"Kate," I called to my friend and co-volunteer as I lifted a rabbit out of its cage and tucked it under my shoulder, "Did you notice the chicken in the gift shop?"
Kate glanced up from the rabbit that she was attempting to coax from behind a litter box. "No! They have a chicken in there? I love chickens!"
"Me too." I ignored the squirming of the little fellow in my arms as I waited for her to retrieve another soon-to-be-socialized-rabbit.
Together, we walked through the hallways of the animal shelter toward the "socialization area." At the entrance to the gift shop we paused, rabbits in our arms, to peer through the glass.
"Do you see it?" I asked.
"No....." Her head craned to the left and to the right, and she shifted a few feet toward me.
Just as I spotted a bundle of rust-orange feathers, Kate exclaimed in delight. "There she is! Oh, she's beautiful......"
She was beautiful. Her orangeness was unparalleled, and - having been given free reign of the gift shop - she strutted about in a manner that only a confident chicken can.
Step. Head bob. Chest out. Step. Head bob. Chest out. Step. Head bob. Chest out. Head bob. Head bob. Step.
Kate and I watched, entranced by her beauty, until the rabbits' gentle nips and wiggles grew not-so-gentle and we finished our journey to the bunny day rendevous.
Hours later, as we trekked back and forth in our efforts to return the now-socialized rabbits to their assigned cages, we paused again at the gift shop door. This time, the pretty hen was loitering near the entrance, examining the floor closely for wayward foodstuffs like caterpillars.
I clicked softly at her with my tongue, and cleverly called for her. "Here chicken, chicken, chicken," I sing-songed. "Here chicken."
I was rewarded for my efforts with a look that can only be described as "chicken contempt." If you have never seen this look, I advise you to take great measures to avoid it.
The hen fixed me with the contemptuous look for a considerable length of time (for a chicken) - at least 20 seconds. Having made her point, she returned her gaze to the floor and lower shop shelves, moving her head from side to side as she scanned the area closely. Her chicken savvy was stunning. It was obvious that no insect or spider stood a chance in this gift shop. What a clever idea! I thought. I should keep a chicken in my storage unit! (I have been scarred permanently by the sight of the freaky house centipede - HAIRY house centipede - that I caught scurrying up the wall of my storage room.... but that's another story.) My enthusiasm dimmed somewhat as I considered the fact that I would need to either move into the storage unit myself or only take my chicken for supervised visits, as I would feel too guilty to leave it in there all alone. Perhaps it wasn't such a clever idea after all. I obviously could NOT move into a space inhabited by monsters-in-the-guise-of-arthropods. (Did you KNOW that they are carnivorous?!!!)
The chicken continued with her business, determined not to let us interfere with the busy day ahead. At the same moment, Kate and I noticed that something about this chicken was... not quite right.
"What," asked Kate, leaning forward for a better look, "is going on with her beak?"
I was wondering the exact same thing. The end of her beak appeared to... well, actually, it did not appear at all. It was missing. Where the lovely yellow point would be, this chicken had nothing. The beak ended in a very un-beak-like bluntness.
The hen, oblivious to this "problem," had begun preening herself with great flair. Dramatically, she fluffed all of the feathers on the right side of her body and lifted her wing away to tuck her head underneath. Emerging from beneath it, she wagged her tail a bit and glanced up at us. Her look managed to convey both surprise that we were still bothering her and extreme boredom induced by our presence.
We continued to stare as she moved on to the left side, lifting her wing away once again.
Knowing Kate, and the way that she thinks about life (which can be very similar to the way that I think about said topic), I imagine that at that moment we were thinking very similar thoughts. In my head, I was struggling to reconcile my first rush of emotion - pity - with the apparent contentment of the hen before me.
But, a voice in my mind protested - already donned in mourning attire - this chicken is PITIFUL! Look at it! Something horrible must have happened! It will NEVER be the same!!!
From the left second-floor library of my brain came a voice. No, it agreed. The chicken will not be the same. None of us is ever the same from one moment to the next. That is what living does to us.
Ah, someone else had decided to speak up. About time.
But, the first voice protested, increasing in volume, it's a....w....f....u....l! That POOR thing!
The voice from the library returned. Really? Does that chicken look upset to you?
There was no response. Likely because the only time the chicken looked at all upset was when she noticed that we were still staring at her. No doubt she blamed us for the lack of tasty snacks.
I glanced at Kate, wondering what sort of decision her voices were coming to. It was clear - to me - that there was no room for pity in this chicken's day. Without speaking, Kate and I began walking, together, back toward the socialization room to clean up.
It was time to move on.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
Today
Today, I was technically on PTO. ("Paid Time Off" for anyone fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with the term. Bless you - you lovely, uncorrupted thing - whoever you are.) Unfortunately, my extraordinarily demanding workload ensured that I would actually be working, but - at least - from the comfort of my home.
Ah, home....The Animal Reform Home. It is a madhouse here, with critters everywhere. Underfoot, overhead, lounging about... there is no escape. Inevitably there is at least one that is angry with me, a couple that want something from me, and another that is hoping that I won't notice the wicked things that he/she is up to. Despite the chaos, I would not give it up. For what? Whatever would I do with all of my time - the hours a day that I devote to critter care? I feel no desire to come home to an empty, soundless home (though the cleanliness factor is appealing.)
I ramble, yes. I am scattered these days, always thinking of what needs to be done next. I have countless topics that I wish to write about, just not the focus to do so. I will get there. A "?" in progress, as we all are.
Now, I admire the snow. It is lovely. If only all of these buildings weren't in the way of it, it could be REALLY lovely.
Today, during accupuncture, I noticed that a number of the needles placed in the right side of my body - in various spots - felt uncomfortable (dare I even say a bit painful?) going in AND out. That was new. I can't help but wonder what it meant. I shall have to raise the question at my next session.
So... this coming weekend is the office holiday party. Cab rides provided to and fro, and all the alcohol that one can consume is to be provided. The experience is sure to provide copious amounts of writing fodder. Also on the calendar: Annual Christmas Cousin film viewing (only one option for Christmas films this year, sadly), volunteering at the shelter, YOGA, two nights with BECCA!!!! We are planning to see the Swedish vampire film that I've been wanting to watch. Very exciting.
Holy snorefest blog posting.
Sigh.
How my standards have fallen.
Plummeted, one could say.
Justifiably. (The statement that one could make.)
I have no true excuse... only promises of future improvement.
Ah, home....The Animal Reform Home. It is a madhouse here, with critters everywhere. Underfoot, overhead, lounging about... there is no escape. Inevitably there is at least one that is angry with me, a couple that want something from me, and another that is hoping that I won't notice the wicked things that he/she is up to. Despite the chaos, I would not give it up. For what? Whatever would I do with all of my time - the hours a day that I devote to critter care? I feel no desire to come home to an empty, soundless home (though the cleanliness factor is appealing.)
I ramble, yes. I am scattered these days, always thinking of what needs to be done next. I have countless topics that I wish to write about, just not the focus to do so. I will get there. A "?" in progress, as we all are.
Now, I admire the snow. It is lovely. If only all of these buildings weren't in the way of it, it could be REALLY lovely.
Today, during accupuncture, I noticed that a number of the needles placed in the right side of my body - in various spots - felt uncomfortable (dare I even say a bit painful?) going in AND out. That was new. I can't help but wonder what it meant. I shall have to raise the question at my next session.
So... this coming weekend is the office holiday party. Cab rides provided to and fro, and all the alcohol that one can consume is to be provided. The experience is sure to provide copious amounts of writing fodder. Also on the calendar: Annual Christmas Cousin film viewing (only one option for Christmas films this year, sadly), volunteering at the shelter, YOGA, two nights with BECCA!!!! We are planning to see the Swedish vampire film that I've been wanting to watch. Very exciting.
Holy snorefest blog posting.
Sigh.
How my standards have fallen.
Plummeted, one could say.
Justifiably. (The statement that one could make.)
I have no true excuse... only promises of future improvement.
Friday, December 05, 2008
The Case Of The Missing Kresha
Where, oh where, can she be?
HINT: The answer to this riddle begins with "w" and ends with "k." It is NOT a piece of culinary equipment.
HINT: The answer to this riddle begins with "w" and ends with "k." It is NOT a piece of culinary equipment.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Hanging Around
I am still here, despite what the absence of postings might lead you to believe. My nemesis - who I not-so-affectionately refer to as "El Blocko" - has returned with a vengeance. His entire reason for being appears to be the thwarting of all creative writing-related thoughts that my brain would undoubtedly be generating like mad without his interference.
Never fear. I will prevail.
Perhaps were I not also wrestling with so many other enemies, I might be able to win this battle more quickly. Alas, I am under attack from many angles. Milkus Duddus strikes, inevitably, around 10 am daily and again from 1 - 3 pm. I pray that soon the Halloween candy in the office shall dwindle into nothing, eliminating the source of Milkus Duddus.
If I am not battling M. Duddus, The Babies demand my attention. The Babies are delightful, and I fear I am growing quite attached. Despite the multiple-times-a-day needs that they need fulfilled, I find that I cannot bear the thought of their little baby selves huddling in the metal shelter cages.
The Babies - unfortunately - also feed another of my enemies: Condo Dissaray-O. Condo Dissaray-O knows that I cannot tolerate much lack of order, and that - confronted with such situations - I will exhaust myself in my attempts to re-establish the Big O. (Order, you perverts.)
And - perhaps most disturbing of all - I am enlaved to the Corporate Life-Provider. The Provider is - in fact - insisting that even now, this very moment, I leave you all once again and return to my life of servitude.
I shall return.
Never fear. I will prevail.
Perhaps were I not also wrestling with so many other enemies, I might be able to win this battle more quickly. Alas, I am under attack from many angles. Milkus Duddus strikes, inevitably, around 10 am daily and again from 1 - 3 pm. I pray that soon the Halloween candy in the office shall dwindle into nothing, eliminating the source of Milkus Duddus.
If I am not battling M. Duddus, The Babies demand my attention. The Babies are delightful, and I fear I am growing quite attached. Despite the multiple-times-a-day needs that they need fulfilled, I find that I cannot bear the thought of their little baby selves huddling in the metal shelter cages.
The Babies - unfortunately - also feed another of my enemies: Condo Dissaray-O. Condo Dissaray-O knows that I cannot tolerate much lack of order, and that - confronted with such situations - I will exhaust myself in my attempts to re-establish the Big O. (Order, you perverts.)
And - perhaps most disturbing of all - I am enlaved to the Corporate Life-Provider. The Provider is - in fact - insisting that even now, this very moment, I leave you all once again and return to my life of servitude.
I shall return.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Sunday Evening Shopping
I was pushing my shopping cart through Target, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, when I accidentally overhead the exchange between a couple walking past me.
"Well," the man - an unhappy-looking, slightly unkempt male in his forties - said in a voice that implied that the conversation had already gone on far too long, "I don't use toilet paper."
"I know you don't," replied his companion, sounding tired. She was an overweight woman, devoid of make-up, with hair pulled severely away from her face.
I knew - immediately - what was going to happen and tried desperately to head it off before it could start.
"Do NOT think about it, do NOT think about it, do NOT think about it," I chanted to my Self, over and over.
Too late.
"What??!!" my Self could not contain her curiousity. "He doesn't use toilet paper???"
"No," I responded (in my head, of course) tersely, "he clearly does not. What else did we need? Milk?"
"But," Self continued, ignoring my attempt to change the subject,"What does he use? Does he use anything at all?"
My Self helpfully conjured up a mental depiction of what the consequences might be if someone were to use nothing at all to clean the nether regions after "certain activities." I grimaced, tried not to gag, and hoped that the people surrounding me in the Target aisles were not noticing the strange faces that I was making as I pushed my cart....alone.
"Maybe he prefers napkins," I suggested, growing desperate to move on to another topic, "I am SURE that we're forgetting something here. TRY to focus. We're not coming back here if you make us forget something."
"Cupcakes?" my Self suggested in a blatantly evil move. "Do you really think he uses napkins? They're so...rough. Like paper towels."
Another unwanted image was imposed upon my brain, and - in my horror - I very nearly crashed my cart into a young man stopped in front of the potato chip display.
"Would you KNOCK IT OFF?" I veered away from the man - pretending not to notice the odd look that he was giving me - and accelerated toward the dairy products. "FIND something ELSE to think about."
It was - as it turned out - an unnecessary outburst. My Self had spotted the peanut butter cookie dough.
"Num!" Self shouted with exuberance. "Remember how TASTY those are???"
"Yes," I agreed, "and remember how many CALORIES they have in them?"
"But I'm HUNGRY," Self whined, "and I WANT them. They make me FEEL better. They're soft, and gooey, and you know how I love peanut butter. I won't be happy if I don't have them. We could take them home and put them in the oven tonight! We could eat them with milk!"
I was growing fatigued from the mental exertion required to keep my Self in check. Staring resolutely forward, I pushed the cart past the cookie dough and congratulated myself on winning the battle despite my weakening resources.
My victory - and resulting relief - was short-lived.
"Look!" my Self shrieked in delight, spotting the objects of desire from nearly half a store-length away, "CUPCAKES!!!!!"
"Well," the man - an unhappy-looking, slightly unkempt male in his forties - said in a voice that implied that the conversation had already gone on far too long, "I don't use toilet paper."
"I know you don't," replied his companion, sounding tired. She was an overweight woman, devoid of make-up, with hair pulled severely away from her face.
I knew - immediately - what was going to happen and tried desperately to head it off before it could start.
"Do NOT think about it, do NOT think about it, do NOT think about it," I chanted to my Self, over and over.
Too late.
"What??!!" my Self could not contain her curiousity. "He doesn't use toilet paper???"
"No," I responded (in my head, of course) tersely, "he clearly does not. What else did we need? Milk?"
"But," Self continued, ignoring my attempt to change the subject,"What does he use? Does he use anything at all?"
My Self helpfully conjured up a mental depiction of what the consequences might be if someone were to use nothing at all to clean the nether regions after "certain activities." I grimaced, tried not to gag, and hoped that the people surrounding me in the Target aisles were not noticing the strange faces that I was making as I pushed my cart....alone.
"Maybe he prefers napkins," I suggested, growing desperate to move on to another topic, "I am SURE that we're forgetting something here. TRY to focus. We're not coming back here if you make us forget something."
"Cupcakes?" my Self suggested in a blatantly evil move. "Do you really think he uses napkins? They're so...rough. Like paper towels."
Another unwanted image was imposed upon my brain, and - in my horror - I very nearly crashed my cart into a young man stopped in front of the potato chip display.
"Would you KNOCK IT OFF?" I veered away from the man - pretending not to notice the odd look that he was giving me - and accelerated toward the dairy products. "FIND something ELSE to think about."
It was - as it turned out - an unnecessary outburst. My Self had spotted the peanut butter cookie dough.
"Num!" Self shouted with exuberance. "Remember how TASTY those are???"
"Yes," I agreed, "and remember how many CALORIES they have in them?"
"But I'm HUNGRY," Self whined, "and I WANT them. They make me FEEL better. They're soft, and gooey, and you know how I love peanut butter. I won't be happy if I don't have them. We could take them home and put them in the oven tonight! We could eat them with milk!"
I was growing fatigued from the mental exertion required to keep my Self in check. Staring resolutely forward, I pushed the cart past the cookie dough and congratulated myself on winning the battle despite my weakening resources.
My victory - and resulting relief - was short-lived.
"Look!" my Self shrieked in delight, spotting the objects of desire from nearly half a store-length away, "CUPCAKES!!!!!"
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Home. Owner.
My mother and I were in San Diego, walking through a connected series of uber-development shopping center parking lots, when she suddenly stopped short.
“Now THIS,” she said definitively, pointing to an overturned shopping cart lying, ignored, in the corner of a lot, “Is a NICE house.”
“Ummm-hmmm,” I agreed, eying it appraisingly. “I don’t know why no one has moved in. Could it be the neighborhood?"
We lifted our eyes and surveyed the surrounding area. Not a lot of other homes, but that didn’t seem to stop the fellow living on the front yard of Wendy’s, near our hotel. Perhaps the lack of “green space” was causing this deplorable waste of housing?
It was food for thought, and we considered it as we moved along our way. Now that we’d noticed the saturated real estate market in this parking lot, we couldn’t help but notice the additional homes that were strewn, discarded, all about. Dismayed by the waste, I briefly entertained the notion of bringing a new – or second – home to the man living near our hotel, but was forced to dismiss the idea. He had so carefully packed his current house (a standard, silver-plated grocery-type model) with his belongings, maximizing all available space, and – based on the décor that he updated on a daily basis – I suspected that he was quite proud of his home.
There were many advantages to his existing residence. It was portable – far more portable than my home, to be sure – and it limited the amount of “clutter” that the man could accrue. This, in a way, I envied quite a lot. Sure, it would be tricky to cook in his place, and he did not have any running water – or even any water at all – but these were minor inconveniences when compared to the biggest advantage: His home offered him complete independence from societal rules. The smaller details (food, water, toilet, and roof) were provided at night by Wendy’s and during the day by Denny’s. With two fine names like that to provide for one, why sweat the small stuff?
The man was polite to us, nodding when we passed, but it was clear that we were of little importance. His world was encapsulated, like the contents of his cart. He had his recorder, which he played for an audience that we could not see, and his knife and stick, which he used together, literally whittling the time away. On occasions, we spotted him conversing with a being not visible to us, gesturing animatedly. At these times, his enthusiasm seemed to grow large enough to provide for his invisible conversation partner, this “other” that proved so much more interesting than anything that we – the “real world” - had ever offered.
I pondered this, and still do. Which of us – I wonder – is the smarter? Who is closer to the state of “truly living?” Is it me, with my own “invisible partners” – my cages and rules? The home, the prescribed “start’ and “stop” times to my day, my participation in the en masse traffic surges to and fro a “job” created by someone else, the “ways” of dress, of speech, of etiquette? Am I truly living? Have I found the secret?
I suspect not. On the other hand, I know that the solution that this man’s life offers is not the answer that I seek. What my personal answer is, I don’t know. I do know that the shiny metal or bright red plastic homes do not – for me – hold the same allure that they do for people like our San Diego acquaintance. Now, the nice double-decker green plastic model, on the other hand, inspired a moment of consideration….. Until my mother, sagely, reminded me of the difficulty of resale in such a flooded market.
I conceded, reluctantly. She was right. With one last backward glance, I continued with her across the asphalt.
“Now THIS,” she said definitively, pointing to an overturned shopping cart lying, ignored, in the corner of a lot, “Is a NICE house.”
“Ummm-hmmm,” I agreed, eying it appraisingly. “I don’t know why no one has moved in. Could it be the neighborhood?"
We lifted our eyes and surveyed the surrounding area. Not a lot of other homes, but that didn’t seem to stop the fellow living on the front yard of Wendy’s, near our hotel. Perhaps the lack of “green space” was causing this deplorable waste of housing?
It was food for thought, and we considered it as we moved along our way. Now that we’d noticed the saturated real estate market in this parking lot, we couldn’t help but notice the additional homes that were strewn, discarded, all about. Dismayed by the waste, I briefly entertained the notion of bringing a new – or second – home to the man living near our hotel, but was forced to dismiss the idea. He had so carefully packed his current house (a standard, silver-plated grocery-type model) with his belongings, maximizing all available space, and – based on the décor that he updated on a daily basis – I suspected that he was quite proud of his home.
There were many advantages to his existing residence. It was portable – far more portable than my home, to be sure – and it limited the amount of “clutter” that the man could accrue. This, in a way, I envied quite a lot. Sure, it would be tricky to cook in his place, and he did not have any running water – or even any water at all – but these were minor inconveniences when compared to the biggest advantage: His home offered him complete independence from societal rules. The smaller details (food, water, toilet, and roof) were provided at night by Wendy’s and during the day by Denny’s. With two fine names like that to provide for one, why sweat the small stuff?
The man was polite to us, nodding when we passed, but it was clear that we were of little importance. His world was encapsulated, like the contents of his cart. He had his recorder, which he played for an audience that we could not see, and his knife and stick, which he used together, literally whittling the time away. On occasions, we spotted him conversing with a being not visible to us, gesturing animatedly. At these times, his enthusiasm seemed to grow large enough to provide for his invisible conversation partner, this “other” that proved so much more interesting than anything that we – the “real world” - had ever offered.
I pondered this, and still do. Which of us – I wonder – is the smarter? Who is closer to the state of “truly living?” Is it me, with my own “invisible partners” – my cages and rules? The home, the prescribed “start’ and “stop” times to my day, my participation in the en masse traffic surges to and fro a “job” created by someone else, the “ways” of dress, of speech, of etiquette? Am I truly living? Have I found the secret?
I suspect not. On the other hand, I know that the solution that this man’s life offers is not the answer that I seek. What my personal answer is, I don’t know. I do know that the shiny metal or bright red plastic homes do not – for me – hold the same allure that they do for people like our San Diego acquaintance. Now, the nice double-decker green plastic model, on the other hand, inspired a moment of consideration….. Until my mother, sagely, reminded me of the difficulty of resale in such a flooded market.
I conceded, reluctantly. She was right. With one last backward glance, I continued with her across the asphalt.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Babies
It is a universally acknowledged truth that baby bunnies rank in the top 5 of any "Cutest Things Ever" list. Imagine the mental and therapeutic benefits that I am reaping, then, with my constant exposure to two little 7-week-old-now-9-week-old bunnies: my foster charges. (Unfortunately for the babies, this is far too young for them to have been separated from their rabbit mother. We are "working through some things" as a result.)
I only wish that I would have taken the time to document the Little Delights when they first entered my home. Since that time, they have at least doubled in size. Still, they are so delightful that I cannot resist sharing them.
Adorable, no? This is actually the "Don't eat me you bizarre tormenter" face, times two.
Did you know?
Did you know that the brown baby bunny on the right was not always a lop? That's right. It is only recently that the lopness revealed itself. For more information, look it up online.
And now, a special treat. I have persuaded (bribed with apples) the bunnies to answer a couple of guest questions, since it is such a special treat to have the baby perspective available to us.
Q: Babies, why doesn't my rabbit like to be held? I really want to pet and play with her more, but she gets upset every time I pick her up.
Gray Baby: Fool! Do you think we don't know that you're a rabbit eater? Your freakishly large limbs and lack of ears give you away immediately! Stay away! Don't touch us!
Q: Hi baby bunnies. Is there any special treat that I can give my rabbit that won't upset his stomach but that he'll like as much as bananas?
Brown Baby: Aha! Trying to find out what rabbits can't resist, so you can add POISON TO IT AND KILL US!!! You just want to eat us!!!!! RUN!!! RUN GRAY!!!!
I am now going to end the question and answer session, because it is clear that the babies require a bit more socialization. To that end, please notify me immediately if you have any desire to pet and/or play with two adorable babies.
I only wish that I would have taken the time to document the Little Delights when they first entered my home. Since that time, they have at least doubled in size. Still, they are so delightful that I cannot resist sharing them.
Adorable, no? This is actually the "Don't eat me you bizarre tormenter" face, times two.
Did you know?
Did you know that the brown baby bunny on the right was not always a lop? That's right. It is only recently that the lopness revealed itself. For more information, look it up online.
And now, a special treat. I have persuaded (bribed with apples) the bunnies to answer a couple of guest questions, since it is such a special treat to have the baby perspective available to us.
Q: Babies, why doesn't my rabbit like to be held? I really want to pet and play with her more, but she gets upset every time I pick her up.
Gray Baby: Fool! Do you think we don't know that you're a rabbit eater? Your freakishly large limbs and lack of ears give you away immediately! Stay away! Don't touch us!
Q: Hi baby bunnies. Is there any special treat that I can give my rabbit that won't upset his stomach but that he'll like as much as bananas?
Brown Baby: Aha! Trying to find out what rabbits can't resist, so you can add POISON TO IT AND KILL US!!! You just want to eat us!!!!! RUN!!! RUN GRAY!!!!
I am now going to end the question and answer session, because it is clear that the babies require a bit more socialization. To that end, please notify me immediately if you have any desire to pet and/or play with two adorable babies.
Monday, October 06, 2008
To Boldly Go
It is Monday morning, and I am standing in my living room gazing upon the front of my sweatpants, which have just been liberally doused with rabbit urine. The offending substance had been applied in a graceful, arcing stream, easily passing through the wire bars of the cage to soak my legs – and the carpet. The dampness of said carpet, which I had been regarding with a bit of confusion (wondering how I had become so sloppy with the water dish), was now being regarded with intense suspicion.
Piccard. That bastard.
Piccard, the object of my newfound disgust, was gleefully digging in his freshly filled litter box. It appeared, in fact, that the appearance of the clean litter box had actually inspired the arcing pee of joy. Not to be left out, Number One joined him in the box, then hopped out of the box to the shelf, where he pushed as much hay as possible through the bars unto the carpet.
Very uncool. My mind appraised the situation, quickly simplifying it to the basest level:
New condo + unneutered young male foster rabbits = Destruction. Dead carpet. Weeks of cleaning ahead.
In retaliation, I reached into the cage and grabbed Piccard. He struggled, squirming to escape.
“Resistance,” I told him, “is futile.” I spent a few moments savoring the apt use of that particular line before returning my attention to the black and white bunny in my hands. He had assumed the posture most popular with rabbits who find themselves unable to escape the human grasp: Head bobbing back and forth unsteadily, eyes slightly narrowed, legs extending stiffly in front of him, face radiating “I know you’re going to eat me….” I felt no sympathy. My carpet was clearly going to require extensive cleaning after his departure, and for that I deserved to be allowed to tickle his belly. This I did, with relish.
Piccard and Number One have lived with me for slightly over a week, and that – in my opinion – is time enough. As they settled in, recovering from their trauma, they grew more and more comfortable. TOO comfortable. With their immediate needs of safety, food, and shelter met, their attention turned to other things. Testosterone-inspired things. It is time for the boys to boldly go where they have never gone before (and to return to their cages not quite so bold...)
This week, I will turn Piccard and Number One over the shelter, where they will be “fixed” and be made available for adoption. They are – really – lovely young rabbits with great personalities. I will be happy to see them find a forever home.
In the meantime, I have a younger duo that needs attention. The Babies, as I’ve taken to calling them, are only 8 weeks old – far too young for the shelter experience. They will continue to live with me for at least another month.
This experience of fostering these rabbits – of forming and breaking attachments – is therapeutic for me, I know. It is my nature to believe that I must do all, must save all, must nurture all. All, that is, except my self. As one might imagine, this tends to detrimentally affect my self’s well being. Accepting that a creature may actually be better off in a home that is NOT mine is difficult for me to acknowledge. The truth – however – is that I am but one person, am unavoidably limited, and that I CANNOT save them all.
Gazing down at Piccard and Number One, I feel a wave of gratitude for the urinary message. The demonstration certainly makes it easier to accept the need for the next phase in the boys’ journey. My mind shifts, accelerating into the future – into the time of carpet scrubbing and treating – and the gratitude vanishes in a puff, leaving behind a residue of affection, and of hope for the future – for all of us.
Piccard. That bastard.
Piccard, the object of my newfound disgust, was gleefully digging in his freshly filled litter box. It appeared, in fact, that the appearance of the clean litter box had actually inspired the arcing pee of joy. Not to be left out, Number One joined him in the box, then hopped out of the box to the shelf, where he pushed as much hay as possible through the bars unto the carpet.
Very uncool. My mind appraised the situation, quickly simplifying it to the basest level:
New condo + unneutered young male foster rabbits = Destruction. Dead carpet. Weeks of cleaning ahead.
In retaliation, I reached into the cage and grabbed Piccard. He struggled, squirming to escape.
“Resistance,” I told him, “is futile.” I spent a few moments savoring the apt use of that particular line before returning my attention to the black and white bunny in my hands. He had assumed the posture most popular with rabbits who find themselves unable to escape the human grasp: Head bobbing back and forth unsteadily, eyes slightly narrowed, legs extending stiffly in front of him, face radiating “I know you’re going to eat me….” I felt no sympathy. My carpet was clearly going to require extensive cleaning after his departure, and for that I deserved to be allowed to tickle his belly. This I did, with relish.
Piccard and Number One have lived with me for slightly over a week, and that – in my opinion – is time enough. As they settled in, recovering from their trauma, they grew more and more comfortable. TOO comfortable. With their immediate needs of safety, food, and shelter met, their attention turned to other things. Testosterone-inspired things. It is time for the boys to boldly go where they have never gone before (and to return to their cages not quite so bold...)
This week, I will turn Piccard and Number One over the shelter, where they will be “fixed” and be made available for adoption. They are – really – lovely young rabbits with great personalities. I will be happy to see them find a forever home.
In the meantime, I have a younger duo that needs attention. The Babies, as I’ve taken to calling them, are only 8 weeks old – far too young for the shelter experience. They will continue to live with me for at least another month.
This experience of fostering these rabbits – of forming and breaking attachments – is therapeutic for me, I know. It is my nature to believe that I must do all, must save all, must nurture all. All, that is, except my self. As one might imagine, this tends to detrimentally affect my self’s well being. Accepting that a creature may actually be better off in a home that is NOT mine is difficult for me to acknowledge. The truth – however – is that I am but one person, am unavoidably limited, and that I CANNOT save them all.
Gazing down at Piccard and Number One, I feel a wave of gratitude for the urinary message. The demonstration certainly makes it easier to accept the need for the next phase in the boys’ journey. My mind shifts, accelerating into the future – into the time of carpet scrubbing and treating – and the gratitude vanishes in a puff, leaving behind a residue of affection, and of hope for the future – for all of us.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Sunday Night Blues
Lately I have been giving an extraordinary amount of thought to the reasons behind my current writer's block. This thought may - in fact - be another method of avoiding the writing itself. There are a couple of theories that I'm leaning toward, but I don't know that I'm ready to share them all with whoever might happen upon this blog. And - since I AM the writer (pathetic as it may be for me to claim that moniker) - I can choose to share - or NOT share - whatever I please.
Having made that clear, I shall now switch subjects entirely. (Mood swing. Been having those a lot.)
Fact: Apples are tasty.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples during the fall season is a lovely, lovely perk.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples with a limited shelf life puts pressure on one to utilize apples at an alarming rate.
Fact: Copious amounts of baked goods - no matter how many healthy apples they contain - do nothing good for one's waistline.
[Interruption. Phone makes noise at me. Is friend Jeff, texting. Wants to chat. Agree, provided he is certain we can keep call to actual allotted time - NOT normal time, which we routinely mutually agree will be five - ten minutes, but inevitably ends up being 1 1/2 - 2 hours.]
Jeff called. He described his recent (insane) dreams to me. Mind warp.
Throat is irritating me. Forced to make tea in order to continue conversation.
Now it is late. It would clearly be irresponsible to attempt to write now. I obviously will have to sleep instead.
Tomorrow, I shall actually write. Really. No doubt about it.
Having made that clear, I shall now switch subjects entirely. (Mood swing. Been having those a lot.)
Fact: Apples are tasty.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples during the fall season is a lovely, lovely perk.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples with a limited shelf life puts pressure on one to utilize apples at an alarming rate.
Fact: Copious amounts of baked goods - no matter how many healthy apples they contain - do nothing good for one's waistline.
[Interruption. Phone makes noise at me. Is friend Jeff, texting. Wants to chat. Agree, provided he is certain we can keep call to actual allotted time - NOT normal time, which we routinely mutually agree will be five - ten minutes, but inevitably ends up being 1 1/2 - 2 hours.]
Jeff called. He described his recent (insane) dreams to me. Mind warp.
Throat is irritating me. Forced to make tea in order to continue conversation.
Now it is late. It would clearly be irresponsible to attempt to write now. I obviously will have to sleep instead.
Tomorrow, I shall actually write. Really. No doubt about it.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Pursuit Of
Today, I read an article centered on a research experiment that utilized Facebook members as the subject. Researchers discovered that the Facebook members with high numbers of “friends” appeared to have narcissistic qualities. These tendencies were identified by the way that the users positioned and described themselves on the site, by the sorts of comments that they posted, and by the photos of themselves that they put on display.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
The most surprising part of this article was that it apparently required a research project for these scientists to reach this conclusion.
All around us, we are surrounded by people who find meaning in the quantity, rather than the quality, of their “friends.” These are humans whose entire “worth” is dependent upon the observations and admiration of others. Are they afraid that without these distorted reflections of themselves they will cease to exist? Or are they more afraid that they will exist – that they will finally have to confront the identity that they truly have, rather than the vision of the being that their friends believe them to be?
The reality is that no one being can truly ever know another. The “understanding” that I have of my friend X – the version of her that lives in my brain – is different than the “understanding” of her that a different friend will have. In that sense, she is two different people. Multiply that by the number of people that “know” her, and you add innumerable shades of being to the buried “real” her. In fact, her own mind – her own perception – likely prevents even her from knowing who – or what - she is.
Ironically, this culture is deep within an age of narcissism at a time when we have distanced ourselves further from the realities of life than ever before. People cannot – it seems – get enough of themselves. It is commonly believed that any behavior should be condoned if it brings “personal happiness” or “personal gratification.” “Judgment” is tossed about as an insult, as something to be avoided.
Isn’t the ability to judge – to discern what should be done from what is done – one of the human qualities that sets us apart from animals? If a dog steals food because it wants it, because it brings it happiness, and another dog starves as a result, do we blame the thief? No – because it is but a dog. It knows no better. Inherently, we know that we are different, that we cannot justify our behaviors in that manner, but we have been taught to be afraid to remind others of that fact.
I have no use for hundreds of “friends.” I have use for a close group of friends - true friends that I can rely on to “judge” what I do, to draw attention to my selfish tendencies, to help me grow into a better - not just happier - person. I want to be a person that measures life by the impact that I have on the world, and not by what I can get out of it.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
The most surprising part of this article was that it apparently required a research project for these scientists to reach this conclusion.
All around us, we are surrounded by people who find meaning in the quantity, rather than the quality, of their “friends.” These are humans whose entire “worth” is dependent upon the observations and admiration of others. Are they afraid that without these distorted reflections of themselves they will cease to exist? Or are they more afraid that they will exist – that they will finally have to confront the identity that they truly have, rather than the vision of the being that their friends believe them to be?
The reality is that no one being can truly ever know another. The “understanding” that I have of my friend X – the version of her that lives in my brain – is different than the “understanding” of her that a different friend will have. In that sense, she is two different people. Multiply that by the number of people that “know” her, and you add innumerable shades of being to the buried “real” her. In fact, her own mind – her own perception – likely prevents even her from knowing who – or what - she is.
Ironically, this culture is deep within an age of narcissism at a time when we have distanced ourselves further from the realities of life than ever before. People cannot – it seems – get enough of themselves. It is commonly believed that any behavior should be condoned if it brings “personal happiness” or “personal gratification.” “Judgment” is tossed about as an insult, as something to be avoided.
Isn’t the ability to judge – to discern what should be done from what is done – one of the human qualities that sets us apart from animals? If a dog steals food because it wants it, because it brings it happiness, and another dog starves as a result, do we blame the thief? No – because it is but a dog. It knows no better. Inherently, we know that we are different, that we cannot justify our behaviors in that manner, but we have been taught to be afraid to remind others of that fact.
I have no use for hundreds of “friends.” I have use for a close group of friends - true friends that I can rely on to “judge” what I do, to draw attention to my selfish tendencies, to help me grow into a better - not just happier - person. I want to be a person that measures life by the impact that I have on the world, and not by what I can get out of it.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Spaceholder
Full entry to come. For now, current thoughts:
“Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
No one ever said elves are nice.
Elves are bad.”
Terry Pratchett
“Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
No one ever said elves are nice.
Elves are bad.”
Terry Pratchett
Monday, September 08, 2008
Generations Of Meaning
On Saturday, my parents visited my grandparents. It should be understood, before this story proceeds, that the aforementioned grandparents do not – nor have they ever – live a life of social conformity. It should also be noted that some of the life that they live has been heavily influenced by misfortunes beyond their control, and that some of their misfortunes are their own doing. This is – I suppose – an accurate description of all of our lives. Why my grandparents have taken theirs to the extreme – created a caricature of many other people’s lives – I do not know. What I do know is that there are many lessons to be learned from the observation of their lives, but that there are also many unanswerable questions raised.
The universe, or its creator, or controller, or [insert belief of choice], has connected my grandparents with a landlord who is either a saint or a stark raving lunatic. His tolerance of their habits/accumulations/lifestyles has transcended that of any “normal” human being. For some time, my grandparents have resided in a rental property owned by this man, and – in that time – they have essentially destroyed said property. Unfortunately, this is but the most recent “home” in a long line of “homes” that is a casualty of their residency. What they do to these buildings – and how they do it – isn’t entirely clear. After “helping them move” out of their last building (which they would have continued to refuse to leave, caved-in kitchen ceiling and all, had it not – SERIOUSLY – been destined for condemnation) I have begun to suspect that the space that surrounds my grandparents possesses the same strange properties as the Bermuda triangle. My grandparents appear to be the only parties unaffected by their bizarre surroundings.
My parents’ arrival was greeted as one might greet the arrival of any welcome guest, with the added element of the greeters being buried behind piles of possessions that obscured my parents’ view of them. Prominently situated in clear view on the dining room table, however, was a giant, oversized, chandelier light fixture. The presence of this item shall be dubbed Mystery Number One. The cover story was that the fixture was a “good deal,” despite the implausibility of this when one factors in the inability to install said fixture in a RENTAL property. Such logic was deflected with a breezy tale of the landlord’s admiration of the chandelier, demonstrated on his last visit. Whether or not this admiration was legitimate – or what it might mean - would be impossible to ascertain, so Mystery Number One will remain unsolved.
Mystery Number One displays striking similarities to Mystery Number Two, which revolves around a popular household appliance – the vacuum cleaner. It appears that my grandfather feels an irresistible draw – a siren’s call, one might say – when in the presence of a non-functioning vacuum cleaner. This has led to the acquisition of vacuum cleaners numbering in the double digits. Unfortunately for my grandfather and the vacuums, he does not seem to possess the actual skills required to fix these appliances. Even more unfortunately, it has been made clear that my grandparents – despite their wealth of vacuums – do not own a single cleaner that actually WORKS. The statistical odds of this are mind-boggling.
Nothing, however, is quite as mind-boggling as the latest mystery: Mystery Number Three, The Big One. On this lovely Saturday morning, as my grandparents lounged in their living room, my grandmother held a mass of “something” upon her lap. She paid no mind to it until my mother, her experience-developed sense no doubt alerting her, questioned her as to the exact nature of this pile. My grandmother, without hesitation, replied that the object on her lap was actually a pile of THONG UNDERWEAR. She said this as if it were a hand towel, or a remote control, or a comfy throw. In a touching display of thoughtfulness, she added that – perhaps – my mother would like to take them home for ME???
Mystery Number Three is almost too much. Where – in the world – did this pile of undergarments come from??? Why was she holding them on her lap??? How long had they been sitting there??? The questions balloon upon each other, growing ever larger. They shall – alas – likely never be answered. The contemplation of them provides an outlet for me, a way in which I can consider elements of my grandparent’s lives without becoming overwhelmed with the larger questions that my mind might – and sometimes does - raise. These items with which they surround themselves are, I suspect, manifestations of larger “wants” or desires – things they have found to be unattainable. They are also evidence of having lived a life – regardless of the degree of life fulfillment.
From the outside, looking in, it seems to me clear that they could have made different choices; that they did not – perhaps – have to make the sacrifices or choices that they did. In reality, it is far easier for me to use a focus on their lives – and what they might have done differently – as my own avenue of escape. What might I have labeled “unattainable,” in my own life, needlessly? Behind what piles of accumulations might I be hiding? The questions raised by my grandparents lives ricochet into my own, insisting that I examine my self more closely.
One fact I do know - one truth that grounds me in the midst of life’s turbulence - is this: I shall never, ever, find myself in possession of – on my lap or elsewhere – a pile of thong underwear.
The universe, or its creator, or controller, or [insert belief of choice], has connected my grandparents with a landlord who is either a saint or a stark raving lunatic. His tolerance of their habits/accumulations/lifestyles has transcended that of any “normal” human being. For some time, my grandparents have resided in a rental property owned by this man, and – in that time – they have essentially destroyed said property. Unfortunately, this is but the most recent “home” in a long line of “homes” that is a casualty of their residency. What they do to these buildings – and how they do it – isn’t entirely clear. After “helping them move” out of their last building (which they would have continued to refuse to leave, caved-in kitchen ceiling and all, had it not – SERIOUSLY – been destined for condemnation) I have begun to suspect that the space that surrounds my grandparents possesses the same strange properties as the Bermuda triangle. My grandparents appear to be the only parties unaffected by their bizarre surroundings.
My parents’ arrival was greeted as one might greet the arrival of any welcome guest, with the added element of the greeters being buried behind piles of possessions that obscured my parents’ view of them. Prominently situated in clear view on the dining room table, however, was a giant, oversized, chandelier light fixture. The presence of this item shall be dubbed Mystery Number One. The cover story was that the fixture was a “good deal,” despite the implausibility of this when one factors in the inability to install said fixture in a RENTAL property. Such logic was deflected with a breezy tale of the landlord’s admiration of the chandelier, demonstrated on his last visit. Whether or not this admiration was legitimate – or what it might mean - would be impossible to ascertain, so Mystery Number One will remain unsolved.
Mystery Number One displays striking similarities to Mystery Number Two, which revolves around a popular household appliance – the vacuum cleaner. It appears that my grandfather feels an irresistible draw – a siren’s call, one might say – when in the presence of a non-functioning vacuum cleaner. This has led to the acquisition of vacuum cleaners numbering in the double digits. Unfortunately for my grandfather and the vacuums, he does not seem to possess the actual skills required to fix these appliances. Even more unfortunately, it has been made clear that my grandparents – despite their wealth of vacuums – do not own a single cleaner that actually WORKS. The statistical odds of this are mind-boggling.
Nothing, however, is quite as mind-boggling as the latest mystery: Mystery Number Three, The Big One. On this lovely Saturday morning, as my grandparents lounged in their living room, my grandmother held a mass of “something” upon her lap. She paid no mind to it until my mother, her experience-developed sense no doubt alerting her, questioned her as to the exact nature of this pile. My grandmother, without hesitation, replied that the object on her lap was actually a pile of THONG UNDERWEAR. She said this as if it were a hand towel, or a remote control, or a comfy throw. In a touching display of thoughtfulness, she added that – perhaps – my mother would like to take them home for ME???
Mystery Number Three is almost too much. Where – in the world – did this pile of undergarments come from??? Why was she holding them on her lap??? How long had they been sitting there??? The questions balloon upon each other, growing ever larger. They shall – alas – likely never be answered. The contemplation of them provides an outlet for me, a way in which I can consider elements of my grandparent’s lives without becoming overwhelmed with the larger questions that my mind might – and sometimes does - raise. These items with which they surround themselves are, I suspect, manifestations of larger “wants” or desires – things they have found to be unattainable. They are also evidence of having lived a life – regardless of the degree of life fulfillment.
From the outside, looking in, it seems to me clear that they could have made different choices; that they did not – perhaps – have to make the sacrifices or choices that they did. In reality, it is far easier for me to use a focus on their lives – and what they might have done differently – as my own avenue of escape. What might I have labeled “unattainable,” in my own life, needlessly? Behind what piles of accumulations might I be hiding? The questions raised by my grandparents lives ricochet into my own, insisting that I examine my self more closely.
One fact I do know - one truth that grounds me in the midst of life’s turbulence - is this: I shall never, ever, find myself in possession of – on my lap or elsewhere – a pile of thong underwear.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Isn't She Lovely?
She bathes in sunlight.
[Disclaimer: Not to be confused with a real post. This is merely a temporary "filler" to distract you from the recent lack of writing. I shall still achieve my goal of - at minimum - a weekly entry. No worries.]
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Degrees Of Life
Today, I have chosen to wear absurdly tight pants. This decision was spurred by my feelings of intense guilt over eating two bowls of sugary, tasty cereal last night right before bed. This morning, determined to change my ways, I reasonably concluded that the sporting of acutely uncomfortable apparel would discourage me from the consumption of any additional food.
What it has done, of course, is make me feel irritable and quite plump. There is nothing quite like the feel of being stuffed into clothing in a sausage-like manner to make one feel every single ounce of extra weight. As I sit, obsessing over the feel of the pants AND the food that I “should not” eat, my flesh strains against the waistband of the jeans and spills a bit over the top. Attractive, there’s no denying, in a Jabba-the-Hut sort of manner. Were I in the market for an eligible slug-like monstery human-eating bachelor, today would be my day.
Unfortunately, I am not currently in the market for any sort of bachelor, monster or otherwise. What I AM in the market for is a weight loss method that encourages the rampant consumption of peanut butter and sugary cereal, and is still shockingly effective. I suspect that I may be shopping in this particular market for a lo-o-o-o-o-ong time…..
As I manage this flurry of thoughts that whirls around my brain, there is a loud voice – a voice that might, perhaps, fall into the category of “reason” – that is hell-bent on pointing out a few “truths.”
“You are,” says the voice, “fortunate to have those rolls and bulges. That is the flesh that you carry with you into yoga, that you twist and lift into beautiful expressions of self, and that you sleep with every night. It is the same flesh that has seen you through happy times, and through sad times, and that has been – and will be – surrounded by those you love.”
“But,” my Shallow Self protests, “I don’t like the way it looks. It doesn’t fit into the clothes I want to wear. Other people don’t have it.”
“So.” The voice retorts. “What? Get a grip. You are strong. You – every day – can do things that other people will never have a chance to do. There are people in this world that will never have a fraction of what you have, and all you are thinking about is the smallest element of your life – one of the FEW things that you DON’T like. What – in the hell – is wrong with you?”
This is a valid question, which causes Shallow Self to grow resentfully – and a little ashamedly – quiet.
I think, silently, about the article I read this morning – an article about the traffic-related death of a 23-year-old girl. I have already surpassed her life by 8 years. What would she have given to have those 8 years? Would she have been willing to carry 10, 20, 30 pounds for that length of time, if it would have allowed her to live?
The answer is obvious.
In this knowledge, I am faced with the stark reality of the selfishness of my Self. The fact that I have the luxury of “worrying” about carrying weight that is not a health risk – merely a cosmetic issue – is a testament to the GOODNESS of my life. Were I truly suffering - were I truly living a life that did not allow me to be fulfilled - my mind would be consumed with far, far different concerns.
What does this mean for me? It means that I have been given a gift, and that – to some degree – I have been wasting it. How do I change that? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am willing to work on changing it. As I do, I will be living an even richer life, and – more importantly – I will appreciate it.
What it has done, of course, is make me feel irritable and quite plump. There is nothing quite like the feel of being stuffed into clothing in a sausage-like manner to make one feel every single ounce of extra weight. As I sit, obsessing over the feel of the pants AND the food that I “should not” eat, my flesh strains against the waistband of the jeans and spills a bit over the top. Attractive, there’s no denying, in a Jabba-the-Hut sort of manner. Were I in the market for an eligible slug-like monstery human-eating bachelor, today would be my day.
Unfortunately, I am not currently in the market for any sort of bachelor, monster or otherwise. What I AM in the market for is a weight loss method that encourages the rampant consumption of peanut butter and sugary cereal, and is still shockingly effective. I suspect that I may be shopping in this particular market for a lo-o-o-o-o-ong time…..
As I manage this flurry of thoughts that whirls around my brain, there is a loud voice – a voice that might, perhaps, fall into the category of “reason” – that is hell-bent on pointing out a few “truths.”
“You are,” says the voice, “fortunate to have those rolls and bulges. That is the flesh that you carry with you into yoga, that you twist and lift into beautiful expressions of self, and that you sleep with every night. It is the same flesh that has seen you through happy times, and through sad times, and that has been – and will be – surrounded by those you love.”
“But,” my Shallow Self protests, “I don’t like the way it looks. It doesn’t fit into the clothes I want to wear. Other people don’t have it.”
“So.” The voice retorts. “What? Get a grip. You are strong. You – every day – can do things that other people will never have a chance to do. There are people in this world that will never have a fraction of what you have, and all you are thinking about is the smallest element of your life – one of the FEW things that you DON’T like. What – in the hell – is wrong with you?”
This is a valid question, which causes Shallow Self to grow resentfully – and a little ashamedly – quiet.
I think, silently, about the article I read this morning – an article about the traffic-related death of a 23-year-old girl. I have already surpassed her life by 8 years. What would she have given to have those 8 years? Would she have been willing to carry 10, 20, 30 pounds for that length of time, if it would have allowed her to live?
The answer is obvious.
In this knowledge, I am faced with the stark reality of the selfishness of my Self. The fact that I have the luxury of “worrying” about carrying weight that is not a health risk – merely a cosmetic issue – is a testament to the GOODNESS of my life. Were I truly suffering - were I truly living a life that did not allow me to be fulfilled - my mind would be consumed with far, far different concerns.
What does this mean for me? It means that I have been given a gift, and that – to some degree – I have been wasting it. How do I change that? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am willing to work on changing it. As I do, I will be living an even richer life, and – more importantly – I will appreciate it.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Be All That You Can Be. You Can Do It.
[Interesting life development: Since blogging, yesterday, about my insane level of irritability, the irritability seems to be lessening. Bizarre. It is likely due to either my acknowledgement of it – and conscious effort to reduce it – or the embarrassment factor involved in baring my unreasonableness to all. Either way, it’s an improvement.
(It is also possible, I suppose, that taking yesterday off from exercising might have played a small part, particularly as I have been suffering from muscle fatigue and a bit of a tweaked knee. But that’s a whole different topic….)]
This morning, as I was contemplating my already decreasing irritability, I had a brilliant idea for making my way through the world today. I would – I decided – coach myself all day long only in commercial jingles. Excited, I launched my experiment immediately. As I began to get ready for work, the canine assumed her usual position at my heels, causing me to nearly trip every time I turned around.
“Don’t get mad,” I counseled myself, cheerily, “get Glad.” Resolutely, I ignored the canine as I continued my preparations, only once stopping to suggest – kindly – that she go lie down in another room.
Heading into the office, rather than allow the traffic (and poor driving) to bother me, I decided to practice acceptance. Unfortunately, the jingles that came to mind did not seem to relate well to the advice I needed. I made do the best that I could.
“You can take Salem out of the country,” I told myself, sagely, “but you can’t take the country out of Salem.”
It did not take long for me to realize the flaw with my plan. My brain has – of late – not been functioning properly. As it turns out, there are valid reasons for this, and – when compounded, as they have been – they could likely explain quite a bit of my irritability as well. My current mental state (while improving) does not allow for the conscious recall of many useful bits of knowledge like commercial jingles. On the contrary, it appears that the jingles are now rising – unbidden – into the forefront of my mind, whether they apply or not.
“Double, double your refreshment,” sings my mind, happily, as a co-worker hands me some files to proof. “Double, double your de-ligh-igh-ight-ment.”
I was so startled by this cheerful and out-of-place melody that I missed what my co-worker is saying and had to ask her to repeat it. I suppose – now that I’m reflecting upon it – that the experience was, therefore, “doubled.” Hmmm. Devious mind.
Later, as I lift my cup of yogi tea to my mouth, my mind once again erupts.
“The best part of waking UP” it bellows, enjoying this activity FAR too much, “is Folgers IN YOUR CUP!”
Now I am starting to feel disturbed. It is almost as if the marketing tunes have taken over my untrustworthy mind. On the plus side, the experiment seems to have quite a cheering effect on my overall mood. In fact, I think that this focus on commercial jingles might be encouraging an overall feeling of goodwill. As I surveyed the cubicle farm outside my own little square, my mind began a soft serenade.
“I’d like to buy the world a Coke,” it began, earnestly. I stopped it in its tracks. We do NOT support coke, I reminded it, due to the high fructose corn syrup.
“Always Coca-Cola” it rebutted in a sing-song manner, undeterred.
I sighed mentally. This was getting creepy.
In some ways, I am beginning to feel that another being has begun to occupy my mind. Even now, as I type, I can hear an ongoing song in the corner of my mind.
“Charlie says,” it chants, “I love my Good & Plenties. Charlie says, they really ring a bell.” It goes around and around, broken only by an occasional foray into “My dog’s better than YOUR dog, my dog’s better than YOUR-OR-OR-ORS.”
I suppose that this mental takeover is – in actuality – real. These jingles – and all marketing tools – have been constructed to have this effect. They have utilized scientific knowledge to manipulate our own minds, to capitalize upon the areas of our consciousness AND unconsciousness that we have difficulty controlling, but that will drive us to certain behaviors. Even as a marketer, and someone with an unusual interest in understanding psychological manipulation, I am not immune. I find the repercussions of this truth frightening.
On the other hand, I’m also no longer irritable. “After all,” my mind asks, “why bother? “Instead,” it suggests, “we could: jump in, just enjoy the ri-i-i-ide…da, da, da, da, da…..”
(It is also possible, I suppose, that taking yesterday off from exercising might have played a small part, particularly as I have been suffering from muscle fatigue and a bit of a tweaked knee. But that’s a whole different topic….)]
This morning, as I was contemplating my already decreasing irritability, I had a brilliant idea for making my way through the world today. I would – I decided – coach myself all day long only in commercial jingles. Excited, I launched my experiment immediately. As I began to get ready for work, the canine assumed her usual position at my heels, causing me to nearly trip every time I turned around.
“Don’t get mad,” I counseled myself, cheerily, “get Glad.” Resolutely, I ignored the canine as I continued my preparations, only once stopping to suggest – kindly – that she go lie down in another room.
Heading into the office, rather than allow the traffic (and poor driving) to bother me, I decided to practice acceptance. Unfortunately, the jingles that came to mind did not seem to relate well to the advice I needed. I made do the best that I could.
“You can take Salem out of the country,” I told myself, sagely, “but you can’t take the country out of Salem.”
It did not take long for me to realize the flaw with my plan. My brain has – of late – not been functioning properly. As it turns out, there are valid reasons for this, and – when compounded, as they have been – they could likely explain quite a bit of my irritability as well. My current mental state (while improving) does not allow for the conscious recall of many useful bits of knowledge like commercial jingles. On the contrary, it appears that the jingles are now rising – unbidden – into the forefront of my mind, whether they apply or not.
“Double, double your refreshment,” sings my mind, happily, as a co-worker hands me some files to proof. “Double, double your de-ligh-igh-ight-ment.”
I was so startled by this cheerful and out-of-place melody that I missed what my co-worker is saying and had to ask her to repeat it. I suppose – now that I’m reflecting upon it – that the experience was, therefore, “doubled.” Hmmm. Devious mind.
Later, as I lift my cup of yogi tea to my mouth, my mind once again erupts.
“The best part of waking UP” it bellows, enjoying this activity FAR too much, “is Folgers IN YOUR CUP!”
Now I am starting to feel disturbed. It is almost as if the marketing tunes have taken over my untrustworthy mind. On the plus side, the experiment seems to have quite a cheering effect on my overall mood. In fact, I think that this focus on commercial jingles might be encouraging an overall feeling of goodwill. As I surveyed the cubicle farm outside my own little square, my mind began a soft serenade.
“I’d like to buy the world a Coke,” it began, earnestly. I stopped it in its tracks. We do NOT support coke, I reminded it, due to the high fructose corn syrup.
“Always Coca-Cola” it rebutted in a sing-song manner, undeterred.
I sighed mentally. This was getting creepy.
In some ways, I am beginning to feel that another being has begun to occupy my mind. Even now, as I type, I can hear an ongoing song in the corner of my mind.
“Charlie says,” it chants, “I love my Good & Plenties. Charlie says, they really ring a bell.” It goes around and around, broken only by an occasional foray into “My dog’s better than YOUR dog, my dog’s better than YOUR-OR-OR-ORS.”
I suppose that this mental takeover is – in actuality – real. These jingles – and all marketing tools – have been constructed to have this effect. They have utilized scientific knowledge to manipulate our own minds, to capitalize upon the areas of our consciousness AND unconsciousness that we have difficulty controlling, but that will drive us to certain behaviors. Even as a marketer, and someone with an unusual interest in understanding psychological manipulation, I am not immune. I find the repercussions of this truth frightening.
On the other hand, I’m also no longer irritable. “After all,” my mind asks, “why bother? “Instead,” it suggests, “we could: jump in, just enjoy the ri-i-i-ide…da, da, da, da, da…..”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Right With The World
I can no longer deny that I am, in fact, an extraordinarily irritable person. At the very least, I have been an extraordinarily irritable person for the past month (okay….TWO months) and am showing no signs of becoming a non-irritable person anytime soon. I find this new personality that I’ve developed to be quite…irritating.
I honestly do not know what has happened to my Self. Things that used to please me - or at the very least not bother me -have begun to provoke sentiments ranging from mild anger to acute rage. In case you are not following, allow me to paint a picture of any given (recent) day’s activities:
6:00 am: Wake up. Think about how irritating it is that I have to go to work. Step over dog to go into bathroom. Consider how annoying it is that dog gets to stay home and sleep all day, but will have nerve to look upset when I leave. Would much rather stay home all day like dog. Dog should be more appreciative.
6:10 am: Start coffee brewing. Listen to Petula peep, feel irritated. Why can bird not stay quiet until I get her up? Does bird REALLY need to have IMMEDIATE attention? Bird knows that I will not be taking blanket off for at least five more minutes. Irritating.
6:12 am: Feed rabbits, take dog outside.
6:15 am: Order dog out of kitchen. Feed dog.
6:17 am: Get birds up. Feed birds. Water birds. Think about how spoiled birds are, and about how they feel that they need more attention. Feel annoyed. Petula peeps constantly while I pour coffee, arrange mirrors on table for “bird time.” Am angry at whiny bird. Yell at her, which is completely pointless as Petula believes this to be my form of peeping, and thinks I am joining her whining. Irritated by this inter-species miscommunication. (Note: Before the development of this irritable persona, I found bird’s undying affection ALMOST endearing. Also felt happy for dog that she was able to stay home all day, thought it was cute that birds were so excited to see me, etc. This is no longer the case. Now all is annoying.)
6:20 am – 7:20 am: Bird time. I read magazines, drink coffee, birds climb all over me and get pets. Oddly, do not feel so irritable during this period, likely because it involves reading and coffee.
7:20 am: Put birds in cage. Immediate whining erupts. Cover birds with blanket. Keats pleased, Petula furious.
7:21 – 7:30 am: Eat breakfast.
7:30 am: Begin to get ready for work. Dog IMMEDIATELY begins following me from room to room, looking mournful. Am annoyed. Order her out of rooms, she looks even more wounded.
7:50 am: Leave for work, feeling irritated because as I leave dog looks traumatized and birds are screaming. Ungrateful creatures.
8:00 am: Am at work. How irritating. Also irritated by bicyclists in my way on commute, by VERY annoying construction, and by day’s schedule.
8:05 am: Am hungry. Irritating.
8:16 – 11:30 am: Irritated and annoyed by wide variety of sources.
11:30 am – 12:30 pm: Somewhere in this range, take lunch break. If go home, feel irritated by screaming birds and dog with panting anxiety disorder. If do not go home, feel annoyed because I am “behind” on getting things done (taking dog out, various errands, etc.)
12:30 – 4:30 pm: Generally very sleepy at work, which is cause for quite a lot of irritation. Have usually received a number of annoying emails by now, and had numerous irritating projects come up.
4:30 pm: Depart office, find traffic that builds up at stop sign EXTREMELY irritating. Cannot understand complete lack of driving abilities that are demonstrated on a daily basis.
I shall spare you the details of the evening, but will assure you that there are plenty of causes for irritation in it. The person next to me in yoga class is inevitably annoying (this is NOT a yogic attitude on my part… shameful, really), the shower drain that does NOT drain is REALLY frustrating, the speed with which my evening passes is enough to spark my fuse. I can scarcely go out in public anymore, since I am so highly irritated by everyone that I come in contact with that I have begun to fear that I shall tell them exactly what it is about them that annoys me.
As you might imagine, the most irritating thing of all these days is my Self. I am not, I’m afraid, very good company, as my irritability extends to everything that I think or do. I barely have time to complete a conscious thought before my inner irritable persona is critiquing it. How annoying.
It is clear that something needs to change. Were it not such an irritating topic, I might even consider spending some time on it. As it is, I think I’ll just wait – annoyed – for the world to fix itself.
I honestly do not know what has happened to my Self. Things that used to please me - or at the very least not bother me -have begun to provoke sentiments ranging from mild anger to acute rage. In case you are not following, allow me to paint a picture of any given (recent) day’s activities:
6:00 am: Wake up. Think about how irritating it is that I have to go to work. Step over dog to go into bathroom. Consider how annoying it is that dog gets to stay home and sleep all day, but will have nerve to look upset when I leave. Would much rather stay home all day like dog. Dog should be more appreciative.
6:10 am: Start coffee brewing. Listen to Petula peep, feel irritated. Why can bird not stay quiet until I get her up? Does bird REALLY need to have IMMEDIATE attention? Bird knows that I will not be taking blanket off for at least five more minutes. Irritating.
6:12 am: Feed rabbits, take dog outside.
6:15 am: Order dog out of kitchen. Feed dog.
6:17 am: Get birds up. Feed birds. Water birds. Think about how spoiled birds are, and about how they feel that they need more attention. Feel annoyed. Petula peeps constantly while I pour coffee, arrange mirrors on table for “bird time.” Am angry at whiny bird. Yell at her, which is completely pointless as Petula believes this to be my form of peeping, and thinks I am joining her whining. Irritated by this inter-species miscommunication. (Note: Before the development of this irritable persona, I found bird’s undying affection ALMOST endearing. Also felt happy for dog that she was able to stay home all day, thought it was cute that birds were so excited to see me, etc. This is no longer the case. Now all is annoying.)
6:20 am – 7:20 am: Bird time. I read magazines, drink coffee, birds climb all over me and get pets. Oddly, do not feel so irritable during this period, likely because it involves reading and coffee.
7:20 am: Put birds in cage. Immediate whining erupts. Cover birds with blanket. Keats pleased, Petula furious.
7:21 – 7:30 am: Eat breakfast.
7:30 am: Begin to get ready for work. Dog IMMEDIATELY begins following me from room to room, looking mournful. Am annoyed. Order her out of rooms, she looks even more wounded.
7:50 am: Leave for work, feeling irritated because as I leave dog looks traumatized and birds are screaming. Ungrateful creatures.
8:00 am: Am at work. How irritating. Also irritated by bicyclists in my way on commute, by VERY annoying construction, and by day’s schedule.
8:05 am: Am hungry. Irritating.
8:16 – 11:30 am: Irritated and annoyed by wide variety of sources.
11:30 am – 12:30 pm: Somewhere in this range, take lunch break. If go home, feel irritated by screaming birds and dog with panting anxiety disorder. If do not go home, feel annoyed because I am “behind” on getting things done (taking dog out, various errands, etc.)
12:30 – 4:30 pm: Generally very sleepy at work, which is cause for quite a lot of irritation. Have usually received a number of annoying emails by now, and had numerous irritating projects come up.
4:30 pm: Depart office, find traffic that builds up at stop sign EXTREMELY irritating. Cannot understand complete lack of driving abilities that are demonstrated on a daily basis.
I shall spare you the details of the evening, but will assure you that there are plenty of causes for irritation in it. The person next to me in yoga class is inevitably annoying (this is NOT a yogic attitude on my part… shameful, really), the shower drain that does NOT drain is REALLY frustrating, the speed with which my evening passes is enough to spark my fuse. I can scarcely go out in public anymore, since I am so highly irritated by everyone that I come in contact with that I have begun to fear that I shall tell them exactly what it is about them that annoys me.
As you might imagine, the most irritating thing of all these days is my Self. I am not, I’m afraid, very good company, as my irritability extends to everything that I think or do. I barely have time to complete a conscious thought before my inner irritable persona is critiquing it. How annoying.
It is clear that something needs to change. Were it not such an irritating topic, I might even consider spending some time on it. As it is, I think I’ll just wait – annoyed – for the world to fix itself.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Leggin' It
Over the years, I have come to understand and appreciate that I will always actively pursue self-improvement and – in fact – embrace transformation. This is a part of my nature, and it seeps into all that I do and think. I’ve grown to enjoy this aspect of my character, for the most part. There have been times, however, that I’ve cursed myself for not “letting things be.” Today is one of those times.
I am a fairly active person, yet I am forever shadowed by the feeling that I am “not quite active enough.” I could – after all – be doing more. I am certain of it. My certainty stems from the hours and hours that I’ve spent THINKING about how I could be engaged in physical activity rather than whatever I happen to be engaged in at that time (often work, or driving, or talking to someone who bores me immensely….) It is also confirmed by all of the fitness magazines that I read, which demonstrate all sorts of clever little exercises and have indicated that “just a few minutes” of said exercises, when repeated at regular intervals, will “completely transform my body.” This, of course, inspires feelings of immense inadequacy, as there are OBVIOUSLY women in this world who are – at this very moment – radically transforming their bodies, and I am not one of them.
The culmination of years of these thoughts, plus my new personal recession, led me to the determination that I MUST learn to exercise in creative and stimulating ways at home. The final determining factor: I now have enough space to do it in. Whereas in my last apartment I did not have room to even – say – turn in a circle, my current living space is chock-full of assorted roomy expanses of openness. These are spaces that could easily be filled with exercise bands, yoga mats, weights, and more.
And there you have it. On Wednesday, before embarking on my outing for the evening, I decided that I would get some exercise, and I would do it at home. Feeling quite pleased with myself in advance, I collected an assortment of fitness items from the office and toted them to the living room, where I spread them about and stood, for a moment, admiring them.
To begin, I picked up a pair of ankle weights and slipped them on. (These had never before seen more than two minutes of use – I honestly cannot remember what I was thinking when I purchased them. I must have read something in a magazine about their transformative powers.) Experimentally, I lifted my right leg off the floor and swung it about. The ankle weight was not even noticeable.
Hmmm, I thought, a bit disgusted. What sort of equipment is this? It does NOTHING.
Mentally shrugging, I began my “warm-up.” This was the part designed (by me) to raise my heart rate. Initially, I ran in place – alternating between lifting my knees high and kicking my heels behind me. After about 30 seconds, I grew bored. I began inventing dance steps, and soon found myself trotting about the living room/kitchen/hallway area with flair. The first time I zipped past the rabbits, heels bouncing jauntily and arms swinging wildly back and forth across my torso in an exaggerated ark, they both froze in horror, eyes widening. The second time I passed, now skipping, they both disappeared in a flurry of loose rabbit fur. From the recesses of Lulu’s cage, I heard a “thump” of warning. The rabbits, it appeared, were not advocates of the at-home exercise regiment.
Meanwhile, the birds were transfixed by my performance. This was the best entertainment that they had witnessed for quite some time, confusing as it was. Occasionally, Keats emitted a soft and questioning noise.
“Wheeew?” he asked, turning his head sideways to see if my behavior made any more sense when viewed strictly from the right side of his head. “Wheew?”
When I finished my cardio portion I moved on to the floor for abdominal work. It was at this point that Petula’s world crashed about her. For reasons that I do not understand, she finds my eight-pound purple weight ball terrifying. Until Wednesday, I had no idea. The first time I tossed it into the air, she let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror. I was so surprised that I nearly missed catching the ball on its descent toward my abdomen. After a moment, I decided that it must have been a fluke and again launched the ball into the air. Once again, Petula shrieked in horror. This was – I admit – a touch irritating. Ignoring her, I proceeded with my routine. Her shrieks escalated the entire time, eventually reaching the level usually reserved for “Stage 5 Needs Attention.” The squawks at that crisis level have been known to bring humans running from all sections of the building.
I could not help – at this point – wondering what the people across the hall were thinking. Earlier that evening, I had spotted a couple with a small child arrive. I assumed that they were preparing the place for the return of the temporarily displaced resident, an elderly woman who required in-home care. (The paper towels and bottles of Ensure on the stairwell supported this theory.) Since their arrival, the male half of the duo had been spending a LOT of time on the balcony, talking loudly on his cell phone. Since I could hear him very well through my open patio door, I imagined that he could hear Petula just as well. I was unable to peek out there, as I had not bothered dressing for my exercise routine (I had decided that one of the perks of an at-home program was the ability to perform it in one’s underwear) and had been doing my best to avoid the door and window, given my attire.
Ah well, I thought. That will teach him to loiter on balconies. He’ll have to spend the rest of his day wondering what in the hell goes on across the hall from his mother. (At least I THINK she’s his mother…. Based on the phone conversations I overheard.)
I was approximately twenty minutes into my bout of exercise, engaged in some more heart-rate acceleration, when I suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort in one of my calves. I frowned, glancing down. The other calf responded with an equally uncomfortable twinge, and I decided that it was, perhaps, time to remove the ankle weights. The twinges passed, leaving a strange sort of numbness behind, and I ended my session. As I went for a walk afterward, capping off the day’s exercise, I noticed that my legs WERE feeling a bit sore. It would, I decided, work itself out.
Imagine, then, my surprise when I awoke yesterday to find that my legs refused to function normally. Generally, the deal that we have between us is that I’ll swing them out of the bed, placing my feet on the floor, and they’ll then support the burden of my weight as I lift off of the mattress. It appears that – sometime over the course of the night – our deal was renegotiated without my input. When I attempted to stand, in defiance of our newly amended agreement, they retaliated by cramping – the entire backside of them, with extra focus on the calves. This was most unpleasant.
As time has passed, and I have continued to defy the terms of our new contract, they have grown increasingly resistant to our partnership. Today, I sit in my cubicle plotting the manners in which I can stay seated for the maximum length of time before I am forced to stand and engage in the activity formerly known as “walking.” The movement of my body from one location to another has become a lesson in humility. As I hobble, I do my best to pretend that I have not noticed the strange contorted shape that I present, or the negative-mile-per-hour pace that I am keeping.
I now know that truth about those evil and deceptive weapons dubbed “ankle weights.” No matter how long it takes, I shall track down the magazine that recommended them, and I shall extract revenge. This new me – the slow-paced hobbler – is not a transformation that I welcome.
I am a fairly active person, yet I am forever shadowed by the feeling that I am “not quite active enough.” I could – after all – be doing more. I am certain of it. My certainty stems from the hours and hours that I’ve spent THINKING about how I could be engaged in physical activity rather than whatever I happen to be engaged in at that time (often work, or driving, or talking to someone who bores me immensely….) It is also confirmed by all of the fitness magazines that I read, which demonstrate all sorts of clever little exercises and have indicated that “just a few minutes” of said exercises, when repeated at regular intervals, will “completely transform my body.” This, of course, inspires feelings of immense inadequacy, as there are OBVIOUSLY women in this world who are – at this very moment – radically transforming their bodies, and I am not one of them.
The culmination of years of these thoughts, plus my new personal recession, led me to the determination that I MUST learn to exercise in creative and stimulating ways at home. The final determining factor: I now have enough space to do it in. Whereas in my last apartment I did not have room to even – say – turn in a circle, my current living space is chock-full of assorted roomy expanses of openness. These are spaces that could easily be filled with exercise bands, yoga mats, weights, and more.
And there you have it. On Wednesday, before embarking on my outing for the evening, I decided that I would get some exercise, and I would do it at home. Feeling quite pleased with myself in advance, I collected an assortment of fitness items from the office and toted them to the living room, where I spread them about and stood, for a moment, admiring them.
To begin, I picked up a pair of ankle weights and slipped them on. (These had never before seen more than two minutes of use – I honestly cannot remember what I was thinking when I purchased them. I must have read something in a magazine about their transformative powers.) Experimentally, I lifted my right leg off the floor and swung it about. The ankle weight was not even noticeable.
Hmmm, I thought, a bit disgusted. What sort of equipment is this? It does NOTHING.
Mentally shrugging, I began my “warm-up.” This was the part designed (by me) to raise my heart rate. Initially, I ran in place – alternating between lifting my knees high and kicking my heels behind me. After about 30 seconds, I grew bored. I began inventing dance steps, and soon found myself trotting about the living room/kitchen/hallway area with flair. The first time I zipped past the rabbits, heels bouncing jauntily and arms swinging wildly back and forth across my torso in an exaggerated ark, they both froze in horror, eyes widening. The second time I passed, now skipping, they both disappeared in a flurry of loose rabbit fur. From the recesses of Lulu’s cage, I heard a “thump” of warning. The rabbits, it appeared, were not advocates of the at-home exercise regiment.
Meanwhile, the birds were transfixed by my performance. This was the best entertainment that they had witnessed for quite some time, confusing as it was. Occasionally, Keats emitted a soft and questioning noise.
“Wheeew?” he asked, turning his head sideways to see if my behavior made any more sense when viewed strictly from the right side of his head. “Wheew?”
When I finished my cardio portion I moved on to the floor for abdominal work. It was at this point that Petula’s world crashed about her. For reasons that I do not understand, she finds my eight-pound purple weight ball terrifying. Until Wednesday, I had no idea. The first time I tossed it into the air, she let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror. I was so surprised that I nearly missed catching the ball on its descent toward my abdomen. After a moment, I decided that it must have been a fluke and again launched the ball into the air. Once again, Petula shrieked in horror. This was – I admit – a touch irritating. Ignoring her, I proceeded with my routine. Her shrieks escalated the entire time, eventually reaching the level usually reserved for “Stage 5 Needs Attention.” The squawks at that crisis level have been known to bring humans running from all sections of the building.
I could not help – at this point – wondering what the people across the hall were thinking. Earlier that evening, I had spotted a couple with a small child arrive. I assumed that they were preparing the place for the return of the temporarily displaced resident, an elderly woman who required in-home care. (The paper towels and bottles of Ensure on the stairwell supported this theory.) Since their arrival, the male half of the duo had been spending a LOT of time on the balcony, talking loudly on his cell phone. Since I could hear him very well through my open patio door, I imagined that he could hear Petula just as well. I was unable to peek out there, as I had not bothered dressing for my exercise routine (I had decided that one of the perks of an at-home program was the ability to perform it in one’s underwear) and had been doing my best to avoid the door and window, given my attire.
Ah well, I thought. That will teach him to loiter on balconies. He’ll have to spend the rest of his day wondering what in the hell goes on across the hall from his mother. (At least I THINK she’s his mother…. Based on the phone conversations I overheard.)
I was approximately twenty minutes into my bout of exercise, engaged in some more heart-rate acceleration, when I suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort in one of my calves. I frowned, glancing down. The other calf responded with an equally uncomfortable twinge, and I decided that it was, perhaps, time to remove the ankle weights. The twinges passed, leaving a strange sort of numbness behind, and I ended my session. As I went for a walk afterward, capping off the day’s exercise, I noticed that my legs WERE feeling a bit sore. It would, I decided, work itself out.
Imagine, then, my surprise when I awoke yesterday to find that my legs refused to function normally. Generally, the deal that we have between us is that I’ll swing them out of the bed, placing my feet on the floor, and they’ll then support the burden of my weight as I lift off of the mattress. It appears that – sometime over the course of the night – our deal was renegotiated without my input. When I attempted to stand, in defiance of our newly amended agreement, they retaliated by cramping – the entire backside of them, with extra focus on the calves. This was most unpleasant.
As time has passed, and I have continued to defy the terms of our new contract, they have grown increasingly resistant to our partnership. Today, I sit in my cubicle plotting the manners in which I can stay seated for the maximum length of time before I am forced to stand and engage in the activity formerly known as “walking.” The movement of my body from one location to another has become a lesson in humility. As I hobble, I do my best to pretend that I have not noticed the strange contorted shape that I present, or the negative-mile-per-hour pace that I am keeping.
I now know that truth about those evil and deceptive weapons dubbed “ankle weights.” No matter how long it takes, I shall track down the magazine that recommended them, and I shall extract revenge. This new me – the slow-paced hobbler – is not a transformation that I welcome.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Mental Floss
Today’s mental notes:
1 – It does not, in fact, take eleven minutes to walk from my home to the office. It actually – interestingly enough – takes THIRTY minutes.
2 – Shoes that hurt one’s feet when one walked about in San Diego, California, will also hurt one’s feet when one walks about in Madison, Wisconsin.
3 – While they may SEEM like a good idea at the time of consumption, s’mores seem like LESS of a good idea when they are written in one’s food journal under the heading of “Breakfast.”
4 – Doctors operate on a different timeline than the rest of us, and also apparently don’t thoroughly read emails.
5 – Some doctors appear to abandon the rules of grammar, perhaps related to Mental Note #4.
6 – Too-tight pants do NOT grow less irritating as the day goes on. While THEORETICALLY they might remind one that one needs to lose weight, they – conversely – make one incredibly inactive due to intense discomfort felt upon moving.
7 – Projects do not disappear from one’s desk just because one refuses to look at them. The next time that one accidentally passes one’s eyes over the surface of one’s workspace, one might be startled and dismayed to find project sitting there.
8 –Mark Twain was an AMAZING man.
9 – Putting LOTS AND LOTS of thought into the potential location of the keys to one’s file cabinet may not lead to the actual remembrance of key’s location. Interestingly, anxiety level progressively increases in fashion that correlates with amount of thought invested.
10 – One should consider NOT locking one’s checkbook, debit card, and all credit cards into one’s file cabinet if there is chance that one will lose keys to aforementioned cabinet.
11 – To a bird, there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
12 – Come to think of it, for many ex-people-in-my-life there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
13 – No matter how hard you try, it is impossible to make stair-climbing “fun.”
14 – For a true aficionado, the urge for cupcakes never COMPLETELY goes away. This means that one’s ENTIRE life could become an exercise in will-power.
15 – Now that I’m considering it, one’s entire life IS an exercise in willpower.
16 – What in the fruit??? What kind of game is this that we’re playing here???
1 – It does not, in fact, take eleven minutes to walk from my home to the office. It actually – interestingly enough – takes THIRTY minutes.
2 – Shoes that hurt one’s feet when one walked about in San Diego, California, will also hurt one’s feet when one walks about in Madison, Wisconsin.
3 – While they may SEEM like a good idea at the time of consumption, s’mores seem like LESS of a good idea when they are written in one’s food journal under the heading of “Breakfast.”
4 – Doctors operate on a different timeline than the rest of us, and also apparently don’t thoroughly read emails.
5 – Some doctors appear to abandon the rules of grammar, perhaps related to Mental Note #4.
6 – Too-tight pants do NOT grow less irritating as the day goes on. While THEORETICALLY they might remind one that one needs to lose weight, they – conversely – make one incredibly inactive due to intense discomfort felt upon moving.
7 – Projects do not disappear from one’s desk just because one refuses to look at them. The next time that one accidentally passes one’s eyes over the surface of one’s workspace, one might be startled and dismayed to find project sitting there.
8 –Mark Twain was an AMAZING man.
9 – Putting LOTS AND LOTS of thought into the potential location of the keys to one’s file cabinet may not lead to the actual remembrance of key’s location. Interestingly, anxiety level progressively increases in fashion that correlates with amount of thought invested.
10 – One should consider NOT locking one’s checkbook, debit card, and all credit cards into one’s file cabinet if there is chance that one will lose keys to aforementioned cabinet.
11 – To a bird, there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
12 – Come to think of it, for many ex-people-in-my-life there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
13 – No matter how hard you try, it is impossible to make stair-climbing “fun.”
14 – For a true aficionado, the urge for cupcakes never COMPLETELY goes away. This means that one’s ENTIRE life could become an exercise in will-power.
15 – Now that I’m considering it, one’s entire life IS an exercise in willpower.
16 – What in the fruit??? What kind of game is this that we’re playing here???
Monday, August 04, 2008
Moving On Up
It was Friday night, and Rob was helping me move the contents of my apartment into my new residence. This was officially an acceptable time for panic. The movers were slated to arrive at 8 am the next morning, and my goal was to have ONLY furniture for them to move. As my plan – which had been devised weeks earlier in the period affectionately referred to as “deluded beyond belief” – also called for the packing of NOTHING, we had our work cut out for us. Instead of “packing,” I had been carting things over in boxes, emptying them on the other end, and then returning with the box to do it all over again. This had been working quite well until it was actually time to be moved.
Despite the absolute UNFUN nature of this event, Rob and I managed to almost enjoy elements of it. At the very least, we didn’t whine or swear too much, despite our exhaustion and the valid reasons for it. By the time it was nearly midnight, we were too tired to carry on. The decision to sleep was made, with the understanding that we would rise early enough to make another trip to the new place, vacuum it, dissemble the bed, take the top off of the desk, finish boxing some things, etc. Clearly our fatigued brains were tricking us into believing that we could actually afford the time to sleep.
Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. For a short time, I considered the ramifications of NOT waking up before the mover’s arrival, but only entertained the idea with any seriousness for five minutes. First order of priorities: The pets. Second: coffee. Rob and I hopped in the car to make a run for our only hope of getting through the morning. Unfortunately for us, the chosen coffee source did not open until 6:30 am. As we sat in the parking lot, contemplating the locked door, we struggled to stay awake. This was seriously cutting into our preparation time.
Minutes later, we were back at work, only slightly impaired in our thinking. Efficiently, I closed various critters into cages and stacked them all in the empty closet, where they sat – frozen in shock and horror – for approximately two minutes before launching into a cacophony of whining protest that would continue through the entire move.
Rob, meanwhile, was hauling items out to my vehicle, which we were filling with the remaining items that we did not wish to entrust to the movers. On one of his trips, he was greeted by Strange Shirtless Neighbor. [Strange Shirtless Neighbor is a generally cheerful fellow in his forties who has resided in my former apartment complex for nearly a year. In that time, I have only seen him sporting a shirt a handful of times. Every other time, including in the winter, he has been shirtless. It appears that he is quite comfortable in this state, although I myself felt a bit awkward when he would engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he engaged me in conversation every time he saw me. This was particularly odd when we found ourselves together in the fluorescent intimacy of the underground laundry room. Strange Shirtless Neighbor has been monitoring my move with a great deal of interest.] This morning, his engagement with Rob was as chipper as always.
“Wow.” He exclaimed, noting the armful of things that Rob was carrying. “How much stuff can you fit into one of these apartments? Is she moving into a bigger place?”
Rob indicated that yes, I was indeed moving into a bigger place – a two bedroom.
Strange Shirtless Neighbor seemed pleased. “That seems more her speed.” Rob agreed politely, continuing on his way.
At 8 am, the movers arrived. Immediately Rob and I struggled with the age old dilemma: How to look busy while the movers are working – to avoid looking like slackers – while staying out of the way of the movers. We retreated to the kitchen where we proceeded to feel lazy and sympathetic for the second mover, a gentleman that I would – frankly – describe as practically elderly. This went on for some time, until the bedroom had been emptied and we escaped to that room, where we lounged on the carpeted floor. By then, fatigue had overtaken our concerns of appearance.
By the time we made the trip over to my new residence, Rob and I were consumed with hunger. Alas, we had no choice but to continue to accompany the movers. This we did, and once again we positioned ourselves in the kitchen. Our guilty feelings reinstated themselves as we munched on snack mix while the movers struggled up the stairs, heavily burdened with awkward furniture. The elderly mover grew very chatty, perhaps in an effort to avoid additional trips up and down the stairs.
“I bet you’re liking that kitchen,” he commented approvingly on one trip. “That’s a good one.”
I concurred.
A few trips later he paused to ask “You thinking of doing some repainting?” He had a smile on his face that suggested that I would be insane to NOT do some repainting.
“Well,” I replied, unbothered, “That IS the repainting.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Finally, the mover recovered. “I see,” he replied, at a loss for more words.
I tried to maintain a straight face. It appeared that my carefully chosen assortment of vivid paint colors did not strike him as a situation that one would CHOOSE to live in.
The movers continued their work, and – four hours after they started – they were done. Rob and I were surrounded by my material possessions, in my new home. We had additional work ahead of us, but first things first: It was time to retrieve the furred/feathered family, and it was time to eat. With those thoughts, we were once again “on the move.”
Despite the absolute UNFUN nature of this event, Rob and I managed to almost enjoy elements of it. At the very least, we didn’t whine or swear too much, despite our exhaustion and the valid reasons for it. By the time it was nearly midnight, we were too tired to carry on. The decision to sleep was made, with the understanding that we would rise early enough to make another trip to the new place, vacuum it, dissemble the bed, take the top off of the desk, finish boxing some things, etc. Clearly our fatigued brains were tricking us into believing that we could actually afford the time to sleep.
Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. For a short time, I considered the ramifications of NOT waking up before the mover’s arrival, but only entertained the idea with any seriousness for five minutes. First order of priorities: The pets. Second: coffee. Rob and I hopped in the car to make a run for our only hope of getting through the morning. Unfortunately for us, the chosen coffee source did not open until 6:30 am. As we sat in the parking lot, contemplating the locked door, we struggled to stay awake. This was seriously cutting into our preparation time.
Minutes later, we were back at work, only slightly impaired in our thinking. Efficiently, I closed various critters into cages and stacked them all in the empty closet, where they sat – frozen in shock and horror – for approximately two minutes before launching into a cacophony of whining protest that would continue through the entire move.
Rob, meanwhile, was hauling items out to my vehicle, which we were filling with the remaining items that we did not wish to entrust to the movers. On one of his trips, he was greeted by Strange Shirtless Neighbor. [Strange Shirtless Neighbor is a generally cheerful fellow in his forties who has resided in my former apartment complex for nearly a year. In that time, I have only seen him sporting a shirt a handful of times. Every other time, including in the winter, he has been shirtless. It appears that he is quite comfortable in this state, although I myself felt a bit awkward when he would engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he engaged me in conversation every time he saw me. This was particularly odd when we found ourselves together in the fluorescent intimacy of the underground laundry room. Strange Shirtless Neighbor has been monitoring my move with a great deal of interest.] This morning, his engagement with Rob was as chipper as always.
“Wow.” He exclaimed, noting the armful of things that Rob was carrying. “How much stuff can you fit into one of these apartments? Is she moving into a bigger place?”
Rob indicated that yes, I was indeed moving into a bigger place – a two bedroom.
Strange Shirtless Neighbor seemed pleased. “That seems more her speed.” Rob agreed politely, continuing on his way.
At 8 am, the movers arrived. Immediately Rob and I struggled with the age old dilemma: How to look busy while the movers are working – to avoid looking like slackers – while staying out of the way of the movers. We retreated to the kitchen where we proceeded to feel lazy and sympathetic for the second mover, a gentleman that I would – frankly – describe as practically elderly. This went on for some time, until the bedroom had been emptied and we escaped to that room, where we lounged on the carpeted floor. By then, fatigue had overtaken our concerns of appearance.
By the time we made the trip over to my new residence, Rob and I were consumed with hunger. Alas, we had no choice but to continue to accompany the movers. This we did, and once again we positioned ourselves in the kitchen. Our guilty feelings reinstated themselves as we munched on snack mix while the movers struggled up the stairs, heavily burdened with awkward furniture. The elderly mover grew very chatty, perhaps in an effort to avoid additional trips up and down the stairs.
“I bet you’re liking that kitchen,” he commented approvingly on one trip. “That’s a good one.”
I concurred.
A few trips later he paused to ask “You thinking of doing some repainting?” He had a smile on his face that suggested that I would be insane to NOT do some repainting.
“Well,” I replied, unbothered, “That IS the repainting.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Finally, the mover recovered. “I see,” he replied, at a loss for more words.
I tried to maintain a straight face. It appeared that my carefully chosen assortment of vivid paint colors did not strike him as a situation that one would CHOOSE to live in.
The movers continued their work, and – four hours after they started – they were done. Rob and I were surrounded by my material possessions, in my new home. We had additional work ahead of us, but first things first: It was time to retrieve the furred/feathered family, and it was time to eat. With those thoughts, we were once again “on the move.”
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