This is part 2 of 2. If you have not read part 1, this will not make a whole lot of sense. It is not - therefore - recommended that you begin reading of this segment without first reading the previous post.
___________________________________________________________________
I learned many things about my new companion. As a young bride, she had lived in Paris. Her husband had worked in many different countries after that, and she had traveled with him. This had provided her with many years and many experiences upon which to base her numerous opinions.
“Why everyone go to Paris?” She asked – at that point – looking around the plane with an expression of mild disgust. “What about Paris? I no like.”
She looked directly at me. “Americans like to fly.” She asserted.
“Oh?” I questioned mildly.
“Yes.” She nodded with emphasis. “Fly too much.”
At this point, the conversation veered back to Paris, or – more specifically – to the “French people.” It appears that my seatmate considered the French people to be incredibly rude and unhelpful. “Not,” she stated with a loud voice, “like Americans.”
“No?” I asked, uncertain of what she meant.
“No. Americans simple. You know?” She looked at me, clearly assuming that I DID know, being an American and all. I wasn’t sure of precisely her meaning, but thought that I would just “go with it.” It didn’t seem like an insult. She said it rather as if it were high praise.
I might have gone on to voice some sort of agreement, but realized that we were already on to a new topic: the grandchildren. I considered this: It did make a sort of sense, since they were first generation Americans. I slowly began to tune in fuzzily to her words, only to snap my attention sharply back to her when I realized exactly what she was saying. Surely she was mistaken??
She was telling a story – laughingly – about how much her grandchildren adore their father. So much, she said, that when they stay with him (he and his wife are divorced) they each insist on sleeping in the same bed with him at night. That alone was odd enough – but then she mentioned that his daughter is SIXTEEN and son is EIGHTEEN! SURELY she could see how strange this was?? But no, she didn’t seem to think much of it at all. Oblivious to my incredulous stare, she continued with her narrative. Now she had launched into a description of how affectionate her 18-year-old grandson is.
“When I leave,” she said, shaking her head and smiling, “he kiss me here, and here, and here, and here…” She pointed to spots all over her face. “He say ‘I love you [insert Lebanese word for Grandma], I love you, I love you. So many kisses.”
She smiled fondly at the memory, and then began to talk about how he has a habit of resting his head on his father’s shoulder and cuddling with him.
Hmmm.
I was feeling a little off-kilter. This seemed SO strange and bizarre to me that I began to wonder if I was the one with the warped view, rather than her. My mind just could not make sense of it.
Luckily, I was given very little time to think about it before we were “off” again – launched into a new conversation.
And so passed the flight, through the night, over the dark ocean and to a foreign continent. The plane landed in Paris, and – as we began the preparations to disembark – I wished my new friend safe travels. She looked at me, and I saw the concern in her eyes. With one hand, she reached for the back of my arm and squeezed it.
“You too,” she declared, in a soft voice. “You too.”
As I walked off the plane, I took a bit of my Lebanese companion with me. I felt – for a moment – sheer gratitude that I had spent those hours with her, that she had been my companion as I launched my solo journey. Stepping off the metal and unto the firm floor of the Paris airport, I sent a silent prayer for her continued well-being into the air around me. I thought for a moment, and then – for good measure – said a prayer for her seatmate on the connecting flight from Paris to Lebanon.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Flying Flock Style
The flight from Chicago to Paris was long – over 8 hours. Fortunately for me, my seatmate – a Lebanese woman in her 60s – took it upon herself to befriend me. Perhaps it was the fact that I was traveling alone, or the fact the we were both women… more likely, however, it was the fact that I happened to be assigned the seat next to her, and I was stuck there for the whole night.
She was already seated when I boarded the plane. I learned, later, that she requested special assistance at each end, and took her seat separately and in advance of the general boarders. This did not surprise me.
As I took my seat next to her, I could feel her inquisitive gaze upon me. I ignored her, as I was busying myself with my bag and jacket, and then fastening my seat belt. Settled in, I began observing the other passengers as they arranged themselves into their assigned spaces. My seatmate observed them as well, but not nearly so silently. Not – in fact – silently at all.
“Ah!!” I heard her exclaim as a couple claimed the central strip of seats ahead of us. “A baby!” They placed a baby seat between them. My new companion turned to me. “Is a long flight for a baby.”
“Yes.” I concurred.
She turned back to the other passengers. “Why,” she began in a disgusted tone, “so much luggage? Why you need so much luggage? What you have in there?” The question was apparently directed at a man five rows ahead of us, but he obviously did not hear. She turned to me. “Why everyone need so many bags?”
I admitted that I did not know. In truth, I had thought this myself – many times – as I observed passengers trying to outmaneuver the carry-on regulations by packing all of their belongings in the most massive “allowable” bags possible.
The woman shook her head sadly, but perked up when she spotted the next passenger boarding the plane. He was rail thin. Really. His waist could not have been any more than 24 inches around. He accentuated his slim build with a pair of the smallest and tightest skinny leg jeans that I have ever seen. These were topped with a tight t-shirt and blue and gray striped cardigan. His skin was deathly white (I think make-up may have been involved) and his hair – which was at least 6 inches long – protruded from his head in many artfully constructed layers and angles. He was a vision to behold, and I could feel the Lebanese woman practically vibrate with excitement.
“Is a man.” She hissed.
I looked at her, trying to determine whether or not she really believed that I might not have realized that, and she nodded wisely at me. “Him.” She gestured with her shoulder. “Is a MAN.”
I looked back at the Depp-esque character. He was seated, clutching his carry-on coffee. My neighbor, however, was not done. Her son, she informed me, was FRIENDS with “some of them.” She launched into a long and colorful story about the previous Saturday, on which she had accompanied her son to the local Wal Mart. There she had spotted a statuesque black beauty, resplendent in dress, heels, and loads of gold jewelry. She described this – and the person’s massive physique – with many hand gestures. Then – she informed me – her son had revealed that THIS PERSON WAS A MAN. She looked at me, eyes wide.
“Americans!” She exclaimed. “Strange.”
I did not hold this against her, as she had made it clear that overall she was fond of Americans. She did – in fact – spend two to four months a year in the states. Her son had moved to Louisiana, married, and had children. He was now divorced, but stayed put for his kids. This topic got more interesting as the evening progressed.
There were lulls in our conversation, during which I noticed the frequency with which she fingered what appeared to be a rosary in her hands increased. This was particularly noticeable during takeoff, as she also became silent. As the evening progressed, I could tell that she was developing a fondness for me. This seemed to increase her involvement in my life. She began to ask me a number of what might – to some – be considered personal questions.
When she asked who I was going to Paris with, I told her I was going alone. She stared at me for a long moment. “And that,” she pronounced, “Is crazy too.”
I was momentarily taken aback, but primarily because I appeared to have missed the first part of what was crazy. What was this “too” business? I didn’t have a chance to consider it for long, because she had developed a burning worry.
“You have muzzer?” She leaned toward me, her face nearly in mine, and clutched my arm.
Yes, I assured her, I have a mother. She sighed in relief and her body relaxed a bit. “You live with her?” she asked in a slightly more cheerful tone.
No, I told her, I did not live with her. I could see her begin to tense up again. “You live with family?” She asked.
No, I was forced to admit, I lived alone. She looked quite concerned and wanted to know how far from my family I lived. I told her two hours, and she shouted in despair.
“Ahhh!” She exclaimed. “Is FAR.”
I felt very glad that my mother was not there at that moment. I could not even begin to imagine what a force the two of them could be together. My seatmate then began a detailed description of her living conditions in Lebanon. The key point – stressed over and over – was that NONE of her family members (including her sisters and daughter) lived more than 10 minutes away from her.
Fortunately for me, there were natural conversation-breakers periodically throughout the night. Beverages were served, food was served, announcements were made, movies were shown. It was all commented upon. “Ah!!” She would practically shout, every time an announcement was made by the pilot, “We heard you!” She was especially put out by the fact that he would make his statement in English, but then repeat it in French. As he talked, she would open and close her mouth in an apparent imitation of what he might look like. I sincerely hoped, for his sake, that she was not skilled in the art of imitation.
There were regular flare-ups of worry on my behalf. When I revealed – after quite a lot of questioning – that I had been married in the past, she began a rant against the Mexican men that “married poor American girls” for their green cards. I should not worry though, she assured me, someday I would meet someone who would be good to me and I would fall in love. I thanked her and tried to look as if she had lifted a weight from my shoulders. I thought that she would appreciate that sort of effect.
As the night grew later and later, I would occasionally doze off. I had entered just such a dreamy state when I felt a violent jab in my right side. My companion had elbowed me to alert me to the fact that the thin spindly fellow had lifted out of his seat to use the restroom. “Did you SEE?” She hissed as he walked by. I had not only seen, I had felt. My rib was throbbing a bit. My seatmate, meanwhile, was shaking her head again, nearly overwhelmed by the state of the world.
[Part 1 of 2 – to be continued.]
She was already seated when I boarded the plane. I learned, later, that she requested special assistance at each end, and took her seat separately and in advance of the general boarders. This did not surprise me.
As I took my seat next to her, I could feel her inquisitive gaze upon me. I ignored her, as I was busying myself with my bag and jacket, and then fastening my seat belt. Settled in, I began observing the other passengers as they arranged themselves into their assigned spaces. My seatmate observed them as well, but not nearly so silently. Not – in fact – silently at all.
“Ah!!” I heard her exclaim as a couple claimed the central strip of seats ahead of us. “A baby!” They placed a baby seat between them. My new companion turned to me. “Is a long flight for a baby.”
“Yes.” I concurred.
She turned back to the other passengers. “Why,” she began in a disgusted tone, “so much luggage? Why you need so much luggage? What you have in there?” The question was apparently directed at a man five rows ahead of us, but he obviously did not hear. She turned to me. “Why everyone need so many bags?”
I admitted that I did not know. In truth, I had thought this myself – many times – as I observed passengers trying to outmaneuver the carry-on regulations by packing all of their belongings in the most massive “allowable” bags possible.
The woman shook her head sadly, but perked up when she spotted the next passenger boarding the plane. He was rail thin. Really. His waist could not have been any more than 24 inches around. He accentuated his slim build with a pair of the smallest and tightest skinny leg jeans that I have ever seen. These were topped with a tight t-shirt and blue and gray striped cardigan. His skin was deathly white (I think make-up may have been involved) and his hair – which was at least 6 inches long – protruded from his head in many artfully constructed layers and angles. He was a vision to behold, and I could feel the Lebanese woman practically vibrate with excitement.
“Is a man.” She hissed.
I looked at her, trying to determine whether or not she really believed that I might not have realized that, and she nodded wisely at me. “Him.” She gestured with her shoulder. “Is a MAN.”
I looked back at the Depp-esque character. He was seated, clutching his carry-on coffee. My neighbor, however, was not done. Her son, she informed me, was FRIENDS with “some of them.” She launched into a long and colorful story about the previous Saturday, on which she had accompanied her son to the local Wal Mart. There she had spotted a statuesque black beauty, resplendent in dress, heels, and loads of gold jewelry. She described this – and the person’s massive physique – with many hand gestures. Then – she informed me – her son had revealed that THIS PERSON WAS A MAN. She looked at me, eyes wide.
“Americans!” She exclaimed. “Strange.”
I did not hold this against her, as she had made it clear that overall she was fond of Americans. She did – in fact – spend two to four months a year in the states. Her son had moved to Louisiana, married, and had children. He was now divorced, but stayed put for his kids. This topic got more interesting as the evening progressed.
There were lulls in our conversation, during which I noticed the frequency with which she fingered what appeared to be a rosary in her hands increased. This was particularly noticeable during takeoff, as she also became silent. As the evening progressed, I could tell that she was developing a fondness for me. This seemed to increase her involvement in my life. She began to ask me a number of what might – to some – be considered personal questions.
When she asked who I was going to Paris with, I told her I was going alone. She stared at me for a long moment. “And that,” she pronounced, “Is crazy too.”
I was momentarily taken aback, but primarily because I appeared to have missed the first part of what was crazy. What was this “too” business? I didn’t have a chance to consider it for long, because she had developed a burning worry.
“You have muzzer?” She leaned toward me, her face nearly in mine, and clutched my arm.
Yes, I assured her, I have a mother. She sighed in relief and her body relaxed a bit. “You live with her?” she asked in a slightly more cheerful tone.
No, I told her, I did not live with her. I could see her begin to tense up again. “You live with family?” She asked.
No, I was forced to admit, I lived alone. She looked quite concerned and wanted to know how far from my family I lived. I told her two hours, and she shouted in despair.
“Ahhh!” She exclaimed. “Is FAR.”
I felt very glad that my mother was not there at that moment. I could not even begin to imagine what a force the two of them could be together. My seatmate then began a detailed description of her living conditions in Lebanon. The key point – stressed over and over – was that NONE of her family members (including her sisters and daughter) lived more than 10 minutes away from her.
Fortunately for me, there were natural conversation-breakers periodically throughout the night. Beverages were served, food was served, announcements were made, movies were shown. It was all commented upon. “Ah!!” She would practically shout, every time an announcement was made by the pilot, “We heard you!” She was especially put out by the fact that he would make his statement in English, but then repeat it in French. As he talked, she would open and close her mouth in an apparent imitation of what he might look like. I sincerely hoped, for his sake, that she was not skilled in the art of imitation.
There were regular flare-ups of worry on my behalf. When I revealed – after quite a lot of questioning – that I had been married in the past, she began a rant against the Mexican men that “married poor American girls” for their green cards. I should not worry though, she assured me, someday I would meet someone who would be good to me and I would fall in love. I thanked her and tried to look as if she had lifted a weight from my shoulders. I thought that she would appreciate that sort of effect.
As the night grew later and later, I would occasionally doze off. I had entered just such a dreamy state when I felt a violent jab in my right side. My companion had elbowed me to alert me to the fact that the thin spindly fellow had lifted out of his seat to use the restroom. “Did you SEE?” She hissed as he walked by. I had not only seen, I had felt. My rib was throbbing a bit. My seatmate, meanwhile, was shaking her head again, nearly overwhelmed by the state of the world.
[Part 1 of 2 – to be continued.]
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Spice Of Life
Ways to "spice up" one's life:
1 - Travel to foreign country, preferably with at least a portion of the trip alone, even better if you don't speak the language of said country.
2 - Include as many countries as possible in itinerary, preferably ensuring that each country speaks entirely different language.
3 - Overpack, thus ensuring even further difficulty in moving from location to location.
4 - Be vegetarian. This is most exciting in previously mentioned countries in which native tongue sounds like Klingon to you.
5 - Travel with all pre-purchased airline/train tickets under slightly different name than that which is displayed upon passport.
6 - The night before flying out of the country, accept new job. To increase excitement, agree to begin job the first business day after returning from trip, thereby allowing yourself only one day to make full recovery from trip.
My life, these days, has become absurdly exciting according to these standards. I have much to say on the matter, but won't say it tonight. Instead, I'll offer a few photos from my recent Tour O'Europe. MUCH more to come.
This is an example of why I loved Paris!
Part of my most recent art project... a series of self portraits. Very experimental, with some disastrous results that will NOT be posted.
Taken in MONaco, land of MONey.
And insanely beautiful, as well.
Taken in a TASTY tapas bar in Barcelona!! TASTY.
More photos will follow, but my new life requires a much more regimented schedule... this means that I have to go to bed. I'm actually a bit behind on my pre-created timeline. Sigh.
1 - Travel to foreign country, preferably with at least a portion of the trip alone, even better if you don't speak the language of said country.
2 - Include as many countries as possible in itinerary, preferably ensuring that each country speaks entirely different language.
3 - Overpack, thus ensuring even further difficulty in moving from location to location.
4 - Be vegetarian. This is most exciting in previously mentioned countries in which native tongue sounds like Klingon to you.
5 - Travel with all pre-purchased airline/train tickets under slightly different name than that which is displayed upon passport.
6 - The night before flying out of the country, accept new job. To increase excitement, agree to begin job the first business day after returning from trip, thereby allowing yourself only one day to make full recovery from trip.
My life, these days, has become absurdly exciting according to these standards. I have much to say on the matter, but won't say it tonight. Instead, I'll offer a few photos from my recent Tour O'Europe. MUCH more to come.
This is an example of why I loved Paris!
Part of my most recent art project... a series of self portraits. Very experimental, with some disastrous results that will NOT be posted.
Taken in MONaco, land of MONey.
And insanely beautiful, as well.
Taken in a TASTY tapas bar in Barcelona!! TASTY.
More photos will follow, but my new life requires a much more regimented schedule... this means that I have to go to bed. I'm actually a bit behind on my pre-created timeline. Sigh.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Parisian Adventures
Ahhhh... Paris. It is nightime here, which means that it is afternoon in my body's motherland. This is something that my body is refusing to let go of. It is not being a good sport at all, my body. It has also developed - on only DAY 2 of my trip - horrendous shin splints. I cannot see how this could have happened unless my body is being unreasonable, which I suspect is the case.
Yesterday I did walk quite a lot, mosying alone about the streets of Paris (not a single person tried to attack me, Mother, although I did receive an exuberant profession of love. Details will be covered in a later blog, when I can type at an acceptable speed on an ENGLISH keyboard.) It certainly wasn't enought to account for these shin splints, though. So that's another unexpected development. Those (unexpected develepments) have ABOUNDED already on this trip.
But back to my body's bad attitude. I'll admit that it did do without sleep for quite some time, but does that justify it falling asleep in the bath last night? I think not. PARTICULARLY when the bath was an appeasement effort for the whiny legs. Also - today when I was taking a tour of Paris, it decided that it was sleepy AGAIN and I ended up riding the entire route twice. (Not a bad thing, really, as it allowed me to see a lot of things and absorb everything in a way that I would not otherwise have been able to.)
I will write lots more when I am home, and post pictures. Now, though, I cannot take much more of this keyboard! Tomorrow I am scheduled to take the train to Nice, although I've been told that there is a rail strike! Hopefully it is over by tomorrow.
So much more to come! Stay tuned.
Yesterday I did walk quite a lot, mosying alone about the streets of Paris (not a single person tried to attack me, Mother, although I did receive an exuberant profession of love. Details will be covered in a later blog, when I can type at an acceptable speed on an ENGLISH keyboard.) It certainly wasn't enought to account for these shin splints, though. So that's another unexpected development. Those (unexpected develepments) have ABOUNDED already on this trip.
But back to my body's bad attitude. I'll admit that it did do without sleep for quite some time, but does that justify it falling asleep in the bath last night? I think not. PARTICULARLY when the bath was an appeasement effort for the whiny legs. Also - today when I was taking a tour of Paris, it decided that it was sleepy AGAIN and I ended up riding the entire route twice. (Not a bad thing, really, as it allowed me to see a lot of things and absorb everything in a way that I would not otherwise have been able to.)
I will write lots more when I am home, and post pictures. Now, though, I cannot take much more of this keyboard! Tomorrow I am scheduled to take the train to Nice, although I've been told that there is a rail strike! Hopefully it is over by tomorrow.
So much more to come! Stay tuned.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Conundrum Compromise
Current Conundrum:
I WANT to write. Really I do. I have things to say, and I want to say them here. Unfortunately, I am also tired (this tends to impair the writing ability, and also makes me think that I am saying clever things that I actually am not but generally don't realize until several days after I've posted something when I bother to re-read it.) Plus I have to get up early to meet friends for breakfast, after which I have to load the car up with the pets and all their accessories, then race to Sparta. It has been communicated to me (by the Maternal Unit) that it is ESSENTIAL that I arrive in a timely manner, as there are all sorts of apparently URGENT things that must be accomplished. (The urgency of these things is a TOUCH unclear to me as the agenda appears to include such non-life-threatening items as "pedicure.") Obviously, if I stay up to write tonight, I will be writing stupid things poorly, but I will think that they are brilliant and well-written. I will also be at risk of getting behind schedule tomorrow, which - apparently - would be VERY bad.
Solution:
I will still post, but will try to entertain you all with meaningless and random things that will not necessitate that I write. Photos are always good for this. Here you go:
Okay... here's a good one. If you like that blurry, "is-she-high-or-drunk" sort of look. For the record, I was neither. This was Becca's wedding, BEFORE we even got to the reception.
All I'm going to say is this: You haven't been to a party until you've been to an EIGHTIES Party. No, it is NOT fair to others that I posted a photo that does not include me. That's the way it goes when one has SUPREME control over one's own blog.
There. Does this help make up for the photo that doesn't include me? How does a photo like this even get taken??? Halloween, many moons ago. MANY moons ago.
That's all the lame filler that I have the energy for tonight. Maybe next time there will be some sort of logic or order to my photo selections - but that could be the fatigue-induced delusion talking.
I WANT to write. Really I do. I have things to say, and I want to say them here. Unfortunately, I am also tired (this tends to impair the writing ability, and also makes me think that I am saying clever things that I actually am not but generally don't realize until several days after I've posted something when I bother to re-read it.) Plus I have to get up early to meet friends for breakfast, after which I have to load the car up with the pets and all their accessories, then race to Sparta. It has been communicated to me (by the Maternal Unit) that it is ESSENTIAL that I arrive in a timely manner, as there are all sorts of apparently URGENT things that must be accomplished. (The urgency of these things is a TOUCH unclear to me as the agenda appears to include such non-life-threatening items as "pedicure.") Obviously, if I stay up to write tonight, I will be writing stupid things poorly, but I will think that they are brilliant and well-written. I will also be at risk of getting behind schedule tomorrow, which - apparently - would be VERY bad.
Solution:
I will still post, but will try to entertain you all with meaningless and random things that will not necessitate that I write. Photos are always good for this. Here you go:
Okay... here's a good one. If you like that blurry, "is-she-high-or-drunk" sort of look. For the record, I was neither. This was Becca's wedding, BEFORE we even got to the reception.
All I'm going to say is this: You haven't been to a party until you've been to an EIGHTIES Party. No, it is NOT fair to others that I posted a photo that does not include me. That's the way it goes when one has SUPREME control over one's own blog.
There. Does this help make up for the photo that doesn't include me? How does a photo like this even get taken??? Halloween, many moons ago. MANY moons ago.
This is not a happy face.
But at least I didn't have to wear this outfit!!!
That's all the lame filler that I have the energy for tonight. Maybe next time there will be some sort of logic or order to my photo selections - but that could be the fatigue-induced delusion talking.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Fasten Your Seatbelts
A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip.
~Author Unknown
Today I begin my 31st journey around the sun. What I find most disturbing, as I consider this, is how very spotty my memories are of the 30 other trips that I have taken. There are – undeniably – huge gaps in my recall. It is the celebration of the birthdays themselves that has made this painfully clear. I cannot, for example, remember any of my birthday celebrations – in any detail – before the age of 21. (And no – that one does NOT stand out for the reasons that you think it does.)
What the fruit? The more I think about this, the more feasible the possibility that I am actually an alien seems. Or perhaps I have undergone some sort of brain erasure/false memory implant procedure – like in Men In Black or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Hmmm. Actually, that second possibility is beginning to seem VERY likely. It would certainly explain why I am not independently wealthy right now, yet FEEL like I should be. If I am actually the rightful heir to a HUGE fortune, there would be a great many people who would want me to believe otherwise, and who would not only want me out of the picture, but would want to ENSURE that I stay distracted by this “other life.” Yes – I’m pretty sure I’m on to something here.
Tomorrow I shall have to hire an investigator to uncover my true past.
Since I can only remember a handful of my birthdays, it would stand to reason that in a fair and just universe those memories would be spectacular, to offset the disappointment of not having others. Unfortunately, this is not necessarily the case. Here, in order, the birthdays that I can remember:
1 – 21st Birthday, Calvillo, Aguascalientes, Mexico
I was in a bar/restaurant in a tiny town in Mexico (population DEFINITELY under 1000.) I was the only female at a table full of young men, and was one of two white people in the entire town. The beverages offered consisted of cheap alcohol cut with random substances intended to “flavor” the drinks. Somehow I kept ending up with something called a “vampiro” (vampire, for those of you oblivious to obvious translations) which was – essentially – salsa mixed with tequila. Enough said.
2 – 29th Birthday, Hubbard Avenue, Middleton, WI
“Girls Night” (AKA “Adios Rigo” Party.) Hmmm. That sounds kind of awful, in retrospect. Really a celebration of the first 365-day trip – in many years - sans a testosterone-ridden companion. A lovely group of women in attendance – women who faithfully honor my birthday each and every year. It was – perhaps – the first year that I realized how much female friends enrich my life. (Not that male friends don’t – but one could NEVER ever argue that they are at all they same. If one did argue it, one would be an idiot. Or an antagonist. Or perhaps both. Regardless, one would annoy me and then I would not want to spend time with one. Undoubtedly this one would be a male. See my point?)
3 – 30th Birthday, Ginza’s, Madison, WI and Sweeney Dr., Middleton WI
A two-day blowout. Well, one evening and one day, actually. Hibachi and a giant flame-lit beverage (NOT my idea, and no – I did not drink the entire punchbowl as requested.) The following day I was honored with a visit from the parental units. Even here, you can see how my memory fails me… Seems as if a number of details are missing from my recount. Sigh.
4 – 31st Birthday, Various locations, Chicago, IL; The Great Dane, Madison, WI; and Various locations, Madison and Middleton, WI
A full-weekend affair. I have chosen to include Saturday in the equation, because then it means that I managed to see nearly ALL of my favorite people in the span of three days. (Parental units ARE included on the list of favorite people, and will be seen at a later date. There is NO need to call with accusations of ingratitude and/or lack of emotional investment. Also included: Anita, the Colorado resident who should REALLY move back to Madison.)
Day 1: Chicago – My favorite Chicago residents – Becca, Nick, and Finnegan. A lovely day, with lovely company. I will spend much of this next 365-day journey visiting with them. New resolution.
Day 2: The Great Dane. A roomful of lovely and generous friends, who I cannot thank enough for being so fabulous and thoughtful. (Note: I hope that some of us learned – from experience – that it really is not a good idea to take photos of someone from six inches away. That is all I will say on that subject.) (Note 2: See included photo that is an EXAMPLE of why it is not a good idea to take photos from six inches away.)
Thank you to: Laura for being lovely – as always, Cathy for being clever – especially with the cupcake card (What are the odds???), Tiffany for being so thoughtful and cute, Stacy for her boundless energy and enthusiasm, Rob for being Rob (a plug-in part of me, what would I do without him?), Michelle for being so sweet AND for squeezing past twelve chairs in her VERY pregnant condition to make it to the far side of the table, Ted for his unflappable good humor, OJ for giving up ice fishing to be there (HOLY CATS!!), Katy for her smile – one of my favorites, Britt for making me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (like always!!), Dan for… well, it might be easier to try to think of things to NOT thank him for… so we’ll just say “for being Dan” and for providing the MOST FABULOUS, beautiful and delicious cake that I have ever seen/eaten in my life, and Mike for being the evening’s photog and for managing to retain a good mood despite Stacy’s constant antagonistic behavior. Crap. This sounds like an awards-ceremony speech, and not even a good one. Plus it got really hard to think of different descriptors (that were all equally good) for everyone… especially since you’re ALL so great. I’m going to stop now, because I’m practically spewing Hallmark card. Seriously. I’m starting to think it may actually be a blessing that I can’t remember my other birthdays, because look at what happens when I do!!! Obviously a mind-safety mechanism, this memory failure. Some sort of release valve.
So, on to Day 3: Various locations – A day of leisure, which felt very, very natural. SUSPICIOUSLY natural. (Once again – this confirms my new theory that I am genetically INTENDED for a life of leisure.) Spent the morning having “bird time,” and then met another of my favorite people for coffee! Doing so much in one morning was exhausting, so I recovered by spending over an hour on the phone with an airline representative who had an interesting obsession with name pronunciations. I lost count of the number of times that I repeated my last name and she parroted it back to me, giggling and making comments about how she liked name pronunciations (as IF I could have missed that…) Wrapped the day up with a lovely, lovely dinner.
If these past three days are any indication of what the next 364 days of this particular trip will be like, then I am READY. Best of all, I’m taking the rest of you with me.
~Author Unknown
Today I begin my 31st journey around the sun. What I find most disturbing, as I consider this, is how very spotty my memories are of the 30 other trips that I have taken. There are – undeniably – huge gaps in my recall. It is the celebration of the birthdays themselves that has made this painfully clear. I cannot, for example, remember any of my birthday celebrations – in any detail – before the age of 21. (And no – that one does NOT stand out for the reasons that you think it does.)
What the fruit? The more I think about this, the more feasible the possibility that I am actually an alien seems. Or perhaps I have undergone some sort of brain erasure/false memory implant procedure – like in Men In Black or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Hmmm. Actually, that second possibility is beginning to seem VERY likely. It would certainly explain why I am not independently wealthy right now, yet FEEL like I should be. If I am actually the rightful heir to a HUGE fortune, there would be a great many people who would want me to believe otherwise, and who would not only want me out of the picture, but would want to ENSURE that I stay distracted by this “other life.” Yes – I’m pretty sure I’m on to something here.
Tomorrow I shall have to hire an investigator to uncover my true past.
Since I can only remember a handful of my birthdays, it would stand to reason that in a fair and just universe those memories would be spectacular, to offset the disappointment of not having others. Unfortunately, this is not necessarily the case. Here, in order, the birthdays that I can remember:
1 – 21st Birthday, Calvillo, Aguascalientes, Mexico
I was in a bar/restaurant in a tiny town in Mexico (population DEFINITELY under 1000.) I was the only female at a table full of young men, and was one of two white people in the entire town. The beverages offered consisted of cheap alcohol cut with random substances intended to “flavor” the drinks. Somehow I kept ending up with something called a “vampiro” (vampire, for those of you oblivious to obvious translations) which was – essentially – salsa mixed with tequila. Enough said.
2 – 29th Birthday, Hubbard Avenue, Middleton, WI
“Girls Night” (AKA “Adios Rigo” Party.) Hmmm. That sounds kind of awful, in retrospect. Really a celebration of the first 365-day trip – in many years - sans a testosterone-ridden companion. A lovely group of women in attendance – women who faithfully honor my birthday each and every year. It was – perhaps – the first year that I realized how much female friends enrich my life. (Not that male friends don’t – but one could NEVER ever argue that they are at all they same. If one did argue it, one would be an idiot. Or an antagonist. Or perhaps both. Regardless, one would annoy me and then I would not want to spend time with one. Undoubtedly this one would be a male. See my point?)
3 – 30th Birthday, Ginza’s, Madison, WI and Sweeney Dr., Middleton WI
A two-day blowout. Well, one evening and one day, actually. Hibachi and a giant flame-lit beverage (NOT my idea, and no – I did not drink the entire punchbowl as requested.) The following day I was honored with a visit from the parental units. Even here, you can see how my memory fails me… Seems as if a number of details are missing from my recount. Sigh.
4 – 31st Birthday, Various locations, Chicago, IL; The Great Dane, Madison, WI; and Various locations, Madison and Middleton, WI
A full-weekend affair. I have chosen to include Saturday in the equation, because then it means that I managed to see nearly ALL of my favorite people in the span of three days. (Parental units ARE included on the list of favorite people, and will be seen at a later date. There is NO need to call with accusations of ingratitude and/or lack of emotional investment. Also included: Anita, the Colorado resident who should REALLY move back to Madison.)
Day 1: Chicago – My favorite Chicago residents – Becca, Nick, and Finnegan. A lovely day, with lovely company. I will spend much of this next 365-day journey visiting with them. New resolution.
Day 2: The Great Dane. A roomful of lovely and generous friends, who I cannot thank enough for being so fabulous and thoughtful. (Note: I hope that some of us learned – from experience – that it really is not a good idea to take photos of someone from six inches away. That is all I will say on that subject.) (Note 2: See included photo that is an EXAMPLE of why it is not a good idea to take photos from six inches away.)
Thank you to: Laura for being lovely – as always, Cathy for being clever – especially with the cupcake card (What are the odds???), Tiffany for being so thoughtful and cute, Stacy for her boundless energy and enthusiasm, Rob for being Rob (a plug-in part of me, what would I do without him?), Michelle for being so sweet AND for squeezing past twelve chairs in her VERY pregnant condition to make it to the far side of the table, Ted for his unflappable good humor, OJ for giving up ice fishing to be there (HOLY CATS!!), Katy for her smile – one of my favorites, Britt for making me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (like always!!), Dan for… well, it might be easier to try to think of things to NOT thank him for… so we’ll just say “for being Dan” and for providing the MOST FABULOUS, beautiful and delicious cake that I have ever seen/eaten in my life, and Mike for being the evening’s photog and for managing to retain a good mood despite Stacy’s constant antagonistic behavior. Crap. This sounds like an awards-ceremony speech, and not even a good one. Plus it got really hard to think of different descriptors (that were all equally good) for everyone… especially since you’re ALL so great. I’m going to stop now, because I’m practically spewing Hallmark card. Seriously. I’m starting to think it may actually be a blessing that I can’t remember my other birthdays, because look at what happens when I do!!! Obviously a mind-safety mechanism, this memory failure. Some sort of release valve.
So, on to Day 3: Various locations – A day of leisure, which felt very, very natural. SUSPICIOUSLY natural. (Once again – this confirms my new theory that I am genetically INTENDED for a life of leisure.) Spent the morning having “bird time,” and then met another of my favorite people for coffee! Doing so much in one morning was exhausting, so I recovered by spending over an hour on the phone with an airline representative who had an interesting obsession with name pronunciations. I lost count of the number of times that I repeated my last name and she parroted it back to me, giggling and making comments about how she liked name pronunciations (as IF I could have missed that…) Wrapped the day up with a lovely, lovely dinner.
If these past three days are any indication of what the next 364 days of this particular trip will be like, then I am READY. Best of all, I’m taking the rest of you with me.
Look at that cake!!!
And here we have it... THIS is why we generally position ourselves some distance AWAY from the subjects of the photos.
Undeniably a great success.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sooner Or Later
The sooner I fall behind, the more time I have to catch up.
~Author Unknown
I have a problem. Actually, I have a lot of problems. At this precise moment, however, I am most concerned with one very specific problem: I am a procrastinator.
I do not recall how I came to be so deeply entrenched in the world of procrastination. Did I always live here? It’s entirely possible. In junior high and high school, I never studied. I was the sort that didn’t need to. Instead, I would stay up all night long reading books – many of which featured half-naked men and women with faulty clothing and ill-fitting lingerie upon their covers. (Note that this was JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL. I have long since left such high-brow literature behind.) In college, I chose majors that allowed me to support this no-studying, much-reading habit. Still, I can recall having papers due – often papers that I had been made aware of in the first week of class – and not starting them until the night before they needed to be turned in. In fact, now that I consider it, I think that may have been the ONLY time I wrote papers – the night before they were due. For me, the “you must write this essay before you leave the room” sort of test was the very best sort, as it saved me from having to write that same essay right before the next class.
These reflections support the theory that I’ve lived in Mundo Procrastinato for many, many years. I’ve certainly suffered the consequences of it plenty of times. Yet I persist. Why?
Right now, for example, I am supposed to be composing two separate documents that are due tomorrow. What am I doing at this crucial time? Writing this essay, which will get me NO closer to having the documents that are actually DUE completed. Also interesting? I’ve known about this deadline for three weeks, yet have typed out nary a word.
Even more interesting? Before I could even begin writing this essay, I was suddenly struck by the realization that it was ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL that I change the colors of my desktop theme immediately. I was clearly not going to be able to do any work – or writing – with that teal color floating about. (Oddly enough, I’ve been able to live with the teal color for a number of months, and only now noticed what a hindrance it is.) Once I made this determination, it took QUITE some time to come up with just the right color combination to promote productivity. I think I have it now, but time will tell.
Recently – over the past few weeks, which happens to be precisely the amount of time that this project has been hanging over my head – I’ve developed the need to engage in all sorts of activities that are not this project. I’ve needed to do quite a lot of cleaning, and also shopping. There have been websites to research, and magazines to read. When I finally force myself to take a seat in front of the computer, I usually realize that I am FAMISHED and have to take a break for food. This has had the unfortunate side effect of contributing to an uncomfortable pressure from my ever-tightening waistbands, which – of course – means that I have to take extra time to focus on exercise. Or at least take the time to THINK about focusing on exercise. With so much going on, is it any wonder that I haven’t had a chance to begin these documents?
And now, it’s also clear that I won’t be able to begin any serious work until I think a bit about the nature of my procrastination problem. And – in order to do that – I will of course have to spend a bit of time looking up procrastination quotes online. That is a very good use of time, as it produces immediate results.
This quote makes me feel quite good:
“Procrastination is the key to prolonging life.”
~Anonymous
Why yes, I think, it’s actually an investment. How clever I am to procrastinate, and enjoy myself, while everyone else is preoccupied with deadlines. But then I continue on, and – as the quotes grow progressively more ominous – begin to have doubts about the above assertion. For one thing, if someone is making a medical claim like this one, shouldn’t they be willing to attach their name to it?
After that thought, these quotes seem to hold a lot more clout, unfortunately for me:
In any moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.
- Theodore Roosevelt
Put off for one day and ten days will pass by.
- Korean Proverb
The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what we want most for what we want at the moment.
- Anonymous
After all is said and done, there is usually more said than done.
- Anonymous
“Procrastination is, hands down, our favorite form of self-sabotage.”
- Alyce Cornyn-Selby
Well. This is just awful. It is clear that my proclivity toward procrastination is not one of my better qualities. In fact, after reading these quotes, I’ve determined that it may be one of my worst traits. I can tell you one thing: There is NO WAY that I am going to be able to work on those documents now – not with this hanging over my head. No, the path that I must follow is clear. I am obviously going to have to spend some time researching this fault of mine and what can be done about it. I’ll have to get on that right away… well, maybe I’ll have a quick snack first.
~Author Unknown
I have a problem. Actually, I have a lot of problems. At this precise moment, however, I am most concerned with one very specific problem: I am a procrastinator.
I do not recall how I came to be so deeply entrenched in the world of procrastination. Did I always live here? It’s entirely possible. In junior high and high school, I never studied. I was the sort that didn’t need to. Instead, I would stay up all night long reading books – many of which featured half-naked men and women with faulty clothing and ill-fitting lingerie upon their covers. (Note that this was JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL. I have long since left such high-brow literature behind.) In college, I chose majors that allowed me to support this no-studying, much-reading habit. Still, I can recall having papers due – often papers that I had been made aware of in the first week of class – and not starting them until the night before they needed to be turned in. In fact, now that I consider it, I think that may have been the ONLY time I wrote papers – the night before they were due. For me, the “you must write this essay before you leave the room” sort of test was the very best sort, as it saved me from having to write that same essay right before the next class.
These reflections support the theory that I’ve lived in Mundo Procrastinato for many, many years. I’ve certainly suffered the consequences of it plenty of times. Yet I persist. Why?
Right now, for example, I am supposed to be composing two separate documents that are due tomorrow. What am I doing at this crucial time? Writing this essay, which will get me NO closer to having the documents that are actually DUE completed. Also interesting? I’ve known about this deadline for three weeks, yet have typed out nary a word.
Even more interesting? Before I could even begin writing this essay, I was suddenly struck by the realization that it was ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL that I change the colors of my desktop theme immediately. I was clearly not going to be able to do any work – or writing – with that teal color floating about. (Oddly enough, I’ve been able to live with the teal color for a number of months, and only now noticed what a hindrance it is.) Once I made this determination, it took QUITE some time to come up with just the right color combination to promote productivity. I think I have it now, but time will tell.
Recently – over the past few weeks, which happens to be precisely the amount of time that this project has been hanging over my head – I’ve developed the need to engage in all sorts of activities that are not this project. I’ve needed to do quite a lot of cleaning, and also shopping. There have been websites to research, and magazines to read. When I finally force myself to take a seat in front of the computer, I usually realize that I am FAMISHED and have to take a break for food. This has had the unfortunate side effect of contributing to an uncomfortable pressure from my ever-tightening waistbands, which – of course – means that I have to take extra time to focus on exercise. Or at least take the time to THINK about focusing on exercise. With so much going on, is it any wonder that I haven’t had a chance to begin these documents?
And now, it’s also clear that I won’t be able to begin any serious work until I think a bit about the nature of my procrastination problem. And – in order to do that – I will of course have to spend a bit of time looking up procrastination quotes online. That is a very good use of time, as it produces immediate results.
This quote makes me feel quite good:
“Procrastination is the key to prolonging life.”
~Anonymous
Why yes, I think, it’s actually an investment. How clever I am to procrastinate, and enjoy myself, while everyone else is preoccupied with deadlines. But then I continue on, and – as the quotes grow progressively more ominous – begin to have doubts about the above assertion. For one thing, if someone is making a medical claim like this one, shouldn’t they be willing to attach their name to it?
After that thought, these quotes seem to hold a lot more clout, unfortunately for me:
In any moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.
- Theodore Roosevelt
Put off for one day and ten days will pass by.
- Korean Proverb
The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what we want most for what we want at the moment.
- Anonymous
After all is said and done, there is usually more said than done.
- Anonymous
“Procrastination is, hands down, our favorite form of self-sabotage.”
- Alyce Cornyn-Selby
Well. This is just awful. It is clear that my proclivity toward procrastination is not one of my better qualities. In fact, after reading these quotes, I’ve determined that it may be one of my worst traits. I can tell you one thing: There is NO WAY that I am going to be able to work on those documents now – not with this hanging over my head. No, the path that I must follow is clear. I am obviously going to have to spend some time researching this fault of mine and what can be done about it. I’ll have to get on that right away… well, maybe I’ll have a quick snack first.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
B Is For Becca
How I adore my friend Becca. (Note to other friends reading this: I adore you, too. Don't ever move away. Unless you already have. Like Anita, whose move I still have not recovered from. If you've already gone (like Anita), I must ask you to come back.) Becca left me for the city of Chicago. Okay... to be fair, she actually left me for her now-husband (who could - technically - count as another friend who left me....), who LIVES in the city of Chicago. Fine. To be completely forthcoming, his ENTIRE family also lives there. Still....
She left, and now I miss her. All of the time. Sure, I KNOW that there are such things as phones, and emails, but it's not quite the same. Actually, it's not at all the same. I miss deciding to see a film and ducking out to see it that very night. I miss mornings at St. Vinny's, and evenings in one of our apartments. I miss shopping, and dining, and laughing hysterically over things that make sense only to us. I miss being near her vitality. I miss her.
Fortunately for me, Chicago is still close enough to drive to (and back) in one day. This gives me a feeling of security. If times ever grow DESPERATE, I can hop in the car for my "Becca fix." For now, I think I'll just stock up on Becca in advance.
For your enjoyment, a memento from (C is for) Chicago, February 24:
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Public Thoughts
What if I were to tell my entire life story through the lens of the moments that I’ve spent in public restrooms? The concept occurred to me when I was in downtown Chicago on a Saturday night, inside a lounge called Crimson. Prior to my departure from the establishment, I visited the restroom, which was – on its own – the size of the “lounging areas” of most people’s homes. It was decadent, painted in rich colors with large stalls and many expensive glass mirrors suspended on the walls by silky ribbons. It was absurd, when you considered the sort of room that it was.
My mind flashes back to the public restrooms of my high school, rooms that I spent a lot of time in – especially for the purpose of avoiding spending time somewhere else. They were nothing like this. They were the perfect example of designing for the target demographic. As a high school student, my attendance in school was mandatory. The staff knew that I had to be there, and that I had no choice but to use their facilities while I was there. That – to them – was license to make the rooms into miniature torture chambers. The temperature was alternately steamy or frigid, whichever might be more miserable at any given time. The odds of there being BOTH toilet paper and paper towel available at once were minimal, and at least 40% of the toilets were clogged at all times. To me, none of that mattered. What did matter: There were no classes being taught in the bathroom. This made it a mini-paradise.
I remember moments in a semi-private public restroom a few years later. I was being hospitalized, and the bathroom was temporarily mine, attached to my hospital room. The first time the staff forced me to walk to it, a couple of days after my emergency surgery, the pain was nearly unbearable. It felt as if knives were being stabbed into my stomach from all directions, and I could only shuffle, hunched forward and clutching my walker with one hand and my abdomen with the other. I breathed heavily, pausing only to glare at the nurse walking next to me. She smiled beatifically, patting my arm. “Just a little farther, dear…” Once inside the bathroom, I sat, not moving, thinking only that I would never leave. I never wanted to endure the pain of standing or walking again. I planned to spend the rest of my life in that tiny room, but the nurse had other ideas.
The next year, I visited a restroom inside a “mercado” in a small Mexican town. It was an open-air market, filled with produce, blankets, clothing, butchered animals suspended from the ceiling, and booth after booth selling tacos or enchiladas and any number of culinary delights. The bathrooms were in the very back of the roofed portion of the market, and I weaved my way through the crowds to get to them. Positioned at the door, seated on a stool, was a very tired looking Mexican woman. She held a basket on her lap, and it was filled with small square bundles – toilet tissue. The facilities themselves were accessible for free, but if one wanted to use toilet paper, one had to purchase it. I did so, handing her my coins and accepting the bundle. As I walked into the room, evaluating the stalls, I knew that there were many in the crowd who would not spare the change for the tissue, and I could not help but consider what the alternatives might be… Did they carry their own with them? Did they save the single napkin distributed with their lunch tacos? Or did they just go without?
I think back now on the many hundreds – maybe thousands - of public facilities that I have visited. Schools, restaurants, coffee houses, theme parks, grocery stores, gas stations, hotels… Where does the list end? How many have I forgotten? Why do I remember the ones that I do? What if I really could revisit every moment of time that I have spent in these places? What other venue have I visited so consistently at every point in my life, everyplace that I have traveled, with every companion that I have ever had?
The public restroom is a paradox. It is a public private moment. It is a time that you are surrounded by strangers and strange surroundings, but completely, intimately alone with the thoughts in your head. Perhaps this is why the thought of revisiting all of those moments appeals to me now. Today, when I am so filled with questions, I would like to revisit every moment of the “real me” to help me reconstruct my self-portrait. I would like to sit, quietly, in the strange space that is not mine and be entirely alone with my self.
My mind flashes back to the public restrooms of my high school, rooms that I spent a lot of time in – especially for the purpose of avoiding spending time somewhere else. They were nothing like this. They were the perfect example of designing for the target demographic. As a high school student, my attendance in school was mandatory. The staff knew that I had to be there, and that I had no choice but to use their facilities while I was there. That – to them – was license to make the rooms into miniature torture chambers. The temperature was alternately steamy or frigid, whichever might be more miserable at any given time. The odds of there being BOTH toilet paper and paper towel available at once were minimal, and at least 40% of the toilets were clogged at all times. To me, none of that mattered. What did matter: There were no classes being taught in the bathroom. This made it a mini-paradise.
I remember moments in a semi-private public restroom a few years later. I was being hospitalized, and the bathroom was temporarily mine, attached to my hospital room. The first time the staff forced me to walk to it, a couple of days after my emergency surgery, the pain was nearly unbearable. It felt as if knives were being stabbed into my stomach from all directions, and I could only shuffle, hunched forward and clutching my walker with one hand and my abdomen with the other. I breathed heavily, pausing only to glare at the nurse walking next to me. She smiled beatifically, patting my arm. “Just a little farther, dear…” Once inside the bathroom, I sat, not moving, thinking only that I would never leave. I never wanted to endure the pain of standing or walking again. I planned to spend the rest of my life in that tiny room, but the nurse had other ideas.
The next year, I visited a restroom inside a “mercado” in a small Mexican town. It was an open-air market, filled with produce, blankets, clothing, butchered animals suspended from the ceiling, and booth after booth selling tacos or enchiladas and any number of culinary delights. The bathrooms were in the very back of the roofed portion of the market, and I weaved my way through the crowds to get to them. Positioned at the door, seated on a stool, was a very tired looking Mexican woman. She held a basket on her lap, and it was filled with small square bundles – toilet tissue. The facilities themselves were accessible for free, but if one wanted to use toilet paper, one had to purchase it. I did so, handing her my coins and accepting the bundle. As I walked into the room, evaluating the stalls, I knew that there were many in the crowd who would not spare the change for the tissue, and I could not help but consider what the alternatives might be… Did they carry their own with them? Did they save the single napkin distributed with their lunch tacos? Or did they just go without?
I think back now on the many hundreds – maybe thousands - of public facilities that I have visited. Schools, restaurants, coffee houses, theme parks, grocery stores, gas stations, hotels… Where does the list end? How many have I forgotten? Why do I remember the ones that I do? What if I really could revisit every moment of time that I have spent in these places? What other venue have I visited so consistently at every point in my life, everyplace that I have traveled, with every companion that I have ever had?
The public restroom is a paradox. It is a public private moment. It is a time that you are surrounded by strangers and strange surroundings, but completely, intimately alone with the thoughts in your head. Perhaps this is why the thought of revisiting all of those moments appeals to me now. Today, when I am so filled with questions, I would like to revisit every moment of the “real me” to help me reconstruct my self-portrait. I would like to sit, quietly, in the strange space that is not mine and be entirely alone with my self.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Pasaporte
Things to remember when leaving the country:
Clothing
Arrangements made for pets
Hold mail
Camera
Cosmetics
Legal documentation that allows one to actually cross a border
Hmmm. It all seemed so doable until that last bit…
Last week, nearly four weeks to the day from my scheduled departure FROM THE UNITED STATES, I realized that my passport is expired. Yes, expired. Seemed to have lost its validity last year, actually, which means that at any point over the course of these last 12 months I might have considered renewing it. In typical mutinous fashion, My Mind decided to “make things more exciting” by “not thinking” of the passport issue until the final four-week countdown had begun.
Sigh.
Clearly maximizing the wicked possibilities, My Mind chose to bring the topic up around midnight, thereby ensuring a panicked night that left no room for activities such as sleeping. This had the delicious side effect of rendering my looks as unappealing as possible, and also of “clouding” my head. Both of these qualities increased the entertainment factor considerably when I appeared at the post office to fill out my passport renewal forms, and was positioned against a door to have my photo taken. Rest assured, I was far from thrilled. My Mind, however, was having a fabulous time. It chortled and giggled in glee as it eyed up the strange female postal employee who sat – positioned on a stool in the center of the post office box area – and watched me like a hawk. It was THRILLED when I got up to the counter and was greeted by the lone cheerful postal employee in the employ of the USPS.
I have never seen such uncalled for happiness in a government employee. He practically vibrated with delight when he realized that I needed to have forms sent in, and that he needed to take a photo to include in the packet.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby!” he shouted over his shoulder as he cantered toward a door that I could not see. I was a touch confused, as we’d barely conversed, but moved toward the indicated area. He popped out through a door, whirled about, and pulled a white screen down over the door that he had just come through. Waving me over in front of it, he spent some time flipping switches and pushing buttons on a bizarre camera-like contraption. Finally, without warning, he held it up and it made a couple of clicking noises. “Meet you back at the counter!” he sang gleefully, disappearing behind my back as I stood in place, trying to process the experience.
Back at his station, he rattled off question after question, only some of which seemed to pertain to our actual transaction. Eventually, the questions stopped, and he vanished, only to reappear in moments with a couple of photos.
“Ooooh!” he exclaimed, looking them over with an expression of intense appreciation. “Are these for a passport or for Vogue magazine?”
With that, he slid them across the counter toward me, beaming like a proud father. I glanced down and nearly fell over, but struggled to compose myself. I looked absolutely insane. My hair was engaged in a battle of rebellion – apparently each strand for itself – and I wasn’t even looking at the camera.
Before I could comment, he stapled them to the form and slid them into the envelope, sealing it tightly. Just before he dropped the package into the bin, he looked at me seriously for the first time.
“You’re certain,” he asked with a somber tone, “that you signed the forms?”
I nodded, still fixated on the image that had been seared into my brain when he exposed me to the “photo.” It was only after he had smiled, once again happy, and wished me a good day, that My Mind made its move. Perhaps, it suggested, snickering slightly, I had not signed the form? After all, I had been so tired, and perhaps a bit panicked. Things like signatures are SO easy to overlook under those circumstances….
Clothing
Arrangements made for pets
Hold mail
Camera
Cosmetics
Legal documentation that allows one to actually cross a border
Hmmm. It all seemed so doable until that last bit…
Last week, nearly four weeks to the day from my scheduled departure FROM THE UNITED STATES, I realized that my passport is expired. Yes, expired. Seemed to have lost its validity last year, actually, which means that at any point over the course of these last 12 months I might have considered renewing it. In typical mutinous fashion, My Mind decided to “make things more exciting” by “not thinking” of the passport issue until the final four-week countdown had begun.
Sigh.
Clearly maximizing the wicked possibilities, My Mind chose to bring the topic up around midnight, thereby ensuring a panicked night that left no room for activities such as sleeping. This had the delicious side effect of rendering my looks as unappealing as possible, and also of “clouding” my head. Both of these qualities increased the entertainment factor considerably when I appeared at the post office to fill out my passport renewal forms, and was positioned against a door to have my photo taken. Rest assured, I was far from thrilled. My Mind, however, was having a fabulous time. It chortled and giggled in glee as it eyed up the strange female postal employee who sat – positioned on a stool in the center of the post office box area – and watched me like a hawk. It was THRILLED when I got up to the counter and was greeted by the lone cheerful postal employee in the employ of the USPS.
I have never seen such uncalled for happiness in a government employee. He practically vibrated with delight when he realized that I needed to have forms sent in, and that he needed to take a photo to include in the packet.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby!” he shouted over his shoulder as he cantered toward a door that I could not see. I was a touch confused, as we’d barely conversed, but moved toward the indicated area. He popped out through a door, whirled about, and pulled a white screen down over the door that he had just come through. Waving me over in front of it, he spent some time flipping switches and pushing buttons on a bizarre camera-like contraption. Finally, without warning, he held it up and it made a couple of clicking noises. “Meet you back at the counter!” he sang gleefully, disappearing behind my back as I stood in place, trying to process the experience.
Back at his station, he rattled off question after question, only some of which seemed to pertain to our actual transaction. Eventually, the questions stopped, and he vanished, only to reappear in moments with a couple of photos.
“Ooooh!” he exclaimed, looking them over with an expression of intense appreciation. “Are these for a passport or for Vogue magazine?”
With that, he slid them across the counter toward me, beaming like a proud father. I glanced down and nearly fell over, but struggled to compose myself. I looked absolutely insane. My hair was engaged in a battle of rebellion – apparently each strand for itself – and I wasn’t even looking at the camera.
Before I could comment, he stapled them to the form and slid them into the envelope, sealing it tightly. Just before he dropped the package into the bin, he looked at me seriously for the first time.
“You’re certain,” he asked with a somber tone, “that you signed the forms?”
I nodded, still fixated on the image that had been seared into my brain when he exposed me to the “photo.” It was only after he had smiled, once again happy, and wished me a good day, that My Mind made its move. Perhaps, it suggested, snickering slightly, I had not signed the form? After all, I had been so tired, and perhaps a bit panicked. Things like signatures are SO easy to overlook under those circumstances….
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Middle Of The Night Thoughts
Tonight, I was given a toy camel while I was out. It is a blue camel, which is a touch unrealistic. I suppose that a camel could be blue, but it would take quite some time to apply the color, and I doubt that the camel would care for it. Since camels are already notoriously temperamental, it seems like a bad idea. Shame on the toy creator for even introducing the thought into anyone’s mind.
Since I’m on the subject, I will say that I have been very troubled by the plight of the camel. As it turns out, camels have very good reasons to be so angry all of the time. For one thing, they are considered to be “beasts of burden.” The phrase alone communicates everything that needs to be said. For another thing, someone apparently thought it was a good idea to name a horrific solpugid a “camel spider.” This is most unfortunate, as not only is this creature frightful to behold, but it is neither related to camels nor is it a spider. It is more closely related to a scorpion… Many urban legends have taken off in relation to these creatures, and the poor camel suffers by association.
In other thoughts, I will say that I adore orchids. Someday I will have to write more about my fascination with them, and why I believe them to be some of the most interesting plants alive. For now I will just say that I adore them, a thought which was inspired by the beautiful bouquet on the table in front of me – a gift from an anonymous source. I have my suspicions as to the identity… Actually, I have more than suspicions.
Random thought number three: How old are the Larabars in my jar? I’m a bit concerned, now that I’ve noticed it. For some reason, I initially adored the gingersnap flavor, but then developed a dislike for it. Unfortunately, that dislike came about after I had already ordered an entire box of the bars. I’m pretty sure that they’ve been in that jar for quite a length of time. Hmmm. Do those sorts of things go bad? They are individually packaged…
And on to the next thought, which centers around pancakes. The thought is this: I love coconut pancakes. I like them with lots of butter, and with raspberry syrup. Heaven on a plate, really.
As you might have guessed, I should pretty much be banned from writing at this point. I’m “done for,” so to speak. I’m tired, I’ve been out late, I should sleep. I should not be writing. So I’ll stop here. Instead, I'll offer up this terrible, terrible photo. If you're interested, it's received lots of press on the internet. Much debate and "to-do" over the "scam" factor, etc. There you go. A little project for you. Good to stay busy, you know...
Since I’m on the subject, I will say that I have been very troubled by the plight of the camel. As it turns out, camels have very good reasons to be so angry all of the time. For one thing, they are considered to be “beasts of burden.” The phrase alone communicates everything that needs to be said. For another thing, someone apparently thought it was a good idea to name a horrific solpugid a “camel spider.” This is most unfortunate, as not only is this creature frightful to behold, but it is neither related to camels nor is it a spider. It is more closely related to a scorpion… Many urban legends have taken off in relation to these creatures, and the poor camel suffers by association.
In other thoughts, I will say that I adore orchids. Someday I will have to write more about my fascination with them, and why I believe them to be some of the most interesting plants alive. For now I will just say that I adore them, a thought which was inspired by the beautiful bouquet on the table in front of me – a gift from an anonymous source. I have my suspicions as to the identity… Actually, I have more than suspicions.
Random thought number three: How old are the Larabars in my jar? I’m a bit concerned, now that I’ve noticed it. For some reason, I initially adored the gingersnap flavor, but then developed a dislike for it. Unfortunately, that dislike came about after I had already ordered an entire box of the bars. I’m pretty sure that they’ve been in that jar for quite a length of time. Hmmm. Do those sorts of things go bad? They are individually packaged…
And on to the next thought, which centers around pancakes. The thought is this: I love coconut pancakes. I like them with lots of butter, and with raspberry syrup. Heaven on a plate, really.
As you might have guessed, I should pretty much be banned from writing at this point. I’m “done for,” so to speak. I’m tired, I’ve been out late, I should sleep. I should not be writing. So I’ll stop here. Instead, I'll offer up this terrible, terrible photo. If you're interested, it's received lots of press on the internet. Much debate and "to-do" over the "scam" factor, etc. There you go. A little project for you. Good to stay busy, you know...
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Inspired Taste
This evening, I watched the film Amelie for the first time. Yes – I agree – it is shocking. I should have seen it YEARS ago when everyone else was watching it, but I must have been busy. Better late than never…and yes, this IS one of the situations in which that cliché actually applies. Anyhoo…. The film (as usual) provoked some thought – and perhaps a bit of inspiration. Lucky for you, I’m keeping it lighthearted, since I’m starting to get sleepy and cannot tax my brain with heavy thought.
And with that prelude I present: The Amelie-Inspired List of Likes and Dislikes, compiled on the spur-of-the-moment with only those likes and dislikes that are top of mind. This should NOT be confused with a Well-Thought-Out List of Likes and Dislikes.
Some Of My Dislikes:
The sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant. Very nearly breaks my heart every time.
Hems that drag on the ground.
The intense fear of being labeled “intolerant” or “close-minded” that prevents people from voicing and/or acting their true beliefs, and that often leads to the “loudest party” prevailing.
Designer dog breeds.
Bike paths that are supposedly many miles long, but that require extensive biking across such barriers as busy streets, sidewalks, lawns, forests, and parks in order to reach each section of the trail.
Some Of My Likes:
The giggles of babies.
The foam on the top of a latte, especially if the barista has taken extra care with it. Once my foam had the shape of a lovely leaf floating in it… That was nice.
The scents of horses, and of horse-related things. All of them. Yep - ALL.
Angry birds. There is something so adorable in the way that their bodies vibrate in fury. Also adorable: Angry birds swooping at you; angry birds narrowing their pupils at you; angry birds shouting at you in unintelligible angry bird noises.
The feeling of snuggling into a bed, under the covers, surrounded by pillows, with the knowledge that you do not have to get up at any specific time. The feel of the mattress underneath your tired body, and the release as you let your muscles sink into it.
Hamsters.
Hamster stomachs.
Hamster feet.
Hamster eyes.
Hamster tails.
And with that prelude I present: The Amelie-Inspired List of Likes and Dislikes, compiled on the spur-of-the-moment with only those likes and dislikes that are top of mind. This should NOT be confused with a Well-Thought-Out List of Likes and Dislikes.
Some Of My Dislikes:
The sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant. Very nearly breaks my heart every time.
Hems that drag on the ground.
The intense fear of being labeled “intolerant” or “close-minded” that prevents people from voicing and/or acting their true beliefs, and that often leads to the “loudest party” prevailing.
Designer dog breeds.
Bike paths that are supposedly many miles long, but that require extensive biking across such barriers as busy streets, sidewalks, lawns, forests, and parks in order to reach each section of the trail.
Some Of My Likes:
The giggles of babies.
The foam on the top of a latte, especially if the barista has taken extra care with it. Once my foam had the shape of a lovely leaf floating in it… That was nice.
The scents of horses, and of horse-related things. All of them. Yep - ALL.
Angry birds. There is something so adorable in the way that their bodies vibrate in fury. Also adorable: Angry birds swooping at you; angry birds narrowing their pupils at you; angry birds shouting at you in unintelligible angry bird noises.
The feeling of snuggling into a bed, under the covers, surrounded by pillows, with the knowledge that you do not have to get up at any specific time. The feel of the mattress underneath your tired body, and the release as you let your muscles sink into it.
Hamsters.
Hamster stomachs.
Hamster feet.
Hamster eyes.
Hamster tails.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Facing Upward
It is a given that those who regularly practice yoga will encounter poses that are particularly challenging. These poses are not necessarily challenging in and of themselves, but are – for one reason or another – difficult for this person to express. If one practices yoga long enough, one generally learns that those are usually the poses that are the most needed, and that – by working through the difficulties that the pose presents – one “works” through a parallel challenge in life. Yoga teaches many things, and flexibility of mind and spirit is one of them.
For many years, I hated the pose commonly known as Upward Facing Dog. This was incredibly unfortunate, as the yoga that I choose to practice incorporates Upward Dog after Upward Dog into a typical class. I might easily find myself in the pose more than 20 times an hour. Each time, I felt irritation rising in my consciousness. It seemed to match the speed with which pain rose into my lower back, and I would feel spasms of annoyance express themselves in my wrists. The position that my body was in – feet pressing into the ground, legs lifted off the floor, wrists pushing into the ground, back and neck arched – was nothing but uncomfortable. As I watched the instructor, waiting impatiently for the cue to leave this pose behind, I thought of nothing but my discomfort.
I was foolish. This pose would never go away, and I was choosing to suffer in it every time. It is an essential part of the Sun Salutation, which is incorporated into nearly every yoga class that I have ever attended and will ever attend. Still, I persisted in my mental belligerence. I did not explore the pose, but resisted it. And then – last year - I stopped resisting. I don’t know what prompted it, but I do know that – for the first time – I stopped thinking of what I did not like about the pose and instead allowed myself to feel the elements of the position that felt good. I dropped my shoulders, and felt my neck lengthen toward the sky. I pressed my hands firmly into the floor and pressed my chest even more firmly toward the front of the room. As I adjusted, I felt what the yogis describe as “an opening of the heart.” I suddenly felt light, and as I lifted my body up and forward, I felt my emotions lift to meet it – much as the pain had previously matched my mental state.
For months, Upward Dog was one of my favorite poses. Each time I was in it, it felt so soothing and uplifting that it became therapeutic. The sudden ease with which the pose came to me was almost confusing. I began to long for the pose, and to move eagerly into it during class, happily flowing through vinyasa after vinyasa.
As my practice evolved, other things evolved as well. Near the end of the year, Juliet – my dog – grew very ill. As her body weakened, she became unable to carry her own weight up the stairs after going outside. I began to carry her – not an easy feat, as her weight generally hovered around 70 lbs. She continued to weaken, and soon needed to be carried both up and down the stairs.
I feared losing her, but – even more – I feared failing her. I could not bear the thought of her life being anything less than all that it could have been, and I became obsessed with thoughts of “what I might have done differently,” or whether or not “she was happy.” She began to receive treats anytime she lifted her head, and her diet became primarily canned food – a luxury previously denied her to keep her at a “healthy weight” with “healthy teeth.” These long-term goals no longer applied, and I had lost my measurements of “good pet ownership.” I had endeavored to keep her healthy – above all else – and that was the one thing that I could no longer do.
One day, as we stood at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet stopped in front of my feet, waiting. I crouched down, as had become my habit, and settled her onto my knees. As I did so, I placed an arm underneath her chest and the other behind her back legs. I pushed my chest forward and into her body, and dropped my shoulders. As I tightened my back muscles, I straightened my legs and lifted Juliet into the air. Only then, as I maintained my posture and looked up the stairs toward the top, did I realize that I was duplicating the forward and upward motion of Upward Dog. At the same time I was – very literally – carrying my own dog upward, toward the safety of the home that she knew.
It seems odd that I would master this pose after six years, just in time for it to manifest itself in such a tangible and undeniable manner in my daily life. I had changed my perception of it – I allowed for the possibility that it was something other than what I had believed it to be – and it became so much more than a position. I considered this, and I considered the other beliefs and perceptions that I found challenging. My notion of what “happiness” is, for example… It would be impossible for Juliet to share the same idea. It is probable that dogs are incapable of even grasping a concept like “happiness.” This is what Juliet knew: She was hungry, and she was fed; she was tired, and she was given a bed; she needed to go outside, and she was carried out. Now she knew that she would be taken home, and she trusted in my arms to take her there.
Why was I struggling with the “pose” of “Juliet’s owner” in the vinyasa of my life? When I began the “class” with Juliet – when I accepted the role and adopted her into my life – it was with the understanding that this particular “pose” would come at the end. Yet I was resisting, I was questioning, I was trying to “be anywhere” but where I was. I was – once again – being belligerent.
Now, with Juliet in my arms, I lifted upward, step after step. With each footfall, I let the resistance slip away. This was my pose, and I would learn to embrace it. There would be discomfort, and there would be pain, but it was a part of the practice and would not last. I felt Juliet’s weight, and I felt my arms support it. I felt my back brace against it, and I felt my heart move forward and into it.
For many years, I hated the pose commonly known as Upward Facing Dog. This was incredibly unfortunate, as the yoga that I choose to practice incorporates Upward Dog after Upward Dog into a typical class. I might easily find myself in the pose more than 20 times an hour. Each time, I felt irritation rising in my consciousness. It seemed to match the speed with which pain rose into my lower back, and I would feel spasms of annoyance express themselves in my wrists. The position that my body was in – feet pressing into the ground, legs lifted off the floor, wrists pushing into the ground, back and neck arched – was nothing but uncomfortable. As I watched the instructor, waiting impatiently for the cue to leave this pose behind, I thought of nothing but my discomfort.
I was foolish. This pose would never go away, and I was choosing to suffer in it every time. It is an essential part of the Sun Salutation, which is incorporated into nearly every yoga class that I have ever attended and will ever attend. Still, I persisted in my mental belligerence. I did not explore the pose, but resisted it. And then – last year - I stopped resisting. I don’t know what prompted it, but I do know that – for the first time – I stopped thinking of what I did not like about the pose and instead allowed myself to feel the elements of the position that felt good. I dropped my shoulders, and felt my neck lengthen toward the sky. I pressed my hands firmly into the floor and pressed my chest even more firmly toward the front of the room. As I adjusted, I felt what the yogis describe as “an opening of the heart.” I suddenly felt light, and as I lifted my body up and forward, I felt my emotions lift to meet it – much as the pain had previously matched my mental state.
For months, Upward Dog was one of my favorite poses. Each time I was in it, it felt so soothing and uplifting that it became therapeutic. The sudden ease with which the pose came to me was almost confusing. I began to long for the pose, and to move eagerly into it during class, happily flowing through vinyasa after vinyasa.
As my practice evolved, other things evolved as well. Near the end of the year, Juliet – my dog – grew very ill. As her body weakened, she became unable to carry her own weight up the stairs after going outside. I began to carry her – not an easy feat, as her weight generally hovered around 70 lbs. She continued to weaken, and soon needed to be carried both up and down the stairs.
I feared losing her, but – even more – I feared failing her. I could not bear the thought of her life being anything less than all that it could have been, and I became obsessed with thoughts of “what I might have done differently,” or whether or not “she was happy.” She began to receive treats anytime she lifted her head, and her diet became primarily canned food – a luxury previously denied her to keep her at a “healthy weight” with “healthy teeth.” These long-term goals no longer applied, and I had lost my measurements of “good pet ownership.” I had endeavored to keep her healthy – above all else – and that was the one thing that I could no longer do.
One day, as we stood at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet stopped in front of my feet, waiting. I crouched down, as had become my habit, and settled her onto my knees. As I did so, I placed an arm underneath her chest and the other behind her back legs. I pushed my chest forward and into her body, and dropped my shoulders. As I tightened my back muscles, I straightened my legs and lifted Juliet into the air. Only then, as I maintained my posture and looked up the stairs toward the top, did I realize that I was duplicating the forward and upward motion of Upward Dog. At the same time I was – very literally – carrying my own dog upward, toward the safety of the home that she knew.
It seems odd that I would master this pose after six years, just in time for it to manifest itself in such a tangible and undeniable manner in my daily life. I had changed my perception of it – I allowed for the possibility that it was something other than what I had believed it to be – and it became so much more than a position. I considered this, and I considered the other beliefs and perceptions that I found challenging. My notion of what “happiness” is, for example… It would be impossible for Juliet to share the same idea. It is probable that dogs are incapable of even grasping a concept like “happiness.” This is what Juliet knew: She was hungry, and she was fed; she was tired, and she was given a bed; she needed to go outside, and she was carried out. Now she knew that she would be taken home, and she trusted in my arms to take her there.
Why was I struggling with the “pose” of “Juliet’s owner” in the vinyasa of my life? When I began the “class” with Juliet – when I accepted the role and adopted her into my life – it was with the understanding that this particular “pose” would come at the end. Yet I was resisting, I was questioning, I was trying to “be anywhere” but where I was. I was – once again – being belligerent.
Now, with Juliet in my arms, I lifted upward, step after step. With each footfall, I let the resistance slip away. This was my pose, and I would learn to embrace it. There would be discomfort, and there would be pain, but it was a part of the practice and would not last. I felt Juliet’s weight, and I felt my arms support it. I felt my back brace against it, and I felt my heart move forward and into it.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Foreign Language
When I met R, his grasp of the English language was…shall we say… “limited.” I believe that it could be captured in the following two phrases:
“sings ahh mek ahh say shooom” and “No English”
The latter of these was quite obvious. The first a bit more mysterious… until I realized that it was what the Spanish-speaking crowd believed to be the chorus of a popular song at the time: “Things that make you go hmmmm.” This phrase was incredibly popular among all the young Mexican men at the time, and it was used liberally – generally with the result of bewilderment on the part of the English-speaking conversation partner.
As our relationship developed, I became R’s English instructor. It worked quite well, for the most part. He developed a mastery of the language that would later allow him to take upper education courses in his second language rather than his first. Sadly, in learning the language directly from me, and later my family, he had no way of knowing when we were using “legitimate” words, and when we were being nonsensical. This proved to be unfortunate.
Periodically, I was struck by what I had done. Take, for example, the day that I was attempting to emphasize the extreme hurry that we were in to get ready and out the door for an important engagement.
“We are,” I stated, as we walked toward the house, “in a hurry.”
“A hurry?” he repeated.
“Yes.” I said firmly, opening the sliding glass door. “We are in a BIG hurry. We NEED to get going.”
“Uh-huh.” He acknowledged, as we stepped through.
I suspected that he might not grasp the importance.
“We are,” I repeated, with much stress on each word, “talking MA-JOR hurry.”
An awareness spread across his face.
“Aaaahhhh…” he breathed, finally understanding, “We’re talking MAJOR TWUNKA.”
For a moment, I was taken aback. I paused in my tracks, then – my decision made – moved steadily forward. “Yes,” I affirmed, deciding this was no time to get into the ‘nuances’ of the language. “We are talking major twunka.”
“Major twunka” had – apparently – been incorporated into R’s vocabulary right along with all the other nouns, verbs, adverbs, etc. The tragedy of the situation was, of course, that no one outside of our family had any idea of what he could be referring to. It was actually quite clever, I realized, the way that he had worked it all out…
“Twunk,” or “Mr. Twunk,” was what we called our pet Guinea pig. My mother, brother, and I all adored the pig, and we never refrained from telling him so.
“You,” we would declare, eyeing his bulging black belly, “Are SUCH a Twunk. You are a FINE swine. What a pig.”
Another one of us would chip in. “We are talking TWUNKA.”
“Yes!” we agreed, interchangeably, “We are talking MAJOR TWUNKA!”
By listening to many variations of this conversation, R deduced that “major twunka” was essentially a handy superlative phrase. If it applied to pigs, it must apply to any situation that required particular emphasis. And so he used it…
I cannot recall if I ever remembered to clarify the roots of the “major twunka” phrase. In later years, I reflected upon this and wondered if – as he went about his life – he continued to pepper his conversation with it.
“R,” I imagined an employer saying to him. “We need that piece finished – ASAP!”
“Yep,” I heard R concur in my head. “It’s coming right up - we’re talking major twunka.”
In later years, the incidents declined but never ceased. When I began kickboxing, I would often – at home – dance around in circles around R, bobbing and weaving and calling out the names of punches as I hit at the air around him. He absorbed it all, learning…until the day that he began play-boxing around me. As he moved his arm up in an approximation of an uppercut, he yelled out what he’d heard when I punched at him.
“Apricot!” he shouted, and bounced around on his feet. “Apricot, apricot!”
I doubled over in laughter. Had I been in a real fight, I would have been a goner. Perhaps, I think now, there was some genius to his method. Forget “talking smack” – a guaranteed way to cause someone to lose their concentration is to start “talking fruit.”
I ponder this, considering…. I try to imagine an action hero – perhaps Bruce Willis – who has realized that he is outnumbered. As three men move in for the kill, he kicks one leg out abruptly to the side.
“Gooseberry!” he yells. The man to his left pauses, confused. Bruce takes immediate advantage. He grabs the man in a headlock and pulls him off his feet.
“Banana!” he shouts, swinging the man’s body in an arc toward the other men. “Apple-cherry!”
The two men are knocked to their knees, but their heads were already spinning. The words continue to pummel them.
“Fig!”
“Grape! Lemon!”
Before they can clear their heads of the fruity thoughts that have filled them, he is gone.
Yes, I think, there’s something to this. But then I pause. If I share the technique with Hollywood, it will be in every new action film for the next year. That would – essentially – ruin my genius approach, which relies heavily on the element of surprise. This will not do. I will have to, therefore, request that each and every one of you reading this blog keep this secret weapon just that – secret. After all, you never know when you may need to pull out an unexpected apricot, and you’d hate to have your opponent waiting with a vicious peach.
“sings ahh mek ahh say shooom” and “No English”
The latter of these was quite obvious. The first a bit more mysterious… until I realized that it was what the Spanish-speaking crowd believed to be the chorus of a popular song at the time: “Things that make you go hmmmm.” This phrase was incredibly popular among all the young Mexican men at the time, and it was used liberally – generally with the result of bewilderment on the part of the English-speaking conversation partner.
As our relationship developed, I became R’s English instructor. It worked quite well, for the most part. He developed a mastery of the language that would later allow him to take upper education courses in his second language rather than his first. Sadly, in learning the language directly from me, and later my family, he had no way of knowing when we were using “legitimate” words, and when we were being nonsensical. This proved to be unfortunate.
Periodically, I was struck by what I had done. Take, for example, the day that I was attempting to emphasize the extreme hurry that we were in to get ready and out the door for an important engagement.
“We are,” I stated, as we walked toward the house, “in a hurry.”
“A hurry?” he repeated.
“Yes.” I said firmly, opening the sliding glass door. “We are in a BIG hurry. We NEED to get going.”
“Uh-huh.” He acknowledged, as we stepped through.
I suspected that he might not grasp the importance.
“We are,” I repeated, with much stress on each word, “talking MA-JOR hurry.”
An awareness spread across his face.
“Aaaahhhh…” he breathed, finally understanding, “We’re talking MAJOR TWUNKA.”
For a moment, I was taken aback. I paused in my tracks, then – my decision made – moved steadily forward. “Yes,” I affirmed, deciding this was no time to get into the ‘nuances’ of the language. “We are talking major twunka.”
“Major twunka” had – apparently – been incorporated into R’s vocabulary right along with all the other nouns, verbs, adverbs, etc. The tragedy of the situation was, of course, that no one outside of our family had any idea of what he could be referring to. It was actually quite clever, I realized, the way that he had worked it all out…
“Twunk,” or “Mr. Twunk,” was what we called our pet Guinea pig. My mother, brother, and I all adored the pig, and we never refrained from telling him so.
“You,” we would declare, eyeing his bulging black belly, “Are SUCH a Twunk. You are a FINE swine. What a pig.”
Another one of us would chip in. “We are talking TWUNKA.”
“Yes!” we agreed, interchangeably, “We are talking MAJOR TWUNKA!”
By listening to many variations of this conversation, R deduced that “major twunka” was essentially a handy superlative phrase. If it applied to pigs, it must apply to any situation that required particular emphasis. And so he used it…
I cannot recall if I ever remembered to clarify the roots of the “major twunka” phrase. In later years, I reflected upon this and wondered if – as he went about his life – he continued to pepper his conversation with it.
“R,” I imagined an employer saying to him. “We need that piece finished – ASAP!”
“Yep,” I heard R concur in my head. “It’s coming right up - we’re talking major twunka.”
In later years, the incidents declined but never ceased. When I began kickboxing, I would often – at home – dance around in circles around R, bobbing and weaving and calling out the names of punches as I hit at the air around him. He absorbed it all, learning…until the day that he began play-boxing around me. As he moved his arm up in an approximation of an uppercut, he yelled out what he’d heard when I punched at him.
“Apricot!” he shouted, and bounced around on his feet. “Apricot, apricot!”
I doubled over in laughter. Had I been in a real fight, I would have been a goner. Perhaps, I think now, there was some genius to his method. Forget “talking smack” – a guaranteed way to cause someone to lose their concentration is to start “talking fruit.”
I ponder this, considering…. I try to imagine an action hero – perhaps Bruce Willis – who has realized that he is outnumbered. As three men move in for the kill, he kicks one leg out abruptly to the side.
“Gooseberry!” he yells. The man to his left pauses, confused. Bruce takes immediate advantage. He grabs the man in a headlock and pulls him off his feet.
“Banana!” he shouts, swinging the man’s body in an arc toward the other men. “Apple-cherry!”
The two men are knocked to their knees, but their heads were already spinning. The words continue to pummel them.
“Fig!”
“Grape! Lemon!”
Before they can clear their heads of the fruity thoughts that have filled them, he is gone.
Yes, I think, there’s something to this. But then I pause. If I share the technique with Hollywood, it will be in every new action film for the next year. That would – essentially – ruin my genius approach, which relies heavily on the element of surprise. This will not do. I will have to, therefore, request that each and every one of you reading this blog keep this secret weapon just that – secret. After all, you never know when you may need to pull out an unexpected apricot, and you’d hate to have your opponent waiting with a vicious peach.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Confessions Of An Addict
Looking back, I still can’t figure out quite how it happened. One day, all was (relatively) normal. And, now….this. I don’t know that things can ever be restored to what they were. How can something change so dramatically and so very, very quickly?
It all seemed so innocent at first. D arrived at the appointed hour for our chosen DVD night, bringing with him several brown grocery bags. (This – I will interject – was not exactly part of the agreed-upon plan. “I’ll bring food…” is what he said. My mind assumed “enough food for one meal.” D’s mind asserted “I’ll purchase the entire inventory of the grocery store and take it over there so that she has some food in her cupboards.” I must learn to anticipate this sort of generosity and get more details in future conversations…but back to “the incident.”) I let him pass without fear, and his trusted hands brought the food-laden bags INTO THE APARTMENT.
Sigh. How naïve I was.
Like treasures from a chest, the tasty offerings began appearing. Strawberries, tangerines, hearts of palm, chocolate bars, crackers, pasta…it all looked scrumptious. And then I saw it. Sitting on the counter - not demonstrating an ounce of shame - was a generous wedge of creamy brie. Even then I had no idea...
It was only when I had TASTED the brie (before I realized that OF COURSE I would have to taste it, that there had never really been any choice) that I began to suspect. As I continued to slice more and more creamy cheese from the wedge, my suspicions grew.
“Nonsense” my mind assured me. “You can stop anytime.”
And I did. After I had stuffed myself to the point of discomfort, I stopped. And then I woke up the next morning, and was dismayed to realize that all I wanted for breakfast was brie.
“Don’t,” I began reasoning with Myself, “Be stupid. You cannot have brie for breakfast. You know what you should have? Something healthy. Have some fruit.”
“Fruit,” Myself shot back, “Is KNOWN to be best when consumed with certain cheeses – like brie. Plus there’s calcium in cheese. You NEED calcium, or your bones will crumble and you will spend the rest of your life wishing that you had EATEN MORE CHEESE.”
I could see that there was going to be no reasonable conversation here, so I forced myself to leave the apartment. As I drove to the office, I considered my current obsession. An awareness began dawning in the back of my head. I reflected upon the meals that had led me into the weekend, and sustained me throughout. Hmmm. When had I developed that hankering for macaroni and cheese? And how had I not noticed that I had been adding cheese to every meal?
More importantly – what was this new dietary habit all about? Why was I – even now – miles from the brie stashed in my refrigerator – all but consumed with thoughts of its oozing goodness? What did I want for lunch? Brie. Or macaroni and cheese. Or macaroni and cheese with a side of brie. What did I want for dinner? The exact same thing all over again. The days stretched before me…an endless battle to restrain myself from the power of cheese.
I do not know how I have come to this, but I bare my soul to you all: I am an addict. I am addicted to cheese. Still, there is some hope for me yet. It appears that my addiction is a bit pretentious, and limits itself to select cheeses. Creamy, ooey-gooey buttery cheeses. Perhaps I can – through perseverance – persuade this addiction that it is above cheese, and that it is instead addicted to lowfat yogurt. I realize that the odds are slim, but I have nothing but time…and a wicked wedge of brie in my refrigerator.
I’ll be right back…
It all seemed so innocent at first. D arrived at the appointed hour for our chosen DVD night, bringing with him several brown grocery bags. (This – I will interject – was not exactly part of the agreed-upon plan. “I’ll bring food…” is what he said. My mind assumed “enough food for one meal.” D’s mind asserted “I’ll purchase the entire inventory of the grocery store and take it over there so that she has some food in her cupboards.” I must learn to anticipate this sort of generosity and get more details in future conversations…but back to “the incident.”) I let him pass without fear, and his trusted hands brought the food-laden bags INTO THE APARTMENT.
Sigh. How naïve I was.
Like treasures from a chest, the tasty offerings began appearing. Strawberries, tangerines, hearts of palm, chocolate bars, crackers, pasta…it all looked scrumptious. And then I saw it. Sitting on the counter - not demonstrating an ounce of shame - was a generous wedge of creamy brie. Even then I had no idea...
It was only when I had TASTED the brie (before I realized that OF COURSE I would have to taste it, that there had never really been any choice) that I began to suspect. As I continued to slice more and more creamy cheese from the wedge, my suspicions grew.
“Nonsense” my mind assured me. “You can stop anytime.”
And I did. After I had stuffed myself to the point of discomfort, I stopped. And then I woke up the next morning, and was dismayed to realize that all I wanted for breakfast was brie.
“Don’t,” I began reasoning with Myself, “Be stupid. You cannot have brie for breakfast. You know what you should have? Something healthy. Have some fruit.”
“Fruit,” Myself shot back, “Is KNOWN to be best when consumed with certain cheeses – like brie. Plus there’s calcium in cheese. You NEED calcium, or your bones will crumble and you will spend the rest of your life wishing that you had EATEN MORE CHEESE.”
I could see that there was going to be no reasonable conversation here, so I forced myself to leave the apartment. As I drove to the office, I considered my current obsession. An awareness began dawning in the back of my head. I reflected upon the meals that had led me into the weekend, and sustained me throughout. Hmmm. When had I developed that hankering for macaroni and cheese? And how had I not noticed that I had been adding cheese to every meal?
More importantly – what was this new dietary habit all about? Why was I – even now – miles from the brie stashed in my refrigerator – all but consumed with thoughts of its oozing goodness? What did I want for lunch? Brie. Or macaroni and cheese. Or macaroni and cheese with a side of brie. What did I want for dinner? The exact same thing all over again. The days stretched before me…an endless battle to restrain myself from the power of cheese.
I do not know how I have come to this, but I bare my soul to you all: I am an addict. I am addicted to cheese. Still, there is some hope for me yet. It appears that my addiction is a bit pretentious, and limits itself to select cheeses. Creamy, ooey-gooey buttery cheeses. Perhaps I can – through perseverance – persuade this addiction that it is above cheese, and that it is instead addicted to lowfat yogurt. I realize that the odds are slim, but I have nothing but time…and a wicked wedge of brie in my refrigerator.
I’ll be right back…
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Just A Few Thoughts
This is not what I would consider a high-quality blog entry, as I'm quite tired from an unusual outing but feel compelled to enter a few words before retiring.
"Why compelled," you ask?
Well, for one thing, because it seems that since the universe is so clearly sending me loud distress signals, I'd best use every avenue and opportunity to "work through" - or toward - whatever it is that I'm learning and/or arriving at. Still unsure of the specifics of what the hell is even going on, frankly, so excuse the practically nonsensical nature of that sentence. That, these days, is my life. Nonsensical. Or is it?
But I have digressed....
Writing - I'm quite certain - is clarifying. If only I knew what topics to address in my writing, I might actually get somewhere. In the meantime, I have "opened myself" to new experiences. Yes, I tried a new experience last night. That went well. I tried a new experience tonight. Didn't like that one so much. But more on those later... when I'm really blogging. Not like right now, when I am (I've noticed) pretty much just rambling. Again, this - these days - is my life. A transitionary phase. That's one of the things I'm telling myself.
What? What was that?
Sorry - thought I heard the higher powers finally explaining the meaning of my current state. Alas, I was mistaken. It was a rabbit munching on lettuce. Close, close. If I thought long enough - and hard enough - I might find quite a lot of meaning in that munching.
Still, I'll put this out there... for whoever is paying attention: I'm ready. Yes -like you've INSISTED, I'm shedding myself of negative energies right and left, and I'm WIDE open for anything positive that you want to send my way. Yup, anytime you want to direct those POSITIVE things toward me, I'll be ready. Opened my mind right up in anticipation, I have. Just thought I'd make that clear. NO HARBORING of those negatives here. Moving them RIGHT out of my life. Just waiting...right over here...anytime now...
Also, I was struck by the melodramatic nature of a couple of my recent posts and couldn't let them be the most recent things posted, for the shame of it. Instead, I've replaced it with what appear to be the ramblings of a madwoman. Great. Way to go, K. Put everyone's mind at ease with your clearly improved mental state. Excellent.
Anyhoo... the lesson in this is probably a fairly easy one to grasp. Don't write when you're tired, and have been subjecting yourself to "new experiences" like mad, and have received traumatic life blow after traumatic life blow within an absurdly short period of time, and have exhausted your emotional reserves, and have subjected yourself to what was deceptively labeled as a "Strength Training class" and was actually a front for AN HOUR of cruel and unusual torture. That last part is particularly important. I'm pretty certain that a screw slipped during the twentieth push-up on the Bosu. I can't discuss it further, or I'll get so riled up that I won't be able to sleep. All I WILL say is this: Whatever EVIL mind invented that device should be FORCED to use it EVERY day in EVERY activity that they undertake for the rest of their life. That - my friends - would be true justice.
"Why compelled," you ask?
Well, for one thing, because it seems that since the universe is so clearly sending me loud distress signals, I'd best use every avenue and opportunity to "work through" - or toward - whatever it is that I'm learning and/or arriving at. Still unsure of the specifics of what the hell is even going on, frankly, so excuse the practically nonsensical nature of that sentence. That, these days, is my life. Nonsensical. Or is it?
But I have digressed....
Writing - I'm quite certain - is clarifying. If only I knew what topics to address in my writing, I might actually get somewhere. In the meantime, I have "opened myself" to new experiences. Yes, I tried a new experience last night. That went well. I tried a new experience tonight. Didn't like that one so much. But more on those later... when I'm really blogging. Not like right now, when I am (I've noticed) pretty much just rambling. Again, this - these days - is my life. A transitionary phase. That's one of the things I'm telling myself.
What? What was that?
Sorry - thought I heard the higher powers finally explaining the meaning of my current state. Alas, I was mistaken. It was a rabbit munching on lettuce. Close, close. If I thought long enough - and hard enough - I might find quite a lot of meaning in that munching.
Still, I'll put this out there... for whoever is paying attention: I'm ready. Yes -like you've INSISTED, I'm shedding myself of negative energies right and left, and I'm WIDE open for anything positive that you want to send my way. Yup, anytime you want to direct those POSITIVE things toward me, I'll be ready. Opened my mind right up in anticipation, I have. Just thought I'd make that clear. NO HARBORING of those negatives here. Moving them RIGHT out of my life. Just waiting...right over here...anytime now...
Also, I was struck by the melodramatic nature of a couple of my recent posts and couldn't let them be the most recent things posted, for the shame of it. Instead, I've replaced it with what appear to be the ramblings of a madwoman. Great. Way to go, K. Put everyone's mind at ease with your clearly improved mental state. Excellent.
Anyhoo... the lesson in this is probably a fairly easy one to grasp. Don't write when you're tired, and have been subjecting yourself to "new experiences" like mad, and have received traumatic life blow after traumatic life blow within an absurdly short period of time, and have exhausted your emotional reserves, and have subjected yourself to what was deceptively labeled as a "Strength Training class" and was actually a front for AN HOUR of cruel and unusual torture. That last part is particularly important. I'm pretty certain that a screw slipped during the twentieth push-up on the Bosu. I can't discuss it further, or I'll get so riled up that I won't be able to sleep. All I WILL say is this: Whatever EVIL mind invented that device should be FORCED to use it EVERY day in EVERY activity that they undertake for the rest of their life. That - my friends - would be true justice.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Today
Today, I use words not my own to convey my thoughts, for Emily Dickinson has already written them.
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Not-So-Secret Sorrows
You cannot prevent the birds of sadness from passing over your head, but you can prevent their making a nest in your hair
~Chinese Proverb
~Chinese Proverb
As some know, I feel quite a lot of affection for select writers/poets/philosophers. Among them, of course, is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. There is a quote, from Longfellow, that I have considered often as I contemplate the reactions of people other than myself. People whose behavior might be confusing to others; people who are likely being misinterpreted or misconstrued. The quote:
“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
Usually, the quote has a very different meaning for me. Under normal circumstances, it is a gentle reminder to make allowances; to not make assumptions; to be understanding. It is a commentary on the individuality of humans; on the inevitable inclination that we have to presume that our actions/reactions should be mirrored in those around us. The assumptions that we make all of the time, based on our own unique behaviors, experiences, or reactions. If – when I am happy – I smile, then a smile on the face of the man across the street must mean that he’s happy. But what if that man is not smiling? What if he is baring his teeth, as his mother taught him to do when he is uncomfortable? (Okay… a bit of an odd example, but I’m hoping that you can stretch with me here.)
These days, this favorite quote is a reminder of my sadness, and the causes for that emotion. Unfortunately, these days nearly everything is a reminder of my sadness. Driving? How depressing. Going to work? Nearly unbearable. Drinking hot chocolate? I can barely contain my tears…
I am so very, very tired of feeling sad. I’m so tired of feeling sad that I’ve begun to use “anger” as a bit of an escape from it. When the weight of it becomes too much, I find myself thinking thoughts of this sort:
“Idiot. How are you going to get on with your life if you feel like that? You are absolutely WASTING TIME.”
Or
“That is enough. Do you want me to GIVE you something to be sad about? Hmmm? Do you? Fine. I’ll come up with some terrible, horrible thoughts, and then you’ll see what sad REALLY feels like.”
Or perhaps
“Guess what? You know the way you’ve been acting lately? Dragging about, always tired, always on the verge of crying…. That’s going to lead to awful things. That’s right. You’re probably going to get pulled over for erratic driving. Your favorite pants – they’re toast. Might as well kiss those goodbye. I’m sure you’ll stain them within the next week. Oh – and that job you have right now?? You’re DEFINITELY about to lose that….”
As you might imagine, I haven’t been exactly “cheery” lately. I’m tired of myself…. And everyone out there who continues to see me – who continues to converse with me – you are insane. But thank you. You are all marvelous people, and – when I recover – I shall be certain to bestow loads of “happy thoughts” upon you. [DISCLAIMER: My current pessimistic state is insisting that I allow for the possibility that I shall NEVER recover, and that I shall live out the rest of my days in the “depths of despair.” (That last bit is a literary reference, and those of you who are fortunate enough to recognize it are at an advantage in this cruel world.) ]
Not only am I horrid company (unless you are already miserable, since – as they say – “misery loves company”) but my mind has essentially gone to hell. I’m walking into walls, (no, I am NOT kidding – and it’s not just walls. I have random bruises all over my legs from walking into countless unidentified objects…), I’m forgetting important facts, I’m incapable of focusing, and – VERY disturbingly – I’m losing things. And now we come to a crucial part of this essay: The Plea For The Return Of The Yoga Bag.
If ANYONE has spotted a black bag, embroidered with the American Cancer Society Active For Life logo, notify me IMMEDIATELY. The bag is approximately 6 years old, and has never been on its own before. It is filled with a wide selection of yoga clothes, and also with ONE OF MY FAVORITE t-shirts (orange, with a reference to “good karma” on it… this is nearly unbearably ironic should my bag prove to be stolen…) and one of my favorite pairs of jeans. REWARD offered.
I have searched high and low for my bag, and cannot possibly imagine where it might be. This is so entirely out of character that I have been forced to admit that I am not Myself. (I was able to stay in Denial up until this point, but apparently the loss of the bag resulted in my eviction from the premises.) Who I am I do not know… But I hope to find My Newself or even My Oldself someday. In the meantime, while I search, I shall consider a different quote:
~ The word 'happiness' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. ~
Carl Jung
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Four Eyes. Or Eight. Maybe Six.
Today, I have found myself quite distracted by a very important question: What (in the fruit) is going on with spider eyes? I’m not certain of how the issue originally came into my mind, but since its arrival I’ve been unable to come up with an answer satisfactory enough to let it go. I’m particularly perplexed by this: Why do some spiders have 8 eyes, while some have 6… or 4… or 2? What sorts of creatures are these? It would be pretty strange for any other species of living thing to have such variety in the number of any of their organs and/or parts.
“So,” I imagine a conversation with my friends beginning, “this new guy you met – what’s he like?”
“He’s nice.” I’d reply. “Tall. Brown hair, olive skin. He has a bit of an odd accent. Four ears, and two mouths. I think he knows Sarah. Did I tell you that?”
It just doesn’t make sense. What’s more, I’ve learned that most spiders have poor eyesight. What in the hell?? The pitiful things have been shafted all the way around. Not only do they have to look like scary freaks, but there’s no payoff to it! Those creepy looking monstrosities protruding from their heads are – to be blunt – completely worthless. Apparently, some spiders use all eight of their eyeballs just to distinguish between variations in lighting. Who made up the rules to that game?? If I were a spider, I’d be quite resentful about it. In fact, I might even become aggressive toward anyone who could see better than me. You know what I would do? At night, when it’s dark out, I’d take advantage of my shadow-distinguishing abilities and I’d scurry all around, crawling unto any creature with better sight than me, reveling in their temporary blindness. Of course, should they begin to move I might very well panic (not being able to really see what’s going on, you know…) and I might instinctively bite.
Wait a minute…. I think I might have a better understanding of what’s been going on in my apartment…
Still no better understanding of the eye conundrum, though. The poor spiders waiting for my room to grow dark are probably stamping all of their appendages (which are also present in bizarrely high numbers) in impatience. They’re out of luck. I have pondering to do…
“So,” I imagine a conversation with my friends beginning, “this new guy you met – what’s he like?”
“He’s nice.” I’d reply. “Tall. Brown hair, olive skin. He has a bit of an odd accent. Four ears, and two mouths. I think he knows Sarah. Did I tell you that?”
It just doesn’t make sense. What’s more, I’ve learned that most spiders have poor eyesight. What in the hell?? The pitiful things have been shafted all the way around. Not only do they have to look like scary freaks, but there’s no payoff to it! Those creepy looking monstrosities protruding from their heads are – to be blunt – completely worthless. Apparently, some spiders use all eight of their eyeballs just to distinguish between variations in lighting. Who made up the rules to that game?? If I were a spider, I’d be quite resentful about it. In fact, I might even become aggressive toward anyone who could see better than me. You know what I would do? At night, when it’s dark out, I’d take advantage of my shadow-distinguishing abilities and I’d scurry all around, crawling unto any creature with better sight than me, reveling in their temporary blindness. Of course, should they begin to move I might very well panic (not being able to really see what’s going on, you know…) and I might instinctively bite.
Wait a minute…. I think I might have a better understanding of what’s been going on in my apartment…
Still no better understanding of the eye conundrum, though. The poor spiders waiting for my room to grow dark are probably stamping all of their appendages (which are also present in bizarrely high numbers) in impatience. They’re out of luck. I have pondering to do…
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Domesticated Bliss
Life, as we all know, is a dangerous journey. It is fraught with unexpected events and perils, and is – at all times – uncertain. Some of us manage this uncertainty with dignity and aplomb, deriving enjoyment from each moment, caring little about the fact that each moment could be the last.
Rex the dog, unfortunately, is not one of those carefree souls. On the contrary, Rex has developed a hyper-fear – no doubt in case standard fearing-for-one’s life should prove to be inadequate. There is little logic (none, really) in Rex’s terrors. Why, for example, is laundry so horrifying? To make things even more convoluted, clothing itself is of no concern. Should someone be walking about in a pair of pants, they are paid no heed. Take those pants off and twirl them around a few times, and Rex begins to shake and tremble in a manner reminiscent of an off-centered washing machine. This is puzzling.
Also puzzling? The fear of thunder, and of clapping. These would not be quite so disturbing were they not such a contrast to real dangers – dangers which Rex seems to be oblivious to. Cars do not pose a threat in the world of Rex’s head, even if they are hurtling down the street toward him at high speed. Feet – especially moving feet of large, mobile humans – do not need to be watched out for. Why would they? Hot surfaces, large, aggressive dogs, knives… None of these things bother Rex in the least. He has a habit of running in front of people if they are carrying large, view-impairing objects, and one of his favorite places to position himself is in front of feet as shoes are being put on or taken off – even though this has caused him to be inadvertently kicked in the head more than once.
These behaviors – and similar behaviors that I’ve observed in other pets – are troubling. Not because they are so senseless, but because I believe that we – as humans – are responsible for them. When we domesticated animals, we specifically chose animals with qualities that would be considered “weaknesses” in the wild animal kingdom. This is logical – to a degree. The strongest animals – the most intelligent – want nothing to do with humans. We had to select the not-so-smart, or the weak, to create a “need” for our company or our assistance. We created animals that would no longer be capable of surviving on their own. It’s not that they’re no longer intelligent, but they’re not intelligent in the same way. Their strengths lie in their ability to humor us, to entertain us. Skills that would not serve them well in the cruel world of nature…
On the plus side, these creatures are quite likeable. (As they should be. We – being the “gods” that created them - would naturally breed them for traits that we consider “likeable.”) It is as if they have been custom-made to be loveable. And, actually, they have…
Rex the dog, unfortunately, is not one of those carefree souls. On the contrary, Rex has developed a hyper-fear – no doubt in case standard fearing-for-one’s life should prove to be inadequate. There is little logic (none, really) in Rex’s terrors. Why, for example, is laundry so horrifying? To make things even more convoluted, clothing itself is of no concern. Should someone be walking about in a pair of pants, they are paid no heed. Take those pants off and twirl them around a few times, and Rex begins to shake and tremble in a manner reminiscent of an off-centered washing machine. This is puzzling.
Also puzzling? The fear of thunder, and of clapping. These would not be quite so disturbing were they not such a contrast to real dangers – dangers which Rex seems to be oblivious to. Cars do not pose a threat in the world of Rex’s head, even if they are hurtling down the street toward him at high speed. Feet – especially moving feet of large, mobile humans – do not need to be watched out for. Why would they? Hot surfaces, large, aggressive dogs, knives… None of these things bother Rex in the least. He has a habit of running in front of people if they are carrying large, view-impairing objects, and one of his favorite places to position himself is in front of feet as shoes are being put on or taken off – even though this has caused him to be inadvertently kicked in the head more than once.
These behaviors – and similar behaviors that I’ve observed in other pets – are troubling. Not because they are so senseless, but because I believe that we – as humans – are responsible for them. When we domesticated animals, we specifically chose animals with qualities that would be considered “weaknesses” in the wild animal kingdom. This is logical – to a degree. The strongest animals – the most intelligent – want nothing to do with humans. We had to select the not-so-smart, or the weak, to create a “need” for our company or our assistance. We created animals that would no longer be capable of surviving on their own. It’s not that they’re no longer intelligent, but they’re not intelligent in the same way. Their strengths lie in their ability to humor us, to entertain us. Skills that would not serve them well in the cruel world of nature…
On the plus side, these creatures are quite likeable. (As they should be. We – being the “gods” that created them - would naturally breed them for traits that we consider “likeable.”) It is as if they have been custom-made to be loveable. And, actually, they have…
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