Chicken... For The Soul

"Kate," I called to my friend and co-volunteer as I lifted a rabbit out of its cage and tucked it under my shoulder, "Did you notice the chicken in the gift shop?"

Kate glanced up from the rabbit that she was attempting to coax from behind a litter box. "No! They have a chicken in there? I love chickens!"

"Me too." I ignored the squirming of the little fellow in my arms as I waited for her to retrieve another soon-to-be-socialized-rabbit.

Together, we walked through the hallways of the animal shelter toward the "socialization area." At the entrance to the gift shop we paused, rabbits in our arms, to peer through the glass.

"Do you see it?" I asked.

"No....." Her head craned to the left and to the right, and she shifted a few feet toward me.

Just as I spotted a bundle of rust-orange feathers, Kate exclaimed in delight. "There she is! Oh, she's beautiful......"

She was beautiful. Her orangeness was unparalleled, and - having been given free reign of the gift shop - she strutted about in a manner that only a confident chicken can.

Step. Head bob. Chest out. Step. Head bob. Chest out. Step. Head bob. Chest out. Head bob. Head bob. Step.

Kate and I watched, entranced by her beauty, until the rabbits' gentle nips and wiggles grew not-so-gentle and we finished our journey to the bunny day rendevous.

Hours later, as we trekked back and forth in our efforts to return the now-socialized rabbits to their assigned cages, we paused again at the gift shop door. This time, the pretty hen was loitering near the entrance, examining the floor closely for wayward foodstuffs like caterpillars.

I clicked softly at her with my tongue, and cleverly called for her. "Here chicken, chicken, chicken," I sing-songed. "Here chicken."

I was rewarded for my efforts with a look that can only be described as "chicken contempt." If you have never seen this look, I advise you to take great measures to avoid it.

The hen fixed me with the contemptuous look for a considerable length of time (for a chicken) - at least 20 seconds. Having made her point, she returned her gaze to the floor and lower shop shelves, moving her head from side to side as she scanned the area closely. Her chicken savvy was stunning. It was obvious that no insect or spider stood a chance in this gift shop. What a clever idea! I thought. I should keep a chicken in my storage unit! (I have been scarred permanently by the sight of the freaky house centipede - HAIRY house centipede - that I caught scurrying up the wall of my storage room.... but that's another story.) My enthusiasm dimmed somewhat as I considered the fact that I would need to either move into the storage unit myself or only take my chicken for supervised visits, as I would feel too guilty to leave it in there all alone. Perhaps it wasn't such a clever idea after all. I obviously could NOT move into a space inhabited by monsters-in-the-guise-of-arthropods. (Did you KNOW that they are carnivorous?!!!)

The chicken continued with her business, determined not to let us interfere with the busy day ahead. At the same moment, Kate and I noticed that something about this chicken was... not quite right.

"What," asked Kate, leaning forward for a better look, "is going on with her beak?"

I was wondering the exact same thing. The end of her beak appeared to... well, actually, it did not appear at all. It was missing. Where the lovely yellow point would be, this chicken had nothing. The beak ended in a very un-beak-like bluntness.

The hen, oblivious to this "problem," had begun preening herself with great flair. Dramatically, she fluffed all of the feathers on the right side of her body and lifted her wing away to tuck her head underneath. Emerging from beneath it, she wagged her tail a bit and glanced up at us. Her look managed to convey both surprise that we were still bothering her and extreme boredom induced by our presence.

We continued to stare as she moved on to the left side, lifting her wing away once again.

Knowing Kate, and the way that she thinks about life (which can be very similar to the way that I think about said topic), I imagine that at that moment we were thinking very similar thoughts. In my head, I was struggling to reconcile my first rush of emotion - pity - with the apparent contentment of the hen before me.

But, a voice in my mind protested - already donned in mourning attire - this chicken is PITIFUL! Look at it! Something horrible must have happened! It will NEVER be the same!!!

From the left second-floor library of my brain came a voice. No, it agreed. The chicken will not be the same. None of us is ever the same from one moment to the next. That is what living does to us.

Ah, someone else had decided to speak up. About time.

But, the first voice protested, increasing in volume, it's a....w....f....u....l! That POOR thing!

The voice from the library returned. Really? Does that chicken look upset to you?

There was no response. Likely because the only time the chicken looked at all upset was when she noticed that we were still staring at her. No doubt she blamed us for the lack of tasty snacks.

I glanced at Kate, wondering what sort of decision her voices were coming to. It was clear - to me - that there was no room for pity in this chicken's day. Without speaking, Kate and I began walking, together, back toward the socialization room to clean up.

It was time to move on.

Something I Would Not Like To Be

I would not like to be a postal delivery person.

Today

Today, I was technically on PTO. ("Paid Time Off" for anyone fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with the term. Bless you - you lovely, uncorrupted thing - whoever you are.) Unfortunately, my extraordinarily demanding workload ensured that I would actually be working, but - at least - from the comfort of my home.

Ah, home....The Animal Reform Home. It is a madhouse here, with critters everywhere. Underfoot, overhead, lounging about... there is no escape. Inevitably there is at least one that is angry with me, a couple that want something from me, and another that is hoping that I won't notice the wicked things that he/she is up to. Despite the chaos, I would not give it up. For what? Whatever would I do with all of my time - the hours a day that I devote to critter care? I feel no desire to come home to an empty, soundless home (though the cleanliness factor is appealing.)

I ramble, yes. I am scattered these days, always thinking of what needs to be done next. I have countless topics that I wish to write about, just not the focus to do so. I will get there. A "?" in progress, as we all are.

Now, I admire the snow. It is lovely. If only all of these buildings weren't in the way of it, it could be REALLY lovely.

Today, during accupuncture, I noticed that a number of the needles placed in the right side of my body - in various spots - felt uncomfortable (dare I even say a bit painful?) going in AND out. That was new. I can't help but wonder what it meant. I shall have to raise the question at my next session.

So... this coming weekend is the office holiday party. Cab rides provided to and fro, and all the alcohol that one can consume is to be provided. The experience is sure to provide copious amounts of writing fodder. Also on the calendar: Annual Christmas Cousin film viewing (only one option for Christmas films this year, sadly), volunteering at the shelter, YOGA, two nights with BECCA!!!! We are planning to see the Swedish vampire film that I've been wanting to watch. Very exciting.

Holy snorefest blog posting.

Sigh.

How my standards have fallen.

Plummeted, one could say.

Justifiably. (The statement that one could make.)

I have no true excuse... only promises of future improvement.

The Case Of The Missing Kresha

Where, oh where, can she be?

HINT: The answer to this riddle begins with "w" and ends with "k." It is NOT a piece of culinary equipment.

Hanging Around

I am still here, despite what the absence of postings might lead you to believe. My nemesis - who I not-so-affectionately refer to as "El Blocko" - has returned with a vengeance. His entire reason for being appears to be the thwarting of all creative writing-related thoughts that my brain would undoubtedly be generating like mad without his interference.

Never fear. I will prevail.

Perhaps were I not also wrestling with so many other enemies, I might be able to win this battle more quickly. Alas, I am under attack from many angles. Milkus Duddus strikes, inevitably, around 10 am daily and again from 1 - 3 pm. I pray that soon the Halloween candy in the office shall dwindle into nothing, eliminating the source of Milkus Duddus.

If I am not battling M. Duddus, The Babies demand my attention. The Babies are delightful, and I fear I am growing quite attached. Despite the multiple-times-a-day needs that they need fulfilled, I find that I cannot bear the thought of their little baby selves huddling in the metal shelter cages.

The Babies - unfortunately - also feed another of my enemies: Condo Dissaray-O. Condo Dissaray-O knows that I cannot tolerate much lack of order, and that - confronted with such situations - I will exhaust myself in my attempts to re-establish the Big O. (Order, you perverts.)

And - perhaps most disturbing of all - I am enlaved to the Corporate Life-Provider. The Provider is - in fact - insisting that even now, this very moment, I leave you all once again and return to my life of servitude.

I shall return.

Sunday Evening Shopping

I was pushing my shopping cart through Target, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, when I accidentally overhead the exchange between a couple walking past me.

"Well," the man - an unhappy-looking, slightly unkempt male in his forties - said in a voice that implied that the conversation had already gone on far too long, "I don't use toilet paper."

"I know you don't," replied his companion, sounding tired. She was an overweight woman, devoid of make-up, with hair pulled severely away from her face.

I knew - immediately - what was going to happen and tried desperately to head it off before it could start.

"Do NOT think about it, do NOT think about it, do NOT think about it," I chanted to my Self, over and over.

Too late.

"What??!!" my Self could not contain her curiousity. "He doesn't use toilet paper???"

"No," I responded (in my head, of course) tersely, "he clearly does not. What else did we need? Milk?"

"But," Self continued, ignoring my attempt to change the subject,"What does he use? Does he use anything at all?"

My Self helpfully conjured up a mental depiction of what the consequences might be if someone were to use nothing at all to clean the nether regions after "certain activities." I grimaced, tried not to gag, and hoped that the people surrounding me in the Target aisles were not noticing the strange faces that I was making as I pushed my cart....alone.

"Maybe he prefers napkins," I suggested, growing desperate to move on to another topic, "I am SURE that we're forgetting something here. TRY to focus. We're not coming back here if you make us forget something."

"Cupcakes?" my Self suggested in a blatantly evil move. "Do you really think he uses napkins? They're so...rough. Like paper towels."

Another unwanted image was imposed upon my brain, and - in my horror - I very nearly crashed my cart into a young man stopped in front of the potato chip display.

"Would you KNOCK IT OFF?" I veered away from the man - pretending not to notice the odd look that he was giving me - and accelerated toward the dairy products. "FIND something ELSE to think about."

It was - as it turned out - an unnecessary outburst. My Self had spotted the peanut butter cookie dough.

"Num!" Self shouted with exuberance. "Remember how TASTY those are???"

"Yes," I agreed, "and remember how many CALORIES they have in them?"

"But I'm HUNGRY," Self whined, "and I WANT them. They make me FEEL better. They're soft, and gooey, and you know how I love peanut butter. I won't be happy if I don't have them. We could take them home and put them in the oven tonight! We could eat them with milk!"

I was growing fatigued from the mental exertion required to keep my Self in check. Staring resolutely forward, I pushed the cart past the cookie dough and congratulated myself on winning the battle despite my weakening resources.

My victory - and resulting relief - was short-lived.

"Look!" my Self shrieked in delight, spotting the objects of desire from nearly half a store-length away, "CUPCAKES!!!!!"

Home. Owner.

My mother and I were in San Diego, walking through a connected series of uber-development shopping center parking lots, when she suddenly stopped short.

“Now THIS,” she said definitively, pointing to an overturned shopping cart lying, ignored, in the corner of a lot, “Is a NICE house.”

“Ummm-hmmm,” I agreed, eying it appraisingly. “I don’t know why no one has moved in. Could it be the neighborhood?"

We lifted our eyes and surveyed the surrounding area. Not a lot of other homes, but that didn’t seem to stop the fellow living on the front yard of Wendy’s, near our hotel. Perhaps the lack of “green space” was causing this deplorable waste of housing?

It was food for thought, and we considered it as we moved along our way. Now that we’d noticed the saturated real estate market in this parking lot, we couldn’t help but notice the additional homes that were strewn, discarded, all about. Dismayed by the waste, I briefly entertained the notion of bringing a new – or second – home to the man living near our hotel, but was forced to dismiss the idea. He had so carefully packed his current house (a standard, silver-plated grocery-type model) with his belongings, maximizing all available space, and – based on the décor that he updated on a daily basis – I suspected that he was quite proud of his home.

There were many advantages to his existing residence. It was portable – far more portable than my home, to be sure – and it limited the amount of “clutter” that the man could accrue. This, in a way, I envied quite a lot. Sure, it would be tricky to cook in his place, and he did not have any running water – or even any water at all – but these were minor inconveniences when compared to the biggest advantage: His home offered him complete independence from societal rules. The smaller details (food, water, toilet, and roof) were provided at night by Wendy’s and during the day by Denny’s. With two fine names like that to provide for one, why sweat the small stuff?

The man was polite to us, nodding when we passed, but it was clear that we were of little importance. His world was encapsulated, like the contents of his cart. He had his recorder, which he played for an audience that we could not see, and his knife and stick, which he used together, literally whittling the time away. On occasions, we spotted him conversing with a being not visible to us, gesturing animatedly. At these times, his enthusiasm seemed to grow large enough to provide for his invisible conversation partner, this “other” that proved so much more interesting than anything that we – the “real world” - had ever offered.

I pondered this, and still do. Which of us – I wonder – is the smarter? Who is closer to the state of “truly living?” Is it me, with my own “invisible partners” – my cages and rules? The home, the prescribed “start’ and “stop” times to my day, my participation in the en masse traffic surges to and fro a “job” created by someone else, the “ways” of dress, of speech, of etiquette? Am I truly living? Have I found the secret?

I suspect not. On the other hand, I know that the solution that this man’s life offers is not the answer that I seek. What my personal answer is, I don’t know. I do know that the shiny metal or bright red plastic homes do not – for me – hold the same allure that they do for people like our San Diego acquaintance. Now, the nice double-decker green plastic model, on the other hand, inspired a moment of consideration….. Until my mother, sagely, reminded me of the difficulty of resale in such a flooded market.

I conceded, reluctantly. She was right. With one last backward glance, I continued with her across the asphalt.

The Babies

It is a universally acknowledged truth that baby bunnies rank in the top 5 of any "Cutest Things Ever" list. Imagine the mental and therapeutic benefits that I am reaping, then, with my constant exposure to two little 7-week-old-now-9-week-old bunnies: my foster charges. (Unfortunately for the babies, this is far too young for them to have been separated from their rabbit mother. We are "working through some things" as a result.)


I only wish that I would have taken the time to document the Little Delights when they first entered my home. Since that time, they have at least doubled in size. Still, they are so delightful that I cannot resist sharing them.


Adorable, no? This is actually the "Don't eat me you bizarre tormenter" face, times two.




Did you know?
Did you know that the brown baby bunny on the right was not always a lop? That's right. It is only recently that the lopness revealed itself. For more information, look it up online.

And now, a special treat. I have persuaded (bribed with apples) the bunnies to answer a couple of guest questions, since it is such a special treat to have the baby perspective available to us.


Q: Babies, why doesn't my rabbit like to be held? I really want to pet and play with her more, but she gets upset every time I pick her up.

Gray Baby: Fool! Do you think we don't know that you're a rabbit eater? Your freakishly large limbs and lack of ears give you away immediately! Stay away! Don't touch us!


Q: Hi baby bunnies. Is there any special treat that I can give my rabbit that won't upset his stomach but that he'll like as much as bananas?

Brown Baby: Aha! Trying to find out what rabbits can't resist, so you can add POISON TO IT AND KILL US!!! You just want to eat us!!!!! RUN!!! RUN GRAY!!!!

I am now going to end the question and answer session, because it is clear that the babies require a bit more socialization. To that end, please notify me immediately if you have any desire to pet and/or play with two adorable babies.

To Boldly Go

It is Monday morning, and I am standing in my living room gazing upon the front of my sweatpants, which have just been liberally doused with rabbit urine. The offending substance had been applied in a graceful, arcing stream, easily passing through the wire bars of the cage to soak my legs – and the carpet. The dampness of said carpet, which I had been regarding with a bit of confusion (wondering how I had become so sloppy with the water dish), was now being regarded with intense suspicion.

Piccard. That bastard.

Piccard, the object of my newfound disgust, was gleefully digging in his freshly filled litter box. It appeared, in fact, that the appearance of the clean litter box had actually inspired the arcing pee of joy. Not to be left out, Number One joined him in the box, then hopped out of the box to the shelf, where he pushed as much hay as possible through the bars unto the carpet.

Very uncool. My mind appraised the situation, quickly simplifying it to the basest level:
New condo + unneutered young male foster rabbits = Destruction. Dead carpet. Weeks of cleaning ahead.

In retaliation, I reached into the cage and grabbed Piccard. He struggled, squirming to escape.

“Resistance,” I told him, “is futile.” I spent a few moments savoring the apt use of that particular line before returning my attention to the black and white bunny in my hands. He had assumed the posture most popular with rabbits who find themselves unable to escape the human grasp: Head bobbing back and forth unsteadily, eyes slightly narrowed, legs extending stiffly in front of him, face radiating “I know you’re going to eat me….” I felt no sympathy. My carpet was clearly going to require extensive cleaning after his departure, and for that I deserved to be allowed to tickle his belly. This I did, with relish.

Piccard and Number One have lived with me for slightly over a week, and that – in my opinion – is time enough. As they settled in, recovering from their trauma, they grew more and more comfortable. TOO comfortable. With their immediate needs of safety, food, and shelter met, their attention turned to other things. Testosterone-inspired things. It is time for the boys to boldly go where they have never gone before (and to return to their cages not quite so bold...)

This week, I will turn Piccard and Number One over the shelter, where they will be “fixed” and be made available for adoption. They are – really – lovely young rabbits with great personalities. I will be happy to see them find a forever home.

In the meantime, I have a younger duo that needs attention. The Babies, as I’ve taken to calling them, are only 8 weeks old – far too young for the shelter experience. They will continue to live with me for at least another month.

This experience of fostering these rabbits – of forming and breaking attachments – is therapeutic for me, I know. It is my nature to believe that I must do all, must save all, must nurture all. All, that is, except my self. As one might imagine, this tends to detrimentally affect my self’s well being. Accepting that a creature may actually be better off in a home that is NOT mine is difficult for me to acknowledge. The truth – however – is that I am but one person, am unavoidably limited, and that I CANNOT save them all.

Gazing down at Piccard and Number One, I feel a wave of gratitude for the urinary message. The demonstration certainly makes it easier to accept the need for the next phase in the boys’ journey. My mind shifts, accelerating into the future – into the time of carpet scrubbing and treating – and the gratitude vanishes in a puff, leaving behind a residue of affection, and of hope for the future – for all of us.

Sunday Night Blues

Lately I have been giving an extraordinary amount of thought to the reasons behind my current writer's block. This thought may - in fact - be another method of avoiding the writing itself. There are a couple of theories that I'm leaning toward, but I don't know that I'm ready to share them all with whoever might happen upon this blog. And - since I AM the writer (pathetic as it may be for me to claim that moniker) - I can choose to share - or NOT share - whatever I please.

Having made that clear, I shall now switch subjects entirely. (Mood swing. Been having those a lot.)

Fact: Apples are tasty.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples during the fall season is a lovely, lovely perk.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples with a limited shelf life puts pressure on one to utilize apples at an alarming rate.
Fact: Copious amounts of baked goods - no matter how many healthy apples they contain - do nothing good for one's waistline.

[Interruption. Phone makes noise at me. Is friend Jeff, texting. Wants to chat. Agree, provided he is certain we can keep call to actual allotted time - NOT normal time, which we routinely mutually agree will be five - ten minutes, but inevitably ends up being 1 1/2 - 2 hours.]

Jeff called. He described his recent (insane) dreams to me. Mind warp.

Throat is irritating me. Forced to make tea in order to continue conversation.

Now it is late. It would clearly be irresponsible to attempt to write now. I obviously will have to sleep instead.

Tomorrow, I shall actually write. Really. No doubt about it.

The Pursuit Of

Today, I read an article centered on a research experiment that utilized Facebook members as the subject. Researchers discovered that the Facebook members with high numbers of “friends” appeared to have narcissistic qualities. These tendencies were identified by the way that the users positioned and described themselves on the site, by the sorts of comments that they posted, and by the photos of themselves that they put on display.

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

The most surprising part of this article was that it apparently required a research project for these scientists to reach this conclusion.

All around us, we are surrounded by people who find meaning in the quantity, rather than the quality, of their “friends.” These are humans whose entire “worth” is dependent upon the observations and admiration of others. Are they afraid that without these distorted reflections of themselves they will cease to exist? Or are they more afraid that they will exist – that they will finally have to confront the identity that they truly have, rather than the vision of the being that their friends believe them to be?

The reality is that no one being can truly ever know another. The “understanding” that I have of my friend X – the version of her that lives in my brain – is different than the “understanding” of her that a different friend will have. In that sense, she is two different people. Multiply that by the number of people that “know” her, and you add innumerable shades of being to the buried “real” her. In fact, her own mind – her own perception – likely prevents even her from knowing who – or what - she is.

Ironically, this culture is deep within an age of narcissism at a time when we have distanced ourselves further from the realities of life than ever before. People cannot – it seems – get enough of themselves. It is commonly believed that any behavior should be condoned if it brings “personal happiness” or “personal gratification.” “Judgment” is tossed about as an insult, as something to be avoided.

Isn’t the ability to judge – to discern what should be done from what is done – one of the human qualities that sets us apart from animals? If a dog steals food because it wants it, because it brings it happiness, and another dog starves as a result, do we blame the thief? No – because it is but a dog. It knows no better. Inherently, we know that we are different, that we cannot justify our behaviors in that manner, but we have been taught to be afraid to remind others of that fact.

I have no use for hundreds of “friends.” I have use for a close group of friends - true friends that I can rely on to “judge” what I do, to draw attention to my selfish tendencies, to help me grow into a better - not just happier - person. I want to be a person that measures life by the impact that I have on the world, and not by what I can get out of it.

Spaceholder

Full entry to come. For now, current thoughts:

“Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
No one ever said elves are nice.
Elves are bad.”

Terry Pratchett

Generations Of Meaning

On Saturday, my parents visited my grandparents. It should be understood, before this story proceeds, that the aforementioned grandparents do not – nor have they ever – live a life of social conformity. It should also be noted that some of the life that they live has been heavily influenced by misfortunes beyond their control, and that some of their misfortunes are their own doing. This is – I suppose – an accurate description of all of our lives. Why my grandparents have taken theirs to the extreme – created a caricature of many other people’s lives – I do not know. What I do know is that there are many lessons to be learned from the observation of their lives, but that there are also many unanswerable questions raised.

The universe, or its creator, or controller, or [insert belief of choice], has connected my grandparents with a landlord who is either a saint or a stark raving lunatic. His tolerance of their habits/accumulations/lifestyles has transcended that of any “normal” human being. For some time, my grandparents have resided in a rental property owned by this man, and – in that time – they have essentially destroyed said property. Unfortunately, this is but the most recent “home” in a long line of “homes” that is a casualty of their residency. What they do to these buildings – and how they do it – isn’t entirely clear. After “helping them move” out of their last building (which they would have continued to refuse to leave, caved-in kitchen ceiling and all, had it not – SERIOUSLY – been destined for condemnation) I have begun to suspect that the space that surrounds my grandparents possesses the same strange properties as the Bermuda triangle. My grandparents appear to be the only parties unaffected by their bizarre surroundings.

My parents’ arrival was greeted as one might greet the arrival of any welcome guest, with the added element of the greeters being buried behind piles of possessions that obscured my parents’ view of them. Prominently situated in clear view on the dining room table, however, was a giant, oversized, chandelier light fixture. The presence of this item shall be dubbed Mystery Number One. The cover story was that the fixture was a “good deal,” despite the implausibility of this when one factors in the inability to install said fixture in a RENTAL property. Such logic was deflected with a breezy tale of the landlord’s admiration of the chandelier, demonstrated on his last visit. Whether or not this admiration was legitimate – or what it might mean - would be impossible to ascertain, so Mystery Number One will remain unsolved.

Mystery Number One displays striking similarities to Mystery Number Two, which revolves around a popular household appliance – the vacuum cleaner. It appears that my grandfather feels an irresistible draw – a siren’s call, one might say – when in the presence of a non-functioning vacuum cleaner. This has led to the acquisition of vacuum cleaners numbering in the double digits. Unfortunately for my grandfather and the vacuums, he does not seem to possess the actual skills required to fix these appliances. Even more unfortunately, it has been made clear that my grandparents – despite their wealth of vacuums – do not own a single cleaner that actually WORKS. The statistical odds of this are mind-boggling.

Nothing, however, is quite as mind-boggling as the latest mystery: Mystery Number Three, The Big One. On this lovely Saturday morning, as my grandparents lounged in their living room, my grandmother held a mass of “something” upon her lap. She paid no mind to it until my mother, her experience-developed sense no doubt alerting her, questioned her as to the exact nature of this pile. My grandmother, without hesitation, replied that the object on her lap was actually a pile of THONG UNDERWEAR. She said this as if it were a hand towel, or a remote control, or a comfy throw. In a touching display of thoughtfulness, she added that – perhaps – my mother would like to take them home for ME???

Mystery Number Three is almost too much. Where – in the world – did this pile of undergarments come from??? Why was she holding them on her lap??? How long had they been sitting there??? The questions balloon upon each other, growing ever larger. They shall – alas – likely never be answered. The contemplation of them provides an outlet for me, a way in which I can consider elements of my grandparent’s lives without becoming overwhelmed with the larger questions that my mind might – and sometimes does - raise. These items with which they surround themselves are, I suspect, manifestations of larger “wants” or desires – things they have found to be unattainable. They are also evidence of having lived a life – regardless of the degree of life fulfillment.

From the outside, looking in, it seems to me clear that they could have made different choices; that they did not – perhaps – have to make the sacrifices or choices that they did. In reality, it is far easier for me to use a focus on their lives – and what they might have done differently – as my own avenue of escape. What might I have labeled “unattainable,” in my own life, needlessly? Behind what piles of accumulations might I be hiding? The questions raised by my grandparents lives ricochet into my own, insisting that I examine my self more closely.

One fact I do know - one truth that grounds me in the midst of life’s turbulence - is this: I shall never, ever, find myself in possession of – on my lap or elsewhere – a pile of thong underwear.

Isn't She Lovely?

She bathes in sunlight.

[Disclaimer: Not to be confused with a real post. This is merely a temporary "filler" to distract you from the recent lack of writing. I shall still achieve my goal of - at minimum - a weekly entry. No worries.]

Degrees Of Life

Today, I have chosen to wear absurdly tight pants. This decision was spurred by my feelings of intense guilt over eating two bowls of sugary, tasty cereal last night right before bed. This morning, determined to change my ways, I reasonably concluded that the sporting of acutely uncomfortable apparel would discourage me from the consumption of any additional food.

What it has done, of course, is make me feel irritable and quite plump. There is nothing quite like the feel of being stuffed into clothing in a sausage-like manner to make one feel every single ounce of extra weight. As I sit, obsessing over the feel of the pants AND the food that I “should not” eat, my flesh strains against the waistband of the jeans and spills a bit over the top. Attractive, there’s no denying, in a Jabba-the-Hut sort of manner. Were I in the market for an eligible slug-like monstery human-eating bachelor, today would be my day.

Unfortunately, I am not currently in the market for any sort of bachelor, monster or otherwise. What I AM in the market for is a weight loss method that encourages the rampant consumption of peanut butter and sugary cereal, and is still shockingly effective. I suspect that I may be shopping in this particular market for a lo-o-o-o-o-ong time…..

As I manage this flurry of thoughts that whirls around my brain, there is a loud voice – a voice that might, perhaps, fall into the category of “reason” – that is hell-bent on pointing out a few “truths.”

“You are,” says the voice, “fortunate to have those rolls and bulges. That is the flesh that you carry with you into yoga, that you twist and lift into beautiful expressions of self, and that you sleep with every night. It is the same flesh that has seen you through happy times, and through sad times, and that has been – and will be – surrounded by those you love.”

“But,” my Shallow Self protests, “I don’t like the way it looks. It doesn’t fit into the clothes I want to wear. Other people don’t have it.”

“So.” The voice retorts. “What? Get a grip. You are strong. You – every day – can do things that other people will never have a chance to do. There are people in this world that will never have a fraction of what you have, and all you are thinking about is the smallest element of your life – one of the FEW things that you DON’T like. What – in the hell – is wrong with you?”

This is a valid question, which causes Shallow Self to grow resentfully – and a little ashamedly – quiet.

I think, silently, about the article I read this morning – an article about the traffic-related death of a 23-year-old girl. I have already surpassed her life by 8 years. What would she have given to have those 8 years? Would she have been willing to carry 10, 20, 30 pounds for that length of time, if it would have allowed her to live?

The answer is obvious.

In this knowledge, I am faced with the stark reality of the selfishness of my Self. The fact that I have the luxury of “worrying” about carrying weight that is not a health risk – merely a cosmetic issue – is a testament to the GOODNESS of my life. Were I truly suffering - were I truly living a life that did not allow me to be fulfilled - my mind would be consumed with far, far different concerns.

What does this mean for me? It means that I have been given a gift, and that – to some degree – I have been wasting it. How do I change that? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am willing to work on changing it. As I do, I will be living an even richer life, and – more importantly – I will appreciate it.

Be All That You Can Be. You Can Do It.

[Interesting life development: Since blogging, yesterday, about my insane level of irritability, the irritability seems to be lessening. Bizarre. It is likely due to either my acknowledgement of it – and conscious effort to reduce it – or the embarrassment factor involved in baring my unreasonableness to all. Either way, it’s an improvement.

(It is also possible, I suppose, that taking yesterday off from exercising might have played a small part, particularly as I have been suffering from muscle fatigue and a bit of a tweaked knee. But that’s a whole different topic….)]

This morning, as I was contemplating my already decreasing irritability, I had a brilliant idea for making my way through the world today. I would – I decided – coach myself all day long only in commercial jingles. Excited, I launched my experiment immediately. As I began to get ready for work, the canine assumed her usual position at my heels, causing me to nearly trip every time I turned around.

“Don’t get mad,” I counseled myself, cheerily, “get Glad.” Resolutely, I ignored the canine as I continued my preparations, only once stopping to suggest – kindly – that she go lie down in another room.

Heading into the office, rather than allow the traffic (and poor driving) to bother me, I decided to practice acceptance. Unfortunately, the jingles that came to mind did not seem to relate well to the advice I needed. I made do the best that I could.

“You can take Salem out of the country,” I told myself, sagely, “but you can’t take the country out of Salem.”

It did not take long for me to realize the flaw with my plan. My brain has – of late – not been functioning properly. As it turns out, there are valid reasons for this, and – when compounded, as they have been – they could likely explain quite a bit of my irritability as well. My current mental state (while improving) does not allow for the conscious recall of many useful bits of knowledge like commercial jingles. On the contrary, it appears that the jingles are now rising – unbidden – into the forefront of my mind, whether they apply or not.

“Double, double your refreshment,” sings my mind, happily, as a co-worker hands me some files to proof. “Double, double your de-ligh-igh-ight-ment.”

I was so startled by this cheerful and out-of-place melody that I missed what my co-worker is saying and had to ask her to repeat it. I suppose – now that I’m reflecting upon it – that the experience was, therefore, “doubled.” Hmmm. Devious mind.

Later, as I lift my cup of yogi tea to my mouth, my mind once again erupts.

“The best part of waking UP” it bellows, enjoying this activity FAR too much, “is Folgers IN YOUR CUP!”

Now I am starting to feel disturbed. It is almost as if the marketing tunes have taken over my untrustworthy mind. On the plus side, the experiment seems to have quite a cheering effect on my overall mood. In fact, I think that this focus on commercial jingles might be encouraging an overall feeling of goodwill. As I surveyed the cubicle farm outside my own little square, my mind began a soft serenade.

“I’d like to buy the world a Coke,” it began, earnestly. I stopped it in its tracks. We do NOT support coke, I reminded it, due to the high fructose corn syrup.

“Always Coca-Cola” it rebutted in a sing-song manner, undeterred.

I sighed mentally. This was getting creepy.

In some ways, I am beginning to feel that another being has begun to occupy my mind. Even now, as I type, I can hear an ongoing song in the corner of my mind.

“Charlie says,” it chants, “I love my Good & Plenties. Charlie says, they really ring a bell.” It goes around and around, broken only by an occasional foray into “My dog’s better than YOUR dog, my dog’s better than YOUR-OR-OR-ORS.”

I suppose that this mental takeover is – in actuality – real. These jingles – and all marketing tools – have been constructed to have this effect. They have utilized scientific knowledge to manipulate our own minds, to capitalize upon the areas of our consciousness AND unconsciousness that we have difficulty controlling, but that will drive us to certain behaviors. Even as a marketer, and someone with an unusual interest in understanding psychological manipulation, I am not immune. I find the repercussions of this truth frightening.

On the other hand, I’m also no longer irritable. “After all,” my mind asks, “why bother? “Instead,” it suggests, “we could: jump in, just enjoy the ri-i-i-ide…da, da, da, da, da…..”

Right With The World

I can no longer deny that I am, in fact, an extraordinarily irritable person. At the very least, I have been an extraordinarily irritable person for the past month (okay….TWO months) and am showing no signs of becoming a non-irritable person anytime soon. I find this new personality that I’ve developed to be quite…irritating.

I honestly do not know what has happened to my Self. Things that used to please me - or at the very least not bother me -have begun to provoke sentiments ranging from mild anger to acute rage. In case you are not following, allow me to paint a picture of any given (recent) day’s activities:

6:00 am: Wake up. Think about how irritating it is that I have to go to work. Step over dog to go into bathroom. Consider how annoying it is that dog gets to stay home and sleep all day, but will have nerve to look upset when I leave. Would much rather stay home all day like dog. Dog should be more appreciative.

6:10 am: Start coffee brewing. Listen to Petula peep, feel irritated. Why can bird not stay quiet until I get her up? Does bird REALLY need to have IMMEDIATE attention? Bird knows that I will not be taking blanket off for at least five more minutes. Irritating.

6:12 am: Feed rabbits, take dog outside.

6:15 am: Order dog out of kitchen. Feed dog.

6:17 am: Get birds up. Feed birds. Water birds. Think about how spoiled birds are, and about how they feel that they need more attention. Feel annoyed. Petula peeps constantly while I pour coffee, arrange mirrors on table for “bird time.” Am angry at whiny bird. Yell at her, which is completely pointless as Petula believes this to be my form of peeping, and thinks I am joining her whining. Irritated by this inter-species miscommunication. (Note: Before the development of this irritable persona, I found bird’s undying affection ALMOST endearing. Also felt happy for dog that she was able to stay home all day, thought it was cute that birds were so excited to see me, etc. This is no longer the case. Now all is annoying.)

6:20 am – 7:20 am: Bird time. I read magazines, drink coffee, birds climb all over me and get pets. Oddly, do not feel so irritable during this period, likely because it involves reading and coffee.

7:20 am: Put birds in cage. Immediate whining erupts. Cover birds with blanket. Keats pleased, Petula furious.

7:21 – 7:30 am: Eat breakfast.

7:30 am: Begin to get ready for work. Dog IMMEDIATELY begins following me from room to room, looking mournful. Am annoyed. Order her out of rooms, she looks even more wounded.

7:50 am: Leave for work, feeling irritated because as I leave dog looks traumatized and birds are screaming. Ungrateful creatures.

8:00 am: Am at work. How irritating. Also irritated by bicyclists in my way on commute, by VERY annoying construction, and by day’s schedule.

8:05 am: Am hungry. Irritating.

8:16 – 11:30 am: Irritated and annoyed by wide variety of sources.

11:30 am – 12:30 pm: Somewhere in this range, take lunch break. If go home, feel irritated by screaming birds and dog with panting anxiety disorder. If do not go home, feel annoyed because I am “behind” on getting things done (taking dog out, various errands, etc.)

12:30 – 4:30 pm: Generally very sleepy at work, which is cause for quite a lot of irritation. Have usually received a number of annoying emails by now, and had numerous irritating projects come up.

4:30 pm: Depart office, find traffic that builds up at stop sign EXTREMELY irritating. Cannot understand complete lack of driving abilities that are demonstrated on a daily basis.

I shall spare you the details of the evening, but will assure you that there are plenty of causes for irritation in it. The person next to me in yoga class is inevitably annoying (this is NOT a yogic attitude on my part… shameful, really), the shower drain that does NOT drain is REALLY frustrating, the speed with which my evening passes is enough to spark my fuse. I can scarcely go out in public anymore, since I am so highly irritated by everyone that I come in contact with that I have begun to fear that I shall tell them exactly what it is about them that annoys me.

As you might imagine, the most irritating thing of all these days is my Self. I am not, I’m afraid, very good company, as my irritability extends to everything that I think or do. I barely have time to complete a conscious thought before my inner irritable persona is critiquing it. How annoying.

It is clear that something needs to change. Were it not such an irritating topic, I might even consider spending some time on it. As it is, I think I’ll just wait – annoyed – for the world to fix itself.

Leggin' It

Over the years, I have come to understand and appreciate that I will always actively pursue self-improvement and – in fact – embrace transformation. This is a part of my nature, and it seeps into all that I do and think. I’ve grown to enjoy this aspect of my character, for the most part. There have been times, however, that I’ve cursed myself for not “letting things be.” Today is one of those times.

I am a fairly active person, yet I am forever shadowed by the feeling that I am “not quite active enough.” I could – after all – be doing more. I am certain of it. My certainty stems from the hours and hours that I’ve spent THINKING about how I could be engaged in physical activity rather than whatever I happen to be engaged in at that time (often work, or driving, or talking to someone who bores me immensely….) It is also confirmed by all of the fitness magazines that I read, which demonstrate all sorts of clever little exercises and have indicated that “just a few minutes” of said exercises, when repeated at regular intervals, will “completely transform my body.” This, of course, inspires feelings of immense inadequacy, as there are OBVIOUSLY women in this world who are – at this very moment – radically transforming their bodies, and I am not one of them.

The culmination of years of these thoughts, plus my new personal recession, led me to the determination that I MUST learn to exercise in creative and stimulating ways at home. The final determining factor: I now have enough space to do it in. Whereas in my last apartment I did not have room to even – say – turn in a circle, my current living space is chock-full of assorted roomy expanses of openness. These are spaces that could easily be filled with exercise bands, yoga mats, weights, and more.

And there you have it. On Wednesday, before embarking on my outing for the evening, I decided that I would get some exercise, and I would do it at home. Feeling quite pleased with myself in advance, I collected an assortment of fitness items from the office and toted them to the living room, where I spread them about and stood, for a moment, admiring them.

To begin, I picked up a pair of ankle weights and slipped them on. (These had never before seen more than two minutes of use – I honestly cannot remember what I was thinking when I purchased them. I must have read something in a magazine about their transformative powers.) Experimentally, I lifted my right leg off the floor and swung it about. The ankle weight was not even noticeable.

Hmmm, I thought, a bit disgusted. What sort of equipment is this? It does NOTHING.

Mentally shrugging, I began my “warm-up.” This was the part designed (by me) to raise my heart rate. Initially, I ran in place – alternating between lifting my knees high and kicking my heels behind me. After about 30 seconds, I grew bored. I began inventing dance steps, and soon found myself trotting about the living room/kitchen/hallway area with flair. The first time I zipped past the rabbits, heels bouncing jauntily and arms swinging wildly back and forth across my torso in an exaggerated ark, they both froze in horror, eyes widening. The second time I passed, now skipping, they both disappeared in a flurry of loose rabbit fur. From the recesses of Lulu’s cage, I heard a “thump” of warning. The rabbits, it appeared, were not advocates of the at-home exercise regiment.

Meanwhile, the birds were transfixed by my performance. This was the best entertainment that they had witnessed for quite some time, confusing as it was. Occasionally, Keats emitted a soft and questioning noise.

“Wheeew?” he asked, turning his head sideways to see if my behavior made any more sense when viewed strictly from the right side of his head. “Wheew?”

When I finished my cardio portion I moved on to the floor for abdominal work. It was at this point that Petula’s world crashed about her. For reasons that I do not understand, she finds my eight-pound purple weight ball terrifying. Until Wednesday, I had no idea. The first time I tossed it into the air, she let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror. I was so surprised that I nearly missed catching the ball on its descent toward my abdomen. After a moment, I decided that it must have been a fluke and again launched the ball into the air. Once again, Petula shrieked in horror. This was – I admit – a touch irritating. Ignoring her, I proceeded with my routine. Her shrieks escalated the entire time, eventually reaching the level usually reserved for “Stage 5 Needs Attention.” The squawks at that crisis level have been known to bring humans running from all sections of the building.

I could not help – at this point – wondering what the people across the hall were thinking. Earlier that evening, I had spotted a couple with a small child arrive. I assumed that they were preparing the place for the return of the temporarily displaced resident, an elderly woman who required in-home care. (The paper towels and bottles of Ensure on the stairwell supported this theory.) Since their arrival, the male half of the duo had been spending a LOT of time on the balcony, talking loudly on his cell phone. Since I could hear him very well through my open patio door, I imagined that he could hear Petula just as well. I was unable to peek out there, as I had not bothered dressing for my exercise routine (I had decided that one of the perks of an at-home program was the ability to perform it in one’s underwear) and had been doing my best to avoid the door and window, given my attire.

Ah well, I thought. That will teach him to loiter on balconies. He’ll have to spend the rest of his day wondering what in the hell goes on across the hall from his mother. (At least I THINK she’s his mother…. Based on the phone conversations I overheard.)

I was approximately twenty minutes into my bout of exercise, engaged in some more heart-rate acceleration, when I suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort in one of my calves. I frowned, glancing down. The other calf responded with an equally uncomfortable twinge, and I decided that it was, perhaps, time to remove the ankle weights. The twinges passed, leaving a strange sort of numbness behind, and I ended my session. As I went for a walk afterward, capping off the day’s exercise, I noticed that my legs WERE feeling a bit sore. It would, I decided, work itself out.

Imagine, then, my surprise when I awoke yesterday to find that my legs refused to function normally. Generally, the deal that we have between us is that I’ll swing them out of the bed, placing my feet on the floor, and they’ll then support the burden of my weight as I lift off of the mattress. It appears that – sometime over the course of the night – our deal was renegotiated without my input. When I attempted to stand, in defiance of our newly amended agreement, they retaliated by cramping – the entire backside of them, with extra focus on the calves. This was most unpleasant.

As time has passed, and I have continued to defy the terms of our new contract, they have grown increasingly resistant to our partnership. Today, I sit in my cubicle plotting the manners in which I can stay seated for the maximum length of time before I am forced to stand and engage in the activity formerly known as “walking.” The movement of my body from one location to another has become a lesson in humility. As I hobble, I do my best to pretend that I have not noticed the strange contorted shape that I present, or the negative-mile-per-hour pace that I am keeping.

I now know that truth about those evil and deceptive weapons dubbed “ankle weights.” No matter how long it takes, I shall track down the magazine that recommended them, and I shall extract revenge. This new me – the slow-paced hobbler – is not a transformation that I welcome.

Mental Floss

Today’s mental notes:

1 – It does not, in fact, take eleven minutes to walk from my home to the office. It actually – interestingly enough – takes THIRTY minutes.

2 – Shoes that hurt one’s feet when one walked about in San Diego, California, will also hurt one’s feet when one walks about in Madison, Wisconsin.

3 – While they may SEEM like a good idea at the time of consumption, s’mores seem like LESS of a good idea when they are written in one’s food journal under the heading of “Breakfast.”

4 – Doctors operate on a different timeline than the rest of us, and also apparently don’t thoroughly read emails.

5 – Some doctors appear to abandon the rules of grammar, perhaps related to Mental Note #4.

6 – Too-tight pants do NOT grow less irritating as the day goes on. While THEORETICALLY they might remind one that one needs to lose weight, they – conversely – make one incredibly inactive due to intense discomfort felt upon moving.

7 – Projects do not disappear from one’s desk just because one refuses to look at them. The next time that one accidentally passes one’s eyes over the surface of one’s workspace, one might be startled and dismayed to find project sitting there.

8 –Mark Twain was an AMAZING man.

9 – Putting LOTS AND LOTS of thought into the potential location of the keys to one’s file cabinet may not lead to the actual remembrance of key’s location. Interestingly, anxiety level progressively increases in fashion that correlates with amount of thought invested.

10 – One should consider NOT locking one’s checkbook, debit card, and all credit cards into one’s file cabinet if there is chance that one will lose keys to aforementioned cabinet.

11 – To a bird, there is no such thing as “enough attention.”

12 – Come to think of it, for many ex-people-in-my-life there is no such thing as “enough attention.”

13 – No matter how hard you try, it is impossible to make stair-climbing “fun.”

14 – For a true aficionado, the urge for cupcakes never COMPLETELY goes away. This means that one’s ENTIRE life could become an exercise in will-power.

15 – Now that I’m considering it, one’s entire life IS an exercise in willpower.

16 – What in the fruit??? What kind of game is this that we’re playing here???

Moving On Up

It was Friday night, and Rob was helping me move the contents of my apartment into my new residence. This was officially an acceptable time for panic. The movers were slated to arrive at 8 am the next morning, and my goal was to have ONLY furniture for them to move. As my plan – which had been devised weeks earlier in the period affectionately referred to as “deluded beyond belief” – also called for the packing of NOTHING, we had our work cut out for us. Instead of “packing,” I had been carting things over in boxes, emptying them on the other end, and then returning with the box to do it all over again. This had been working quite well until it was actually time to be moved.

Despite the absolute UNFUN nature of this event, Rob and I managed to almost enjoy elements of it. At the very least, we didn’t whine or swear too much, despite our exhaustion and the valid reasons for it. By the time it was nearly midnight, we were too tired to carry on. The decision to sleep was made, with the understanding that we would rise early enough to make another trip to the new place, vacuum it, dissemble the bed, take the top off of the desk, finish boxing some things, etc. Clearly our fatigued brains were tricking us into believing that we could actually afford the time to sleep.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. For a short time, I considered the ramifications of NOT waking up before the mover’s arrival, but only entertained the idea with any seriousness for five minutes. First order of priorities: The pets. Second: coffee. Rob and I hopped in the car to make a run for our only hope of getting through the morning. Unfortunately for us, the chosen coffee source did not open until 6:30 am. As we sat in the parking lot, contemplating the locked door, we struggled to stay awake. This was seriously cutting into our preparation time.

Minutes later, we were back at work, only slightly impaired in our thinking. Efficiently, I closed various critters into cages and stacked them all in the empty closet, where they sat – frozen in shock and horror – for approximately two minutes before launching into a cacophony of whining protest that would continue through the entire move.

Rob, meanwhile, was hauling items out to my vehicle, which we were filling with the remaining items that we did not wish to entrust to the movers. On one of his trips, he was greeted by Strange Shirtless Neighbor. [Strange Shirtless Neighbor is a generally cheerful fellow in his forties who has resided in my former apartment complex for nearly a year. In that time, I have only seen him sporting a shirt a handful of times. Every other time, including in the winter, he has been shirtless. It appears that he is quite comfortable in this state, although I myself felt a bit awkward when he would engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he engaged me in conversation every time he saw me. This was particularly odd when we found ourselves together in the fluorescent intimacy of the underground laundry room. Strange Shirtless Neighbor has been monitoring my move with a great deal of interest.] This morning, his engagement with Rob was as chipper as always.

“Wow.” He exclaimed, noting the armful of things that Rob was carrying. “How much stuff can you fit into one of these apartments? Is she moving into a bigger place?”

Rob indicated that yes, I was indeed moving into a bigger place – a two bedroom.

Strange Shirtless Neighbor seemed pleased. “That seems more her speed.” Rob agreed politely, continuing on his way.

At 8 am, the movers arrived. Immediately Rob and I struggled with the age old dilemma: How to look busy while the movers are working – to avoid looking like slackers – while staying out of the way of the movers. We retreated to the kitchen where we proceeded to feel lazy and sympathetic for the second mover, a gentleman that I would – frankly – describe as practically elderly. This went on for some time, until the bedroom had been emptied and we escaped to that room, where we lounged on the carpeted floor. By then, fatigue had overtaken our concerns of appearance.

By the time we made the trip over to my new residence, Rob and I were consumed with hunger. Alas, we had no choice but to continue to accompany the movers. This we did, and once again we positioned ourselves in the kitchen. Our guilty feelings reinstated themselves as we munched on snack mix while the movers struggled up the stairs, heavily burdened with awkward furniture. The elderly mover grew very chatty, perhaps in an effort to avoid additional trips up and down the stairs.

“I bet you’re liking that kitchen,” he commented approvingly on one trip. “That’s a good one.”

I concurred.

A few trips later he paused to ask “You thinking of doing some repainting?” He had a smile on his face that suggested that I would be insane to NOT do some repainting.

“Well,” I replied, unbothered, “That IS the repainting.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Finally, the mover recovered. “I see,” he replied, at a loss for more words.

I tried to maintain a straight face. It appeared that my carefully chosen assortment of vivid paint colors did not strike him as a situation that one would CHOOSE to live in.

The movers continued their work, and – four hours after they started – they were done. Rob and I were surrounded by my material possessions, in my new home. We had additional work ahead of us, but first things first: It was time to retrieve the furred/feathered family, and it was time to eat. With those thoughts, we were once again “on the move.”

Notice Of Continued Life

I have not, my dear friends, disappeared from the face of this planet. On the contrary, I have been appearing all over this planet of late, particularly if we allow “of late” to include the past four months. Even if we limit “of late” to this past month, I’d likely show up on some sort of scientific planetary activity scan.

[Insert break for mental “scolding” and “refocus” lecture.]

Many of you are all too aware of where I’ve been recently, as you’ve been right there with me, sucking in the paint fumes. To those of you who have escaped the Paintathon, I extend a sincere congratulations and a reassurance that I will manage to rope you into some other taxing and very un-enjoyable “because you’re a good friend” job at some point.

Now I will take a moment to unveil the Painters Of Honor Awards:

Most Focused and Productive:

Tiffany Carlson, who unveiled her secret Super Painter status as the rest of us stared from the kitchen floor where we sat consuming pizza, awed by the flurry of tornado-like painter activity coming from a being that scarcely measures over five feet. Amazing.

Most Unflagging Energy and Undying Chatter:

Stacy Steyer, who managed to not stop speaking for more than two consecutive minutes at ANY point as she painted, and painted, and painted for two days in a row. Extra award of honor is deserved in recognition of her offer to help FINISH the job this weekend! Kudos as well for roping Mike into helping. Astounding powers of persuasion.

Most Dedicated With Simultaneous Whining:

Dan Philipp, who made the trek from Milwaukee to Madison on less than four hours of sleep (which we were NEVER allowed to forget) and for single-handedly not-quite-finishing The Green Room! It should also be noted that he lugged his painting supplies AND ran to the paint store for ADDITIONAL supplies when the need arose! His smiling, unshaven, sleep-deprived face was sunshine to us all.

Most Eager to Volunteer (coincidentally, also most inexperienced):

Britt Zeidler, who had never painted before in her life, and who painted only small sections of the ceiling (actual target: wall) in her painting initiation. Her positive attitude and willingness to take on any assignment was a boon to us all!

[Coming soon: The Movers Of Honor Awards.]

To sum up, I am alive. Surrounded by chaos, covered in bruises, calorie-deprived (a completely different story,) but alive. I am – once again – reminded of what amazing people surround me in my life. Why it took me so long to realize that I can ask you people to help me with things – and that it results in ACTUAL HELP – I cannot imagine.

Further proclamations to be issued as progress is made.

Mr. Sleepy Sunshine hard at work.

The happy newbie!

She's blue, la da dee, la da da, la da dee...

Tiff - The Master Paintress - Pretty in Pink

Song In The Key Of Now

Here I go again on my own

I don't think I can stay in the old house anymore

'Cause I'm moving on up


Wasting time's an aggravation. Got no time for confrontation.

I'm leaving here. I'm long away.

And I never lost one minute of sleepin' worryin' 'bout the way things might have been

Cause I'm free, I'm free


Morning has broken

I need to laugh and when the sun is out I've got something I can laugh about

What's on the other side?


I'll tell you about the magic and it'll free your soul

If you believe they put a man on the moon

Things aren't what they seem to be


But for a moment, all things aside, look to yourself somewhere inside

The future's so bright I've gotta wear shades.

The Boy

I am being punished.

The Boy Rabbit is refusing to speak to me.

This is not a new form of punishment. It’s happened before, many times. I am not – you see – permitted to leave him for any considerable length of time. If the length of my departure requires that I secure someone else to care for him, or – HEAVEN FORBID – that he be left with my parents, then I am punished for an EXTENDED period of time.

Last week, their uncle R stayed with them for 7 days while I was vacationing in San Diego. According to his report, they were well-behaved during this time. The Boy Bun – it seems – even allowed R to pet him. (This does not – frankly – bode well for me. It smacks of desperation, which I will pay for.)

Tuesday, in the wee hours of the morning, I surprised the pets with my return. As is customary, The Boy Bun was initially too relieved to disguise his pleasure at seeing me. Ears perky, he pressed up against the bars of his cage, watching me with bright, gleaming eyes. Unfortunately, this happy version of The Boy never lasts. By the time I woke from sleep a few hours later, his anger had set in.

I was greeted that morning with a grunt, after which The Boy Rabbit immediately dashed into his cardboard tube. As I dropped pellets into his dish, he peered at me from the end of the tube, his face ominous. It was only after I had moved away from his area that he came out, sniffing his pellet dish contemptuously and giving me “a look.” This I ignored.

An hour or so later, as I offered the bunnies their customary morning “good-bye treat,” he swatted my hand. This was a new development. I have – many, many times – been swatted at when delivering food or litter, or when adjusting items in his cage, but NEVER have I been swatted when I’ve had a treat in my hand. I was – I realized – in much more trouble than normal.

Since my return, I am watched constantly by a little brown rabbit with angry eyes. He glowers at me from a new favorite spot – in a basket at the far end of his pen, quite distanced from any hands that may attempt to touch him. My cheerful greetings are met with a disdainful turn of his rabbit back. When treats are offered, they are only accepted after an elaborate show that is meant – through the sniffing and hesitation – to imply that I am not to be trusted, and that I smell bad to boot.

He is an odd creature, my Boy Bun. I am – you see – the only one that he has ever adored (at least as long as I’ve had him.) I know this because there have been rare occasions, in the many years that we’ve lived together, in which he has let down this wall that he has built. He has snuggled his face into my neck, he has thrust his forehead into my hand, he has licked and kissed my arm as I pet him. I know that the anger that he feels when I leave him is based on the fear that he holds – every time – that I will not return. In these feelings he is, I think, like many people in this world. The difference is that he is so very open about it. He does not pretend that he is not angry when he clearly is, does not wait until a few weeks after my return to have a “fit” over me “moving his water bottle” or “leaving the roof of his cage open.” His anger – and the cause of it - is refreshingly honest.

“I want you with me,” it says, laying his emotions bare, “and if you don’t stay with me I will be angry.”

I can understand this, and – because I do – I can accept it. I am willing to spend extra time cajoling him back from his angry spot, am happy to give him the attention that he has missed in my absence. In a few days, after I’ve spent hours petting and playing with him, (yesterday’s bribe: Peter’s Hay Tumbler) we will once again snuggle happily together.

Until he finds out we’re moving.

I Can See Clearly Now...

I have been violated.

This morning, prior to The Incident, I innocently went about preparing my breakfast with care. I sliced generous portions of the healthy-sounding loaf of bread that I purchased last night, and I popped them into the toaster. As they toasted, I munched on an equally-healthy nectarine. The natural peanut butter and the locally-produced honey were retrieved from the cupboard, and when the toast jumped to attention I placed in on a clean white plate.

With pleasure, I watched the peanut butter melt into the warm, grainy bread as I spread it thickly. Taking a spoon from the drawer, I dipped it into the clear golden honey and drizzled a generous amount over the bread. Licking the spoon, I put everything away and carried my plate of delicious-looking toast to a chair.

With great anticipation, I lifted the toast to my mouth and took a large bite. I chewed, readying myself for the combination of rich and sweet that the peanut butter and honey collectively form. Imagine then – my dismay – when I tasted… FISH. I paused, my mouth ceasing all chewing activity, as my mind caught up with my taste buds. Confused, I stared hard at the bread in my hand. It looked normal, aside from the large missing mouthful that was currently resting – unmoving – on my tongue. Experimentally, I moved the food about a bit more. I definitely tasted fish.

How could this be??? Highly disturbed, I spit the offending matter out of my mouth like a toddler might. (I do believe – I must say – that the wee ones are often validated in this approach to distasteful foodstuffs. I fully support their actions on nearly every occasion.) Trying, unsuccessfully, to clear the taste from my palate, I retrieved the loaf of bread from the kitchen. “Eight grain whole wheat bread” it proclaimed, “omega rich!” This last bit now seemed – in light of my recent experience – suspicious. With narrowed eyes, I read the ingredient list.

And there it was. In clear black type, I read the words “cod oil.”

I don’t think I’m crazy to believe that there is really no place for “cod oil” in any sort of food that falls into the category of “baked goods.” I am – probably more than many people – an advocate of what we will term “health food.” I DO (obviously) purchase bread rich in omega acids. It seems – however – that it does not need to be SPELLED out that the omega acids in question should come from FLAX seed, not FISH.

Even if one WERE to sneak a bit of fish oil into something – as misguided as the action might be – one would have to be a MORON to use cod oil. Cod oil is about as subtle as a semi trailer on a road full of bumper cars. This bread was not fit for human consumption. I contemplated it for a moment longer, struggling to reconcile its appearance with the horrible truth contained within.

I would, I decided – setting the loaf aside, try to trick the squirrels into eating it later. With a sigh, I poured a bowl of cereal and munched it, reflecting upon my failure to notice this alarming ingredient when I originally made the purchase. It seemed bizarre. I distinctly remembered reading the label, yet I hadn’t noticed this ingredient, which was basically the equivalent of poison.

An hour later, as I sat at my desk still reeling from the fishy morning, I noticed a text message waiting for me from my friend J, my fellow life-contemplator. Opening it, I read this quote.

Losing an illusion makes you wiser than finding a truth.

-Ludwig Borne

Ah…. I thought, my mental wheels turning. Now we are getting somewhere. It seemed a remarkable coincidence that I was thrown violently out of my illusion of a delicious breakfast, only to learn that I had read – but not read – the ingredient label of the tasty – but not tasty – loaf of bread that I had purchased the night before. What else, I wondered now, am I living “the illusion” of?

It appears that today is a valuable lesson day, as distasteful (literally) as it may be. I will, I decide, welcome this. (Though I will NOT eat another bite of that awful bread.) As I move throughout today, and the subsequent days, I will endeavor to examine my life and my actions, searching for the illusions that do me no favors.

The next time I read an ingredient list, I intend to see it for what it is.

Gun Control

Man feels fine after being shot in head by nailgun
Wed Jun 11, 4:32 AM ET

A suburban Kansas City man accidentally fired a 2.5-inch nail into the top of his head, but says he now feels fine after a doctor used a claw hammer to remove it. The mishap occurred Friday while George Chandler, of Shawnee, and a friend were working on a backyard project.
The nail gun hose became tangled, causing the powerful tool to fire once. Chandler said Monday he told his friend he didn't know where the nail went, but he felt a sting on the top of his head.
Soon they discovered that the nail was driven into Chandler's skull, so they called an ambulance. He was rushed to a hospital, where a doctor used a common claw hammer to remove the nail, Chandler said.
Chandler said he feels "very lucky, very, very lucky" to have escaped serious injury.



I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

Upon reading this, I could not help but think “Wow. Men really DO have thick skulls.” How can the occasion of one’s head piercing – by a NAIL – induce only a “sting?” Good grief.

Perhaps even more disturbing, however, is the thought of the doctor using a HAMMER to remove the nail. That doctor is clearly a man. There is no way that a woman – upon seeing a nail imbedded in a man’s skull – would think “Oh – can someone get me a hammer?”

The scariest part of this entire piece is – of course – that it is evidence of the sort of people that run around using dangerous air tools. Does the thought of thick-headed men - who “accidentally” fire off nails into people’s heads – working on your home concern you? It should. It should concern you that they may be in your neighborhood. Consider: Some tools have pretty serious range, and some can cut big things (like trees) which can then fall unto other things… or people. Forget this “gun control movement.” We need to focus on the “handyman control movement.” Let our voices be heard – above the whine of the air compressor!

The Cubicle Chronicles: Tuesday Edition

By persistent - VERY persistent - request.

THE CUBICLE CHRONICLES
An Inconsistent Publication
2008 Series, Volume 1
Tuesday Edition
June 10, 2008

8 am: Have settled myself in my cube. My seat provides excellent view of main doors in and out of department area. This allows me to watch closely as tardy arrivals make their entrance. Take mental notes.

8:30 am: Have sent client emails, now leave cube to confer with creative director on customized web project.

9:00 am: Cube mate over short adjoining wall begins discussion of cherries on her desk. Programmer across from her suggests she bakes a cake. She states that she cannot bake; he expresses surprise as she is of Italian heritage. She insists that Italians cannot bake. I feel compelled to point out that there are a number of bakeries in Italy that offer tasty items. Discussion ensues and continues for 5 or so minutes.

9:30 am: Confer with graphic designer over never-ending torturous project.

9:45 am: Spend some time contemplating new exercise regiment and whether or not it is realistic. Have been “following” new regiment for four days and have failed to really follow it for three of those days. Nearly collapsed in yoga last night from muscle fatigue. Hmmm.

10:00 am: Listened to personal conversation in next cube. Something to do with looking for a specific color of iPod shuffle.

10:05 am: Decide to have a snack. Banana (gross – DISGUSTINGLY ripe) and yogurt drink.

10:10 am: Decide I am hungry.

10:15 am: Consider driving car home over lunch so that I can bike back.

10:17 am: Work on a project, decide I hate this project. Stare at the screen for a while to see if I can will myself to enjoy it. Decide I can’t.

10:30 am: Stop over at friend’s cube to chat about bizarre Twilight Zone that we work in.

11:00 am: Heat up a couple of Garden Burger patties to eat while staring at hated project.

11:15 am: Eat some bread, contemplate going for lunch. Stare at project.

11:20 am: Listen to personal conversation about availability of red iPod shuffles.

11:30 am: Check all email accounts. Decide I will definitely drive home to get bike.

Noon: Go home to get bike. When I arrive at apartment, collapse in fatigue. By the time I motivate myself to get up, do not have time to bike back. Eat a few crackers with peanut butter and drive back to office instead.

12:30 pm: Review emails. Read some recent news online.

12:45 pm: Have been sidetracked by website featuring multiple optical illusions and the studies/theories behind them. Stare at 6 or 7 of them intently, give myself a headache.

1:00 pm: Think about walking to Starbucks for coffee.

1:05 pm: Think about working on hated project.

1:10 pm: Listen to personal conversation in neighbor’s cube. Something to do with attendees of upcoming party, discussion of whether or not someone is a welcome addition, whether or not person on other end of phone is “still annoyed.”

1:25 pm: Decide to tackle pile of proofs on desk.

2:00 pm: Client meeting.

3:00 pm: Done with client meeting. Consider whether or not I am hungry or just bored. Ponder possibility of walking to Starbucks.

3:05 pm: Eat some cherries.

3:30 pm: Spend extensive amount of time looking up definition of medical term. Begin ridiculous amount of site-surfing in effort to find suitable definition. Give up.

4:00 pm: Obsess over amount of time left.

4:15 pm: Visit friend's cubicle again to discuss behavior of co-worker. Agree that behavior was innapropriate, as it involved much chest-thrusting and contorting of a female bosom in a male's face.

4:25 pm: Check email. Shut computer down.

4:29 pm: Leave cubicle for day!!!

Suck It Up

It is 7 am, and I am vacuuming my apartment before work. There is something very wrong about having to do this, particularly as it is not for my benefit but for the express purpose of impressing those who will be coming later in the afternoon to view my home. The potential new renters concern me far less than the presence of their management-related companion, who may exert some influence when it comes to the future of my security deposit. It is important, I have decided, to create the impression that I have only the highest standards of cleanliness.

The rabbits are horrified. The vacuum is known in their minds as the “loud and bellowing creature of mass destruction” that invades their space and threatens to eat them at any alarming moment. It’s bad enough when the vacuum comes out during a relatively normal period of their daily routine – say during the afternoon rest or early evening activity time – but this workday morning visit is an unprecedented trauma. They are frozen into little bunny fur balls in the corners of their respective cages.

The only one who appears happy about the appearance of the vacuum is Keats. As it emerged from its closet lair, his eyes lit up and he moved toward a mirror in anticipation. The cleaner “whooshed” into action and Keats began his Ode To The Vacuum routine. As a quick warm-up, he launched into a series of “Twucky, Twucky, Twucky” comments, which were followed up with a few little “peek-a-boos” as the vacuum hovered in and out of the back-of-couch area.

I move progressively closer to the bird cages and Keats responds by moving to the front of the cage. When I finally begin cleaning around the sides and bottoms of the bird homes, he screams the highlight of his performance – “Sleigh Ride” – at the top of his little bird lungs. This continues as I move past, ignoring his hopeful biting lunges toward the side of the cage.

Keats likes to play a game with the vacuum cleaner. The game, I have learned through harsh experience, is pretty risky. It came about during the ex-husband era. While vacuuming one day, my ex was inspired to hold the end of the vacuum hose up to the bird cage, delighting Keats no end. Viciously he yelled into the open end of the appendage, waving his head up and down and feeling brave and intimidating. After that moment, he would begin screeching in anticipation whenever the vacuum drew near, and my ex or I would obligingly hold the hose up to his cage so that he could scare it away.

One day, as I went about my normal vacuuming routine, I held the hose up for Keats as usual. He began his rant of intimidation, his head bobbing in time with the threats emerging from his small beak. Suddenly, before I realized what was happening, Keats turned his head in such a way that the force of the vacuum’s suction was too much. With a “THWOOOP” his little head was plastered to the side of his cage, the evil appliance doing its best to suck him through the bars that stood between the two of them.

After a moment of shock, I pulled the hose away. Keats sat for a moment, dazed, and in a slightly questioning tone let out a little “er-eh?” He seemed unsure of the actual occurrence of the recent events. I peered closely at him, leaning toward the cage. As I did so, he spotted the hose once again. “Ahhhhhh” he yelled, opening his beak wide. “Ahhhh….” This was supposed to be my cue to hold the vacuum up to his cage so that the game could begin. There had been, I decided, enough game for that day.

Since then, I sometimes hold the vacuum toward the cage but far enough away that there is no danger of Keats being consumed by it. The arrangement seems to work relatively well for him, as he leans as far forward as he can and yells viciously toward it. Today, though, there was simply no time.

Keats has lived with me for more than 8 years. In that time, his enthusiasm for many things about his life – particularly the vacuum - has been unfailing. In fact, I believe that he gets MORE excited about the vacuum each and every time it comes out. There is something admirable about this, something that I should no doubt learn to apply to my own life. I stare down at the appliance in my hand, probing my mind to see if there is any possibility that there is buried enthusiasm for it somewhere in there. I discover a bit of it, which I realize tends to emerge when I gaze upon a freshly cleaned floor in satisfaction. Certainly it’s no match for the adoration that Keats feels for it, but it’s a start. I can work with it….

Fortunately for Keats and I, there will be many opportunities in the near future to interact with the vacuum cleaner. My property management company has been scheduling apartment viewings like mad, and I am being forced to implement a grueling cleaning schedule as a result. This is – at least for some of us – worth singing about.

In The Garage

Each year, my parents spend a great deal of time setting up the garage to be a temporary Shopaporium – our annual garage sale. This event generally takes place in the fall to allow apples from the orchard to be sold at the same time. There are a number of regular customers who have learned to watch for the garage sale signs, and who return year after year to make their produce purchase. These people tend to peruse our garage sale selection, and – more often than not – make purchases. This is good. This is very good. The more that we can eliminate from the selection, the less there is for my mother and I to repossess.

We have a problem, the two of us. We’re well aware of it, yet each year we succumb to our weaknesses and begin a reclaiming frenzy as we unpack box after box. The problem, you see, is that we both have such lovely things. That is – of course – why we acquired these things in the first place. It’s even worse when we have to confront not only our own personal discarded treasures, but those that the other has chosen to let go of as well.

Generally, it takes a great deal of willpower (or disgust with the sheer amount of POSSESSIONS that clutter our homes) to bring us to relegate items to the “garage sale” pile in the first place. As the boxes are unpacked, and we are exposed to such delights as vintage-floral serving trays, plastic celluloid boxes, planters in the shapes of assorted animals, and much, much more, our resolve progressively weakens. And really, who could withstand such an experience?

Our unpacking of things inevitably takes an ugly turn.

Me: [Holding up a large mixing bowl] Why are you getting rid of this?

My mother: [Glancing up, one of my discarded shoes in her hand and the other on her right foot] That IS a nice bowl. [She spends some time examining it from afar.] I have too many bowls, though. [She returns her gaze to her foot, turning it this way and that to admire the fit of the shoe.]

Me: Well, I’ll take it.

I place it carefully on a nearby table. Moments later, I happen upon a box of clothing that I had purged myself of a few months earlier. I hold up a lovely purple sweater, and wonder why in the world I had decided that I didn’t need it. I OBVIOUSLY need it. Disgusted with myself for my shortsightedness, I place it next to the mixing bowl. As I do so, I notice that there are a few other things that have accrued there as well. Some of them I must have absently set aside. There is a separate pile of my mother’s hoard, one of my shoes sticking out of the side. Hmmm. This is not looking good.

By the end of the unpacking, the contents of one table tower above the rest. It is – of course – our “holding” table. We know this is wrong, yet find it so very difficult to part with any of our recent acquisitions and re-acquisitions. We stall for a while, then – grudgingly – we pull a couple of things off the table and place them out among the general merchandise. We feel very noble for doing this, and allow ourselves to celebrate by quickly moving the rest of our stash indoors so we don’t have to feel guilty when we look at it.

Unfortunately, the struggle has only just begun. For the next few weeks, one or both of us will sit in that garage for hours on end. Hours that allow us to gaze upon lovely items and consider the hundreds of possible ways in with they might be “repurposed.”

Me: [Returning to the garage after visiting the house for a break and noticing a vintage bread box wedged behind my chair.] What’s this breadbox doing here?

My mother: [Averting her eyes.] I thought it might look nice in a kitchen.

Me: WHAT kitchen?

My mother: [In a defensive tone intended to warn me to back off.] MY kitchen, of course.

Me: But you already HAVE a breadbox.

My mother: Well, YES, but I don’t have to use it for BREAD. I can use it for something else. It’s a STORAGE piece.

My mother and I have implemented key words/phrases into our vocabularies that are intended to justify the obtainment and/or retention of material items. By mutual and unspoken consent, we have agreed that these words allow the user to proceed with the desired acquisition under the guise of having a “good reason,” and that the other shall comply with the ruse. “Storage” is one of these words, as is “basic,” “organization,” and the phrase “layering piece.” If one is going to question the use of one of these special words, one had better have a VERY good reason.

Me: [Working to keep suspicion out of my voice.] Ahhh…. What – exactly – are you going to store in it?

My mother: I haven’t decided. Maybe bird food or something.

This was weak, but I had no choice but to let it go. A key word had been used.

Time would pass, and my eye would happen upon something that I had failed to notice previously. Things would heat up.

Me: [Picking framed print off shelf and casually sliding underneath table.] What are you reading?

My mother: [Clearly not fooled.] What are you doing with that print? I thought you didn’t WANT any more “stuff.”

Me: [Gazing nonchalantly at magazine opened in front of me.] Hmmmmm? What?

My mother: That PRINT you just put under the table. What are you DOING with it?

Me: [Glancing under table and appearing startled to see print.] Oh! That. I’m THINKING about that.

My mother: [Relentless.] What are you thinking about? You said you didn’t want any more STUFF.

Me: [Beginning to suspect that she is bearing a grudge over breadbox incident.] I DON’T want any more stuff. Maybe I’m going to take this print and get RID of something ELSE.

This – we both know – is a lie.

My mother: [In a tone of obvious disbelief.] Uh-huh. Right.

We are distracted by a customer. By the time she leaves, we have moved on to another topic.

My mother: [In a highly offended tone.] Can you BELIEVE that woman? She wanted to pay a QUARTER for that wall plaque. That plaque would sell in an antique store for TWENTY dollars!

Me: [In a tone of disgust that matches hers.] I KNOW. Idiot. That is SUCH a nice plaque, too.

My mother: It IS a nice plaque! I had that in a box for five years before I decided to sell it.

We both sit, staring at the plaque. We are clearly thinking the same thing – that the item should not be sold – but neither one of us wants to be the one to say it. I consider the options that we have for removing it from the sale items without it appearing that one of us is keeping it. There’s the “maybe I should give that to (insert friend or co-worker name)” ruse or the “we could make more if we sold it on ebay” ruse. Those are both options… Before we can do anything, a new customer has picked the plaque up. Without batting an eye, they pay the full asking price. We watch, a bit forlornly, as they leave.

Me: That was a nice plaque.

My mother: Yes, and they got a REALLY good deal on it.

Me: Yeah.

With a sigh, we return to our magazines. As the garage sale season progresses, items will be removed and returned to the garage sale at regular intervals as we play out our internal battles on the garage floor. Each time one of our coveted possessions is purchased, we feel a mixture of loss and relief. By the end, we have so exhausted and confused ourselves that I resolve – every year – that I want to become a minimalist. Returning home, I feel a strong desire to shed myself of material possessions. I pack boxes and boxes of things, which I store in my parent’s attic.

There they remain until the next year, when it’s time to unpack them for the garage sale.

Flexibility

Monday evening, Dan and I had highly admirable plans to take ourselves to a yoga class (very good of us) and follow it up with a healthy dinner. (Dan had not been made aware of the “healthy” portion of this plan, but I felt it would be unnecessary to spring that upon him before the appointed dinner time.) As tends to happen, Life decided to mix things up a bit.

I will admit that I had not been really “feeling” the yoga class. I biked to work, and it felt unusually difficult. This was most pathetic, as it is less than two miles each way. I can only speculate that this lack of physical stamina is a result of my insomnia and subsequent sleep deficit. Regardless of the reason, I was feeling tired and not keen on additional physical exertion. In his typical manner, Dan had set things up in such a way that I could not modify our plans without looking like a twat. He had – that very day – gone out and purchased a pair of athletic pants for the EXPRESS purpose of attending yoga class with me. (It DID seem suspicious to me that he did not own a SINGLE pair of athletic pants, but I could hardly search his closet to make certain that he wasn’t making this up.) Sigh. I was forced to resign myself to sticking with the plan.

At the appropriate time, I trotted off to my car and climbed in. Turning the key in the ignition, I was a bit surprised to find that the vehicle seemed reluctant to start. Sure – it had been complaining a bit about turning over for the past few weeks, but Rob had assured me just a couple of days earlier that my battery would last until winter. Was he ever WRONG!! Within seconds, the battery was completely dead. Even the interior clock tracked the time no more. I considered this for a few moments. Was the universe agreeing with my theory that I should take the night off? The more I reflected, the less likely this seemed. How was I going to relax with a dead car battery? Now I was facing – instead of a yoga class and dinner – a night of greasy engines and complicated thing-ys. What was this about, then?

It all seemed a bit odd to me. On Saturday, I had been in the process of replacing a headlamp bulb (that had been burned out for over two months… some sort of weird mental procrastination going on there) when the other bulb burned out. Yes – at PRECISELY the moment that I was changing the dead one. Strange? Yes. Out of place in my life? No. If it’s weird, and a “freakish coincidence,” it will happen to me. But – once again – I have digressed. At this moment, I had a dead battery to attend to.

I called Dan to inform him of this new development. After giving me grief for some time (he’s been QUITE full of the comments since finishing his classes and finding himself free to sit about and think of smart-ass things to say), he agreed to be my knight-in-dirty-Buick-mobile for the night. An hour later, we were climbing into The Bubomb. I adore this car. It is ancient – a white Bonneville that has seen better days, but they happened so long ago that it has since lost its vision. The white exterior is set off by assorted battle scars, and the engine and internal parts – much like an elderly person – engage in an ongoing litany of all that ails them. Stopped at a streetlight, the car may spontaneously emit a loud and attention-grabbing rattle or squeal for the benefit of those surrounding. This is – in my opinion – a delightful trait. As I climbed in the passenger side door, I admired the black gaping hole where the side mirror once resided. I’ve been working – for a while – on persuading Dan to tear off at least a portion of the front bumper. I REALLY feel like this would add a lot to the Bubomb. Happily I settled back into the cracked finish of the bucket seat. In cheerful greeting, the radio went a bit crazy as we pulled out – refusing to actual “tune” a station in and ignoring all prompts related to volume control. I sent a warm mental greeting back.

This car is made all the more enjoyable because it is a car that Dan CHOOSES to keep for reasons other than necessity. Certainly he could purchase a conformist car if he so chose, but he has not – thus far – chosen to do so. The Bubomb and he get on quite well. I like this about them.

After fortifying ourselves with a tasty Thai dinner, we began our battery-seeking quest. It did not take long – actually – to procure the object that we sought. Really it required only a stop at the Sears auto center. Still, it was clever of us to know right where to go.

Back at the ranch, we descended into the bowels of the underground garage. Lighting was poor, and there might have been gang members lurking in the corners, waiting to pounce upon us. (Or not. I may be taking some creative liberties here, but who’s to know for certain?) I popped the hood of the Ravis and we took a look underneath. Unfortunately, there was a large piece of plastic covering the battery. Even more unfortunately, it was held in place by some sort of torture device clearly invented by the Japanese manufacturers SPECIFICALLY to frustrate the American consumers. As I cursed under my breath and twisted, pulled, tugged, and pushed at the plastic pieces, I pictured the Japanese designers giggling in delight as they imagined this very scenario. (For some time, Dan was NO help at all. He was – actually – a bit of an ANNOYANCE as he smirked and snickered at my efforts. That all changed when I turned the task over to him.)

As we worked, together, through the process of changing the car battery, I reflected on the similarities between what we were doing and what we had originally intended to be doing. In either case, we were – undeniably – forced to be “flexible” – both in mind and body. I watched Dan contort himself into a bizarre angled position that enabled him to use his “stronger” hand on a particularly resistant nut. Was this how either of us had pictured our evening? No. (At least I hope not…) Yet we were in good spirits, and enjoying the experience for what it offered. I don’t know that I could say that I would have chosen that the night go any differently.

At the end, when we had successfully replaced the battery and closed the hood, I paused for a moment. I looked at my hands, covered in grease, and at Dan’s, equally as grimy. I smiled. Whether on the mat or under the hood of a car, life was ensuring that I attended class tonight. For that I was grateful.