eager idea reaches the doorway, The Block springs low and attacks, slamming the idea backward with a full-body shot. The idea is stunned and confused. The Block smells blood, and circles in for the kill. With an evil snicker, it jumps up and down upon the idea, reducing it to a quivering mass of bewilderment. The idea finds itself dazed, and cannot remember where it was going. It may remember – vaguely – a sense of purpose that it had moments before, but it’s lost now. With an odd look at The Block, the idea wanders back in the direction from which it came, mumbling to itself. Whether it will ever find its way back again is anyone’s guess.

With an enemy like The Block planted solidly in my brain, is it any wonder that I’ve struggled to bring my poor, abused ideas to literary life? There’s no doubt that they’re in there – I’ve never had a shortage of topics to think or talk about – but when it comes time to translate them to paper my foe is winning far too many battles. This cannot go on. I am mocking The Block even now by transcribing the details of our battle. Take that! I am declaring, in literary war terms. Stop me from writing this, why don’t you?

Rats - The Wonder Creatures

I love rats. They are, in my opinion, marvelous little creatures. Certainly I won’t deny that they’ve done their fair share of spreading disease and illness, but – then – so have humans. Personally, I’m a little more frightened of my fellow man. Ironically, while I’ve oft longed for a rat to call my own, I have yet to own one. I’ve had hamsters, and gerbils, and dwarf hamsters, and guinea pigs, and rabbits, but no rats… yet. All of that is about to change.

The answer to my rat-less state came to me rather unexpectedly, when I was perusing the local paper yesterday in an effort to distract my mind from the rather pressing work matters that I was ignoring. It seems that, in a land far, far away, there is someone else in the world who has recognized the incomparable value of the rat. That land is Tanzania.

In Tanzania, a brilliant former industrial designer from Belgium named Bart Weetjens has begun a nonprofit organization that trains the giant African rat to detect land mines. Absolutely amazing. Why don’t more people think of such exceptional ideas? This Bart fellow has real potential.

The rat featured predominately in this particular article is a four-pound feminine beauty named Henrietta (see photo). Her description reads like a personal ad for my ideal companion: luxurious brown fur; lovely white belly; works for bananas; obsessive groomer; possessor of cheek pouches (I LOVE those…); detector of explosives. What more could one ask for? I felt the first rush of love, and thought to myself "I MUST have Henrietta." There are, of course, a couple of obstacles impeding the satisfactory obtainment of this goal; the largest being the fact that Henrietta lives in Tanzania and I live in Wisconsin. A long-distance relationship would never work for me, as I feel an urgent need to have access to the bellies of all of my pets. One never knows when the urge to tickle someone’s belly will strike, but when it does it is of the utmost imperative to answer the call.

Reading through the remainder of the article only strengthened my resolve to obtain a Ratus Adorabalis Africanus. Their qualities put other animals to shame: They have the ability to swing through trees by their tails, seek affection like little dogs, and have such amazing senses of smell that they’re also thinking of using them to detect tuberculosis! (It appears that they are as accurate in detecting tuberculosis as human lab technicians who are working with microscopes. Hmmm. How can we be so sure that we ARE the superior species?)

Just when I felt that I would have to sink into the depths of despair, left in a permanent state of wanting, I read a very important piece of information. Bart The Brilliant has begun a website – www.herorat.org – that allows people to "adopt" individual animals! While this doesn’t solve my problem of lack-of-belly-access, it does allow me to "own" my own rat while my mind works on the problem of how to get it all the way to Wisconsin. Since these rats live six to eight years, I have some time to ponder….

Link to original newspaper article: http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2003712156_rats18m.html