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.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
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!!!
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!!!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
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.
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.
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