I am in the Frankfurt airport, where I have tucked myself away in a corner of relatively isolated benches. To my left, seated at a cluster of small round tables, businessmen chat over their open laptops and two woman take up as much space as they can manage. The locals seem to think that it is mid-morning, when I - in fact - know that it is actually the absurd hour of not-even-4-am. According to our pilot, we made excellent time on our way here. The flight from Chicago to Frankfurt was - in total - under 8 hours. While this may be true, it might as well not be. When sleep is not accessible, it is a well-known fact that time moves miserably slowly. I calculate that I have slept somewhere in the vicinity of 2 1/2 hours, albeit fitfully. Fortunately, my seatmate - a young Frenchman - and I got on smashingly, which made the long hours much more bearable.
The Frankfurt airport is insanely confusing to traverse, something that I had managed to forget until my arrival. The signs are seemingly contradictory, resulting in clusters of people muttering in assorted languages and asking the people next to them if they are in the right line. Generally, those people were about to ask the exact same question, creating an instant bond. The brethren of confusion, as it were. Fortunately, this "early arrival" has allowed plenty of time for me to wait patiently in various lines, including a long security line, where the German security officers tear apart the luggage of each individual that appears to be of foreign soil. I watch as an official and a Norwegian traveler engage in a heated argument over a boxed set of "spa products." In the end, the official removes one of the items - which does not pass his inspection - as the Norwegian man rants about the 'trouble with Germans.' He repeats his accusations, directing the comments at each of us in line for emphasis. I smile politely.
The German security guards shrug, unconcerned with this opinion. As if to spite him, they promptly wave the next two people through with barely a glance at their luggage. I am one of those people, much to the annoyance of the Norwegian man, who has now discovered his missing cell phone. As I step away, I can hear voices rising behind me as he builds in preparation for the accusation of theft that I suspect is coming.
I walk...and walk...and walk, following misleading signs and completely ignoring the departure board. I had discovered, earlier, that - while it lists the flight that I am taking to Prague - it does not actually list the gate that the flight departs from. This is exactly the sort of minor detail that the Frankfurt airport does not concern itself with. Instead, there is a steady stream of announcements overhead as people are constantly called to the gate of their soon-to-depart flight; flights - I'm sure - that they've been wandering around in search of for hours.
I am slightly headachy and slightly melancholy. Both of these attributes are typical for me when I have not had enough sleep. Sleep, at present, is not an option, so I opt for my longtime allies of caffeine and sugar, and then for a quiet place to consume them. Thus, I find myself here, in this nook. I have devoured a croissant (how I miss the European bakeries when I am at home!) and a latte (I had managed to forget - also - how small and bitter the coffees and espressos are in Europe) and - to ensure the proper amount of sugar - have consumed nearly an entire package of malted milk balls, purchased in Chicago. It's working, for now, though I know the dark shadow looms: I am certain that I shall crash - without grace - from this sugar and caffeine mountain that I have ascended. It will not be pretty when it happens. I find myself hoping that I will be in my hotel room by that time.
Unfortunately, I can already feel the sleepiness pushing at the edges of my vision, and my stomach is objecting to the treatment to which it has already been subjected. It was unhappy with the in-flight vegetarian food selections, and it's even more unhappy after the caffeine and sugar invasion. As I consider this feeling, and the potential implications, I am momentarily distracted by the flurry of activity that accompanies the woman taking a seat to my right. The strong scent of wool hangs in the air about her, which prompts my curiousity enough that I begin a clandestine evaluation of her. She is sporting what appears to be riding apparel, which is accented with a wool cape - undoubtedly the source of the fragrance that accompanies her. She is, I notice, covered in bits of wool. I am fascinated. Why is she wearing riding apparel? Where is she going?
The woman leans toward me and begins asking a series of questions about internet access. After a succession of brief conversations, which do not have the satisfactory result of getting her computer connected to the internet but do have the satisfactory result of allowing me to see that her computer speaks Spanish, she abruptly packs up her computer and begins picking wool off her pants. Perhaps realizing the impossibility of the task, she desists after a few seconds and resumes adjusting her bags. Moments later she is furiously picking at the wool once again. She has an extraordinary talent for creating motion, I decide. Nothing that she does is quiet. For a reason that I can't identify, I am pleased by this.
This, I think to myself, is my life. I have removed myself from my normal element, I have pushed my senses to the point of over-fatigue, and now everything has taken on a surreal edge. Still, even through the slight haze, I can see well enough to know that I am in the right place.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Prague: 1: Pre-Departure, O'Hare
As is customary, my obsessive need to embark upon a chosen course of action at the earliest convenience (really, in my ideal world I'd be able to act upon decisions the moment that they're made) has resulted in a typically early arrival at the airport. It is four hours before my plane departs, and I have already checked my bag, cleared customs, and deposited myself into a restaurant seat.
The restaurant of choice is billing itself as Italian. This is an assertation that - while it lacks support in the food itself - is strengthed by the fact that several members of the waitstaff appear to speak a foreign language. What that language is - precisely - is relatively unimportant in the mind of most of the diners that pass through. Assumptions will be made, and perhaps the food might be more favorably received as a result.
My waiter is a handsome young man with an accent that definitely could be Italian. He is very polite, and I am very polite in return. I order minestrone soup with a side of waffle fries. They arrive in mere minutes. I notice that this is the norm at this restaurant - no doubt a necessity when a restaurant is located within an airport. I imagine that the alternatives - anger, walking out without dining or without paying a tab - have forced this efficiency. I wonder if my waffle fries were partially fried, then re-dipped in oil for a warm-up before they appeared in front of me. The prospect sounds delicious.
The tables around me are filled with a mixture of single diners and a few couples. The common theme, I see quickly, is detachment. Those who are not immersed in a book are immersed in their PDA. I feel a bit of sadness for the waiters, interacting with these shells of people who can barely tear their eyes from the media in front of them. They barely glance at their food before they start eating, looking briefly only to secure the latitude/longitude so that they can reach for - and eat - without actually looking at it.
In an effort to compensate, I double my politeness efforts with the waiter and attempt to make eye contact with all staff members. Based on the gradual uneasiness that they each seem to develop, I decide that such behavior is now construed as "strange," which only serves to reinforce my concerns. At the end of the meal, I thank the waiter profusely, leave a generous tip, and pick my way between the tables of people. No one looks up.
The restaurant of choice is billing itself as Italian. This is an assertation that - while it lacks support in the food itself - is strengthed by the fact that several members of the waitstaff appear to speak a foreign language. What that language is - precisely - is relatively unimportant in the mind of most of the diners that pass through. Assumptions will be made, and perhaps the food might be more favorably received as a result.
My waiter is a handsome young man with an accent that definitely could be Italian. He is very polite, and I am very polite in return. I order minestrone soup with a side of waffle fries. They arrive in mere minutes. I notice that this is the norm at this restaurant - no doubt a necessity when a restaurant is located within an airport. I imagine that the alternatives - anger, walking out without dining or without paying a tab - have forced this efficiency. I wonder if my waffle fries were partially fried, then re-dipped in oil for a warm-up before they appeared in front of me. The prospect sounds delicious.
The tables around me are filled with a mixture of single diners and a few couples. The common theme, I see quickly, is detachment. Those who are not immersed in a book are immersed in their PDA. I feel a bit of sadness for the waiters, interacting with these shells of people who can barely tear their eyes from the media in front of them. They barely glance at their food before they start eating, looking briefly only to secure the latitude/longitude so that they can reach for - and eat - without actually looking at it.
In an effort to compensate, I double my politeness efforts with the waiter and attempt to make eye contact with all staff members. Based on the gradual uneasiness that they each seem to develop, I decide that such behavior is now construed as "strange," which only serves to reinforce my concerns. At the end of the meal, I thank the waiter profusely, leave a generous tip, and pick my way between the tables of people. No one looks up.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
When You Have Nothing Better To Do
I’ve been giving quite a bit of thought to why I’ve been finding the blogging….well, unappealing. (Yes – AGAIN. Just be quiet.) What I’m thinking right now (subject to change) is that I’m disturbed by the ‘trendiness’ of blogging. It seems that “everyone” has a blog. As you may or may not know, as soon as “everyone” is doing something, I immediately lose interest. Something about my character, I suppose.
I’ve considered the option of coming up with something wild and crazy to do with my blog forum – something that no one else is doing. Of course, since I’d be posting it on the World Wide Web, even if I HAD legitimately found something that wasn’t being done elsewhere, it would likely only be a matter of minutes before someone was imitating it. Sigh.
A “themed blog” is SO passé. “A blog about cooking.” “A blog about restaurant experiences.” “A blog about movie reviews.” “A blog written from a dog’s perspective.” “A cupcake blog.” (Actually, that last one is hard not to appreciate…just a little bit.)
I should also – I suppose – acknowledge how prone I am to boredom. Yes, it is true. I have observed, over the years, that I have a tendency to embrace new activities with great gusto in the beginning. Sadly, it is only a (short, generally) matter of time before I find said activity to be less than stimulating. It doesn’t help that I’ve undoubtedly also found a new activity that is “so much more me!” I’d put a little more thought into what that says about me, but I am so tired of self-analysis. That was so last month. (Ha. That’s actually pretty funny, since if there is ONE thing that humans never get tired of it is their individual selves. We people think that we (the individual) are SO unique, SO interesting, SUCH a mystery…blah, blah.)
[Ooops. Now that I’m looking back at this I’ve realized that the whole blog is about me. How embarrassing.]
Bottom line: I shall endeavor to use this space in an interesting manner. Perhaps I shall write. Perhaps I shall post hundreds of photos of Charles Rabbit. Perhaps I will translate popular song lyrics into Spanish. It’s hard to say. I guess you’ll have to keep watching to find out.
I’ve considered the option of coming up with something wild and crazy to do with my blog forum – something that no one else is doing. Of course, since I’d be posting it on the World Wide Web, even if I HAD legitimately found something that wasn’t being done elsewhere, it would likely only be a matter of minutes before someone was imitating it. Sigh.
A “themed blog” is SO passé. “A blog about cooking.” “A blog about restaurant experiences.” “A blog about movie reviews.” “A blog written from a dog’s perspective.” “A cupcake blog.” (Actually, that last one is hard not to appreciate…just a little bit.)
I should also – I suppose – acknowledge how prone I am to boredom. Yes, it is true. I have observed, over the years, that I have a tendency to embrace new activities with great gusto in the beginning. Sadly, it is only a (short, generally) matter of time before I find said activity to be less than stimulating. It doesn’t help that I’ve undoubtedly also found a new activity that is “so much more me!” I’d put a little more thought into what that says about me, but I am so tired of self-analysis. That was so last month. (Ha. That’s actually pretty funny, since if there is ONE thing that humans never get tired of it is their individual selves. We people think that we (the individual) are SO unique, SO interesting, SUCH a mystery…blah, blah.)
[Ooops. Now that I’m looking back at this I’ve realized that the whole blog is about me. How embarrassing.]
Bottom line: I shall endeavor to use this space in an interesting manner. Perhaps I shall write. Perhaps I shall post hundreds of photos of Charles Rabbit. Perhaps I will translate popular song lyrics into Spanish. It’s hard to say. I guess you’ll have to keep watching to find out.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
And She Don't Care
It appears that I have lost my desire to blog. I know, I know. You had no idea. I did a good job of covering it up, I admit. Anyone who happened upon my blog would surely have no idea...but it's true.
Hold your tears. Never fear: I am certain that one day I will again have many thoughts that I feel compelled to share with anyone bored enough to stop by here and read them. Lately, however, while I have had many, many, many thoughts, they've all been the sort that my mind guards jealously. I know that common theory holds that we should all be very "sharing," but my mind has never bought into that popular culture stuff. It does its own thing, and it feels quite all right about that. Who am I to question such contentment?
Since I'm typing, I'll update the nonexistent reader on my current state of affairs. I am sitting in a hotel room in Cincinnati. I just returned from a very tasty dinner that was followed by a very tasty dessert: Hot chocolate creme brulee. Dee. Lish. Ous. It tasted exactly like hot chocolate, but with a bit of a cayenne kick at the end. I will likely crave it for the rest of my life. Were I not extraordinarily confident that I will develop other more easily-satisfied cravings I might feel despondent at this thought. As it is, I just wish my cravings would start to skew more toward cucumbers and further away from buttery, creamy richness.
I might read for a bit, since I'm clearly not inspired to write. Oh! I have an idea! Any non-existent readers that don't read this can feel free to suggest a short story topic or idea, then I'll write that (very) short story as a posting! YES! I am totally off the hook, as my non-existent blogging has led to a very, very, very small blog following. Pretty close to zero, I think.
I hope I don't read this later and suggest a short story topic for myself. Damn. I should have considered that danger before posting such a brash and overconfident suggestion. I can never fully trust myself when it comes to things like this...
For the past few days, I've been sort-of planning out the travel that I intend to do over the course of next year. Hmmm. I guess that's all I feel like saying about that. Hmmm. Sometimes I'm difficult to carry on a conversation with. I feel like I'm pulling teeth here. I hope I don't look bored and offend myself.
Should I paint my toenails? Pro: They would like nicer. Con: I'm in a hotel room with no fingernail polish remover. Pro argument: You can clean them and paint over the existing polish. Con argument: Don't be stupid.
Not sure that I've answered my own question. I'll just stop thinking about it for a while again.
So.... how's work? Things are pretty crazy at my job. Plenty busy, we are. Very good in this economy.
I hear a very weird noise and I can't tell where it's coming from. Sounds like from the room below me, but that can't be right. I don't recall ever hearing noises from the room below me before.
Well, I've really enjoyed this but I have some work to do and I had better do it before it gets too late. Plus I'm still debating whether or not I should head to the fitness room. Maybe I'll wait until the morning. Over and out!
Hold your tears. Never fear: I am certain that one day I will again have many thoughts that I feel compelled to share with anyone bored enough to stop by here and read them. Lately, however, while I have had many, many, many thoughts, they've all been the sort that my mind guards jealously. I know that common theory holds that we should all be very "sharing," but my mind has never bought into that popular culture stuff. It does its own thing, and it feels quite all right about that. Who am I to question such contentment?
Since I'm typing, I'll update the nonexistent reader on my current state of affairs. I am sitting in a hotel room in Cincinnati. I just returned from a very tasty dinner that was followed by a very tasty dessert: Hot chocolate creme brulee. Dee. Lish. Ous. It tasted exactly like hot chocolate, but with a bit of a cayenne kick at the end. I will likely crave it for the rest of my life. Were I not extraordinarily confident that I will develop other more easily-satisfied cravings I might feel despondent at this thought. As it is, I just wish my cravings would start to skew more toward cucumbers and further away from buttery, creamy richness.
I might read for a bit, since I'm clearly not inspired to write. Oh! I have an idea! Any non-existent readers that don't read this can feel free to suggest a short story topic or idea, then I'll write that (very) short story as a posting! YES! I am totally off the hook, as my non-existent blogging has led to a very, very, very small blog following. Pretty close to zero, I think.
I hope I don't read this later and suggest a short story topic for myself. Damn. I should have considered that danger before posting such a brash and overconfident suggestion. I can never fully trust myself when it comes to things like this...
For the past few days, I've been sort-of planning out the travel that I intend to do over the course of next year. Hmmm. I guess that's all I feel like saying about that. Hmmm. Sometimes I'm difficult to carry on a conversation with. I feel like I'm pulling teeth here. I hope I don't look bored and offend myself.
Should I paint my toenails? Pro: They would like nicer. Con: I'm in a hotel room with no fingernail polish remover. Pro argument: You can clean them and paint over the existing polish. Con argument: Don't be stupid.
Not sure that I've answered my own question. I'll just stop thinking about it for a while again.
So.... how's work? Things are pretty crazy at my job. Plenty busy, we are. Very good in this economy.
I hear a very weird noise and I can't tell where it's coming from. Sounds like from the room below me, but that can't be right. I don't recall ever hearing noises from the room below me before.
Well, I've really enjoyed this but I have some work to do and I had better do it before it gets too late. Plus I'm still debating whether or not I should head to the fitness room. Maybe I'll wait until the morning. Over and out!
Sunday, August 02, 2009
"Have you been writing on your blog lately?" my mother asked, her inquiry making it obvious that she has not been visiting it.
In light of this, I considered fabricating a rich and colorful story in which I have been posting daily, and in which my postings have generated the interest of secret society that has contacted me and sworn me to perform a very dangerous mission. I cannot, of course, reveal the nature of that mission and - sadly - they insisted that I remove the VERY interesting post that had caught their notice in the first place. I am not - in my colorful alter-world - at liberty to discuss the topic further, but I DO regret that my mother was not keeping up with my blogging.
"No." I replied. A pause. "I should really get back into that habit."
Now I am distracted by two thoughts. 1 - I have - since that time (mere weeks ago...things change quickly in my world) given up the concept of "should." There is - I tell myself - no "should" - at least not in relation to my behaviors. There is "I choose to" and "I choose not to." That's it. If I do not choose to blog, I don't blog. If I choose to blog, I blog. I am full of mini-altered-life-perspective endeavors like this, and I am curious to see how this one will play out. 2 - How long does it take to form a habit? If I do this two nights in a row, can I say that I'm "in the habit?" What's the technical difference between an "old habit" and a "new habit?"
While I would very much like to explore these distracting questions further, I can't - for two reasons. 1 - I have noticed how late it is growing and realizing that I will not at all enjoy getting up for work in the morning, and 2 - my right ear is feeling quite funny. It's sort of fluttery, but not exactly plugged, and I think I'm going to need to take some time to ponder what sort of health crisis might be headed my way. I'll definitely need to think on it a bit before bed, so I'll have to stop writing.
I'm still going to count this as the beginning of a habit.
In light of this, I considered fabricating a rich and colorful story in which I have been posting daily, and in which my postings have generated the interest of secret society that has contacted me and sworn me to perform a very dangerous mission. I cannot, of course, reveal the nature of that mission and - sadly - they insisted that I remove the VERY interesting post that had caught their notice in the first place. I am not - in my colorful alter-world - at liberty to discuss the topic further, but I DO regret that my mother was not keeping up with my blogging.
"No." I replied. A pause. "I should really get back into that habit."
Now I am distracted by two thoughts. 1 - I have - since that time (mere weeks ago...things change quickly in my world) given up the concept of "should." There is - I tell myself - no "should" - at least not in relation to my behaviors. There is "I choose to" and "I choose not to." That's it. If I do not choose to blog, I don't blog. If I choose to blog, I blog. I am full of mini-altered-life-perspective endeavors like this, and I am curious to see how this one will play out. 2 - How long does it take to form a habit? If I do this two nights in a row, can I say that I'm "in the habit?" What's the technical difference between an "old habit" and a "new habit?"
While I would very much like to explore these distracting questions further, I can't - for two reasons. 1 - I have noticed how late it is growing and realizing that I will not at all enjoy getting up for work in the morning, and 2 - my right ear is feeling quite funny. It's sort of fluttery, but not exactly plugged, and I think I'm going to need to take some time to ponder what sort of health crisis might be headed my way. I'll definitely need to think on it a bit before bed, so I'll have to stop writing.
I'm still going to count this as the beginning of a habit.
Monday, June 22, 2009
On Our Side
I am, I realize, starting to feel a bit compulsive...perhaps panicked... about the window of time that arrives on a daily basis, beginning just after I leave work and ending when I climb into my bed at night. I've found myself spending moments of time - sometimes short, sometimes long - throughout the day contemplating what would be the optimal use of my post-work, pre-bed opportunity. Sadly, all of this thought - and pressure - has effectively paralyzed me. Were it not for my near-nightly yoga class, I suspect that I would spend 75% of my evening hours frozen in a horrified panic, certain that I had chosen poorly.
What is this strange obsession that I have with time? I suppose that it is not so strange, after all. I am hardly the first human to have it, and it was perhaps even passed to me from another troubled spirit. For as long as I can remember, it has existed in one form or another. As a teenager and young adult, I filled my rooms with clocks. Digital clocks, battery-operated clocks, clocks that had to be wound regularly....I was generous with my affection, accepting of clocks of all sorts of appearances and of varying degrees of accuracy. In fact, I've always taken a bit of perverse pleasure from clocks that are not synchronized. The louder, the better. Let them all scream their perceptions of fading moments, argue our position in the universal calendar.
Now, in my kitchen, there is a clock that refuses to acknowledge daylight saving's time, and another that runs parallel to its nearest neighbor. The clock in the bedroom maintains - always - that the time is four minutes ahead of whatever the microwave says, and the clock on my cell phone considers itself superior, foolishly feeling secure and comforted by regular check-ins with a network satellite. The clock on the VCR has faded away, the light dimming as the technology inside its host machine becomes obsolete. In my car, the clock amuses itself by changing - periodically - without warning. I know always that it is not accurate, but never by what degree it mocks this illusion. I find this cacophony of time-keepers reassuring. The fact that time surrounds me in varying degrees of existence, but never in agreement, fills me with a sort of hopefulness. The truth, I think, is buried within this discord. If I could only find the time to discover it...
What is this strange obsession that I have with time? I suppose that it is not so strange, after all. I am hardly the first human to have it, and it was perhaps even passed to me from another troubled spirit. For as long as I can remember, it has existed in one form or another. As a teenager and young adult, I filled my rooms with clocks. Digital clocks, battery-operated clocks, clocks that had to be wound regularly....I was generous with my affection, accepting of clocks of all sorts of appearances and of varying degrees of accuracy. In fact, I've always taken a bit of perverse pleasure from clocks that are not synchronized. The louder, the better. Let them all scream their perceptions of fading moments, argue our position in the universal calendar.
Now, in my kitchen, there is a clock that refuses to acknowledge daylight saving's time, and another that runs parallel to its nearest neighbor. The clock in the bedroom maintains - always - that the time is four minutes ahead of whatever the microwave says, and the clock on my cell phone considers itself superior, foolishly feeling secure and comforted by regular check-ins with a network satellite. The clock on the VCR has faded away, the light dimming as the technology inside its host machine becomes obsolete. In my car, the clock amuses itself by changing - periodically - without warning. I know always that it is not accurate, but never by what degree it mocks this illusion. I find this cacophony of time-keepers reassuring. The fact that time surrounds me in varying degrees of existence, but never in agreement, fills me with a sort of hopefulness. The truth, I think, is buried within this discord. If I could only find the time to discover it...
Monday, May 18, 2009
Yesterday, as I bounced on my trampoline,
A spider descended, rapidly, from the ceiling
Inches from my face
Suspended by his own magic
Perhaps I jumped, startled
But I wouldn't know
I was already jumping
I watched as he landed
Softly on the radiator
And bounced
A jumping spider!
In unison we jumped
For several moments
Perfect synchronicity
Jumping spider
Jumping woman
Just jumping
A spider descended, rapidly, from the ceiling
Inches from my face
Suspended by his own magic
Perhaps I jumped, startled
But I wouldn't know
I was already jumping
I watched as he landed
Softly on the radiator
And bounced
A jumping spider!
In unison we jumped
For several moments
Perfect synchronicity
Jumping spider
Jumping woman
Just jumping
Friday, May 01, 2009
Typical Morning (Or "Hey, At Least I'm Blogging")
5:45 am: Alarm goes off. I contemplate turning the alarm off and rolling over, but decide potential consequences outweigh enjoyment of extra sleep. I’m up, and out of bed.
5:47 am: Charlie has noticed I’m up. Immediately begins throwing wire pen around.
5:48 am: Charlie can’t believe I’m still ignoring him. Throws pen even more violently.
6:09 am: Initial pet care is complete. Dog out and fed, birds fed and watered, rabbits watered and given treats, and Charlie and Janie released for morning exercise time.
6:10 am: Charlie, after his 20 minute tantrum during which he acted as if the confining walls of his pen were stifling his life essence and reducing him to near-death, has positioned himself under the table where he has fulfilled the urgent need to….recline, apparently.
6:30 am: Only 20 minutes into “bird-time” and I’ve already been bitten several times and broken up at least 3 bird fights.
6:31 am: Magazine that I’m reading suggests that my life will be completely different if I own these “key basics.” I analyze basics and consider potential impact on my life. Decide that Charlie would definitely chew on "key basics," birds would poop on them, and Juliet would shed all over them. Seems like it wouldn't be much different from current life.
6:32 am: Charlie is eating carpet. Yell at him.
6:33 am: Janie has been corrupted and has started eating carpet. Yell at her.
7:00 am: Birds back, cut “morning apple” for rabbits, begin prepping food for day’s lunch and snacks.
7:03 am: Charlie has finished his apple and is trying to run – unseen – through the kitchen into the “forbidden zone.”
7:25 am: Have finished food prep for day: Salad made, apple chopped, watermelon cubed, cheese and crackers gathered. Eat breakfast.
7:30 am: Have changed litterbox and added hay to Charlie and Janie’s cage. Begin trying to reason Charlie back into his area.
7:33 am: Charlie is not interested in reason. Start trying to chase him back into his area.
7:35 am: Charlie is thoroughly enjoying the “chase me” game and circles the table repeatedly in glee.
7:37 am: Charlie and Janie successfully contained. Now running late. Petula whining at the top of her lungs, already. Get in shower.
7:47 am: Out of shower, getting dressed. Wearing yellow – bad idea, as it requires extra make-up. Too late to change.
8:10 am: Arrive at work, late. Greeted by email from client who has misunderstood entire project process and is making impossible demands. Wonder why I am so tired.
5:47 am: Charlie has noticed I’m up. Immediately begins throwing wire pen around.
5:48 am: Charlie can’t believe I’m still ignoring him. Throws pen even more violently.
6:09 am: Initial pet care is complete. Dog out and fed, birds fed and watered, rabbits watered and given treats, and Charlie and Janie released for morning exercise time.
6:10 am: Charlie, after his 20 minute tantrum during which he acted as if the confining walls of his pen were stifling his life essence and reducing him to near-death, has positioned himself under the table where he has fulfilled the urgent need to….recline, apparently.
6:30 am: Only 20 minutes into “bird-time” and I’ve already been bitten several times and broken up at least 3 bird fights.
6:31 am: Magazine that I’m reading suggests that my life will be completely different if I own these “key basics.” I analyze basics and consider potential impact on my life. Decide that Charlie would definitely chew on "key basics," birds would poop on them, and Juliet would shed all over them. Seems like it wouldn't be much different from current life.
6:32 am: Charlie is eating carpet. Yell at him.
6:33 am: Janie has been corrupted and has started eating carpet. Yell at her.
7:00 am: Birds back, cut “morning apple” for rabbits, begin prepping food for day’s lunch and snacks.
7:03 am: Charlie has finished his apple and is trying to run – unseen – through the kitchen into the “forbidden zone.”
7:25 am: Have finished food prep for day: Salad made, apple chopped, watermelon cubed, cheese and crackers gathered. Eat breakfast.
7:30 am: Have changed litterbox and added hay to Charlie and Janie’s cage. Begin trying to reason Charlie back into his area.
7:33 am: Charlie is not interested in reason. Start trying to chase him back into his area.
7:35 am: Charlie is thoroughly enjoying the “chase me” game and circles the table repeatedly in glee.
7:37 am: Charlie and Janie successfully contained. Now running late. Petula whining at the top of her lungs, already. Get in shower.
7:47 am: Out of shower, getting dressed. Wearing yellow – bad idea, as it requires extra make-up. Too late to change.
8:10 am: Arrive at work, late. Greeted by email from client who has misunderstood entire project process and is making impossible demands. Wonder why I am so tired.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?
We were on a tour, between activities, when my parents and I found ourselves the reluctant captive audience of our tour guide. During our time in Thailand, my mother and I had observed that these tours guides were oddly drawn to my father - pulled by some force that neither of us could see. Because we tended to be in the vicinity of each other, my mother and I often found ourselves a part of the father/tour guide bonding experience.
“I think,” asserted the guide, a native of Thailand who spoke English reasonably well, “these movies now, they no good.”
He took a moment to evaluate our reactions. I stared blankly. My mother stared, slightly quizzically. My father was nodding, already looking like he had something to contribute to the conversation.
“Not like old movies,” the guide continued, his enthusiasm for the topic clearly building, “Not like cowboy! Yes,” he grinned and nodded. “Cowboy! American western. Very good.”
He smiled broadly, looking in turn at each of our faces. I already knew what was next. Another mystery of Thailand, I’d discovered, was the way that people repeated themselves over and over. This seemed to be especially prevalent among tour guides. I had already lost count of the number of times that we had discussed the day’s agenda on this tour.
“Cowboy, very good!” The tour guide continued enthusing. “Not like movies today. Today movies no good. Very bad.”
“Well,” said my father, who had been waiting for an opportunity to join the discussion, “I wouldn’t say they’re ALL bad. There are SOME of them that are OKAY.” He stressed key words as he spoke, drawing them out. This was his discourse technique. He was acknowledging the validity of what his conversational partner said, but implying that there may be more layers to the topic – layers that he would be happy to expand upon. Generally this technique works very well for him, often resulting in an engaging and lively conversation that he derives great enjoyment from.
The tour guide stared at him for a long moment, face devoid of expression. There was a heavy pause as – for a time – both my parents and I watched him.
“I think,” he said, finally, “movies today, they no good.”
It was as if my father had never spoken. This was also not uncommon in Thailand, and had to do with the cultural value of "saving face." It did not - as a rule - deter my father.
“Before,” he continued, gesturing with his hands, “the movies, the cowboys, they show us America.” He nodded, once again beaming broadly at us. “Yes. They show us American life. Very good. Very good.”
His face changed, an expression of disgust filling it. “Today, movies no good. What they show? No good. No cowboys.”
Despite my affection for independent film, which I am fairly certain falls into the genre classified by our tour guide as “no good,” I had to concede that he had a point. There are shockingly few cowboys in today’s films. He had us there. I briefly considered bringing up “Brokeback Mountain,” but decided that it was too risky. There was a high probability that the conversation could rapidly degenerate, particularly if I had to start describing the plot in order for him to figure out which movie I was referring to.
My father appeared to be revving up for another attempt at conversation when – fortunately – our tour guide was distracted by additional members of our party.
As he hurried off, waving and shouting enthusiastically, I sat back to wait. There was, I knew, no need to worry about where he was going or what he was going on about. He’d be back. They were always back. As long as I stayed close to my father, I was safe.
“I think,” asserted the guide, a native of Thailand who spoke English reasonably well, “these movies now, they no good.”
He took a moment to evaluate our reactions. I stared blankly. My mother stared, slightly quizzically. My father was nodding, already looking like he had something to contribute to the conversation.
“Not like old movies,” the guide continued, his enthusiasm for the topic clearly building, “Not like cowboy! Yes,” he grinned and nodded. “Cowboy! American western. Very good.”
He smiled broadly, looking in turn at each of our faces. I already knew what was next. Another mystery of Thailand, I’d discovered, was the way that people repeated themselves over and over. This seemed to be especially prevalent among tour guides. I had already lost count of the number of times that we had discussed the day’s agenda on this tour.
“Cowboy, very good!” The tour guide continued enthusing. “Not like movies today. Today movies no good. Very bad.”
“Well,” said my father, who had been waiting for an opportunity to join the discussion, “I wouldn’t say they’re ALL bad. There are SOME of them that are OKAY.” He stressed key words as he spoke, drawing them out. This was his discourse technique. He was acknowledging the validity of what his conversational partner said, but implying that there may be more layers to the topic – layers that he would be happy to expand upon. Generally this technique works very well for him, often resulting in an engaging and lively conversation that he derives great enjoyment from.
The tour guide stared at him for a long moment, face devoid of expression. There was a heavy pause as – for a time – both my parents and I watched him.
“I think,” he said, finally, “movies today, they no good.”
It was as if my father had never spoken. This was also not uncommon in Thailand, and had to do with the cultural value of "saving face." It did not - as a rule - deter my father.
“Before,” he continued, gesturing with his hands, “the movies, the cowboys, they show us America.” He nodded, once again beaming broadly at us. “Yes. They show us American life. Very good. Very good.”
His face changed, an expression of disgust filling it. “Today, movies no good. What they show? No good. No cowboys.”
Despite my affection for independent film, which I am fairly certain falls into the genre classified by our tour guide as “no good,” I had to concede that he had a point. There are shockingly few cowboys in today’s films. He had us there. I briefly considered bringing up “Brokeback Mountain,” but decided that it was too risky. There was a high probability that the conversation could rapidly degenerate, particularly if I had to start describing the plot in order for him to figure out which movie I was referring to.
My father appeared to be revving up for another attempt at conversation when – fortunately – our tour guide was distracted by additional members of our party.
As he hurried off, waving and shouting enthusiastically, I sat back to wait. There was, I knew, no need to worry about where he was going or what he was going on about. He’d be back. They were always back. As long as I stayed close to my father, I was safe.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
One Night In Bangkok
Tonight is the second-to-last night that I will spend in Bangkok, at least on this trip. I think we can safely say at least for this year, since I am using up all of my allotted time off from work. It is certainly worth it.
There is much that I wish to say and write about my time here, and what I have seen and learned, but tonight I am not ready to say or write it. Tonight I will share only a few words.
This evening, as we were leaving a restaurant after a lovely dinner, we saw - outside the door - a large tray holding at least 30 crabs, claws bundled tightly to prevent them from moving. They were stacked together like bricks, beautiful variations of red and orange. My brother stretched a finger out and stroked the shell of one of the crabs, between the beady eyes. The crab retracted its eyes, the only part of it that had not been bound. It retreated, in fear, the only way that it could.
We left them, mere feet from the scene of their inevitable executions. I looked inside the restaurant windows, at the tables filled with customers laughing and eating. The tables were filled with the remnants of former bodies. Prawn shells, crab leg casings, lobster cartilage. The colors were still beautiful - red, coral, orange.
I wondered, then, what the crabs saw at the last moment, how long their eyes remained attached. Did they see the diners at their tables, or where they carred through a back door? Did they see waitstaff? Pots? I've read about the way that crabs are prepared for cooking, and I know that traditionally they are kept alive as their parts are harvested. The eyes, I understand, are the first thing that is cut off.
The crabs sit now, I'm sure, fewer in number. Their eyes, still attached, can stare only at the Bangkok street in front of them, or at the people that stop, like us, to examine them, or at the hand that finally reaches for them.
There is much that I wish to say and write about my time here, and what I have seen and learned, but tonight I am not ready to say or write it. Tonight I will share only a few words.
This evening, as we were leaving a restaurant after a lovely dinner, we saw - outside the door - a large tray holding at least 30 crabs, claws bundled tightly to prevent them from moving. They were stacked together like bricks, beautiful variations of red and orange. My brother stretched a finger out and stroked the shell of one of the crabs, between the beady eyes. The crab retracted its eyes, the only part of it that had not been bound. It retreated, in fear, the only way that it could.
We left them, mere feet from the scene of their inevitable executions. I looked inside the restaurant windows, at the tables filled with customers laughing and eating. The tables were filled with the remnants of former bodies. Prawn shells, crab leg casings, lobster cartilage. The colors were still beautiful - red, coral, orange.
I wondered, then, what the crabs saw at the last moment, how long their eyes remained attached. Did they see the diners at their tables, or where they carred through a back door? Did they see waitstaff? Pots? I've read about the way that crabs are prepared for cooking, and I know that traditionally they are kept alive as their parts are harvested. The eyes, I understand, are the first thing that is cut off.
The crabs sit now, I'm sure, fewer in number. Their eyes, still attached, can stare only at the Bangkok street in front of them, or at the people that stop, like us, to examine them, or at the hand that finally reaches for them.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Evidence
Exhibit A: The Cubicle
The cubicle shows considerable evidence of K. Ruvalcaba inhabitation. Perhaps more evidence - in fact - than any other area that has been examined. There are assorted pieces of silverware tucked between desktop items. Additionally, there are an unusually high number of job jackets that seem to move about during periods of inobservation. Crumbs on the floor suggest the consumptions of foodstuffs - another indicator of a species Ruvalcabalis presence.
Exhibit B: The Automobile
The automobile shows considerable signs of life-forms. Due to the heavy layer of canine fur that coats all surfaces, it is difficult to determine exactly what sort of beings have utilized this space. Objects currently being excavated from beneath the fur appear - at this stage - to be 1) a yoga mat, 2) sunglasses, 3) a library-loaned book on cd.
Exhibit C: The Condo
The condo is filled with exotic species of creatures. Among the documented species:
1) 1 Caninus-Pastis-Primus. The main pastime of this animal appears to be sleep.
2) 1 tiny (but fierce) Green Warrior Bird From Hell. Very rare, and very, very dangerous. It is advised that this bird be avoided whenever possible.
3) 1 Birdus Dramaticus. The most outstanding feature of this avian is the exuberant bouffant that it sports atop its head.
4) 2 Ear-deficient rabbits. These particular creatures – while willing to interact on a limited basis – seem to lose interest when foodstuffs are not presented within a matter of seconds.
5) 2 Excessive-eared rabbits. Wicked, wicked things. We are unable to observe from a close vantage point as the chocolate-brown one throws things around in such an angry manner that we fear for our safety.
The flourishing health of the documented exotic species is the best evidence that has been found so far of the purported existence of the K. Ruvalcabalis. The investigation will remain open.
The cubicle shows considerable evidence of K. Ruvalcaba inhabitation. Perhaps more evidence - in fact - than any other area that has been examined. There are assorted pieces of silverware tucked between desktop items. Additionally, there are an unusually high number of job jackets that seem to move about during periods of inobservation. Crumbs on the floor suggest the consumptions of foodstuffs - another indicator of a species Ruvalcabalis presence.
Exhibit B: The Automobile
The automobile shows considerable signs of life-forms. Due to the heavy layer of canine fur that coats all surfaces, it is difficult to determine exactly what sort of beings have utilized this space. Objects currently being excavated from beneath the fur appear - at this stage - to be 1) a yoga mat, 2) sunglasses, 3) a library-loaned book on cd.
Exhibit C: The Condo
The condo is filled with exotic species of creatures. Among the documented species:
1) 1 Caninus-Pastis-Primus. The main pastime of this animal appears to be sleep.
2) 1 tiny (but fierce) Green Warrior Bird From Hell. Very rare, and very, very dangerous. It is advised that this bird be avoided whenever possible.
3) 1 Birdus Dramaticus. The most outstanding feature of this avian is the exuberant bouffant that it sports atop its head.
4) 2 Ear-deficient rabbits. These particular creatures – while willing to interact on a limited basis – seem to lose interest when foodstuffs are not presented within a matter of seconds.
5) 2 Excessive-eared rabbits. Wicked, wicked things. We are unable to observe from a close vantage point as the chocolate-brown one throws things around in such an angry manner that we fear for our safety.
The flourishing health of the documented exotic species is the best evidence that has been found so far of the purported existence of the K. Ruvalcabalis. The investigation will remain open.
Friday, January 30, 2009
My Perogative
I am almost certain that I have decided upon the color that I would choose for my skin, were I not restricted to the naturally occurring colors in nature. I would be fuschia. This was not an easy decision to come to, particularly as I've been quite fond of green and orange - in general - lately. In fact, even as I think about green now I am tempted to switch. But, no - fuschia it would be. With lovely teal hair, I think.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Back To Earth
Perhaps you've been wondering why there have been no new postings to this blog lately? (Or perhaps not....but I shall not even consider that as a REAL option.) Well, as it turns out, I spent five days with my mother for our Annual Mother/Daughter Fantastic Birthday Bonding Extravaganza. It kept me quite busy, you see. Sure - it's true that I MIGHT have been expected to return to writing after she left, but then - you know - I had to go back to work. Going back to work after three days of PTO is a horrible experience. (Side note: I don't even want to THINK ABOUT what it will be like after two weeks of PTO in March, when we jaunt over to Bangkok. Aargh!)
Here's a bit of a clue as to how much recovery time this PTO will require: It's Sunday night at approximately 8:30 pm. I am working. I have been working for 4 hours. I have not even crossed off 1/10 of the items on my "Urgent To-Do" list. Sigh. Woe is me. (Side note: My father is probably giddy with delight at this point, as he considers each additional task imposed upon me to be a harbinger of employment stability. Sympathy is not required, in his opinion. Effusive congratulations, on the other hand, are quite appropriate.)
[Random thought: I should not have eaten two donuts today. Why did I do that? Prior to today's donut incident, I had allowed nearly an entire year to pass by in which I had only consumed two donuts. Why would I suddenly need to match last year's record in a matter of minutes?]
Before I sign off to continue my work (with the promise of "real" postings resuming this week), I want to extoll the virtues of my latest venture in the yoga world: AcroYoga. This - my friends - is truly amazing. Today, in a two-hour Acroyoga workshop, I learned the most fantastic things about trust, community, and yoga. (I also learned that when you suspect someone has weak and spindly limbs that cannot support your body weight, you may very well be correct, despite any demonstrations of overconfidence and declarations of "experience.") You will hear more about this topic soon - believe me.
Here's a bit of a clue as to how much recovery time this PTO will require: It's Sunday night at approximately 8:30 pm. I am working. I have been working for 4 hours. I have not even crossed off 1/10 of the items on my "Urgent To-Do" list. Sigh. Woe is me. (Side note: My father is probably giddy with delight at this point, as he considers each additional task imposed upon me to be a harbinger of employment stability. Sympathy is not required, in his opinion. Effusive congratulations, on the other hand, are quite appropriate.)
[Random thought: I should not have eaten two donuts today. Why did I do that? Prior to today's donut incident, I had allowed nearly an entire year to pass by in which I had only consumed two donuts. Why would I suddenly need to match last year's record in a matter of minutes?]
Before I sign off to continue my work (with the promise of "real" postings resuming this week), I want to extoll the virtues of my latest venture in the yoga world: AcroYoga. This - my friends - is truly amazing. Today, in a two-hour Acroyoga workshop, I learned the most fantastic things about trust, community, and yoga. (I also learned that when you suspect someone has weak and spindly limbs that cannot support your body weight, you may very well be correct, despite any demonstrations of overconfidence and declarations of "experience.") You will hear more about this topic soon - believe me.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Pop
It's not the popcorn addiction in itself that concerns me....it's what that popcorn might represent.
Popcorn - after all - is an incredibly violent food.
Had this addiction developed years ago, I might be able to dismiss it. It could - I would theorize - be just a "chance" addiction, born out of ignorance. The truth of the matter - however - is that I developed my habit AFTER I read the full - raw - truths about popcorn.
It started nearly a month ago when I received some fresh ears of popcorn in my CSA volunteer goody-box. What, I wondered, is popcorn, exactly? Why doesn't any-old-sort-of-corn pop? WHY does popcorn "pop?"
The research led to some ugly, ugly truths. Why does popcorn pop? Because it's being heated to high, high temperatures....UNBEARABLE temperatures...and because the poor kernel can't breathe. That's right. Air cannot escape the little morsel, and - in one horrific, violent moment - its center liquifies as the husk explodes. The now-liquid inner kernel hardens as it hits the air - one final gasp as rigor mortis sets in.
I warned you. It is not pretty.
What does it mean, then, that since learning the truth about the horrific ending that each kernel of popcorn meets in my Whirly-Pop popcorn exploder, I eat it nearly every night? What sort of horrible monster am I?
Popcorn - after all - is an incredibly violent food.
Had this addiction developed years ago, I might be able to dismiss it. It could - I would theorize - be just a "chance" addiction, born out of ignorance. The truth of the matter - however - is that I developed my habit AFTER I read the full - raw - truths about popcorn.
It started nearly a month ago when I received some fresh ears of popcorn in my CSA volunteer goody-box. What, I wondered, is popcorn, exactly? Why doesn't any-old-sort-of-corn pop? WHY does popcorn "pop?"
The research led to some ugly, ugly truths. Why does popcorn pop? Because it's being heated to high, high temperatures....UNBEARABLE temperatures...and because the poor kernel can't breathe. That's right. Air cannot escape the little morsel, and - in one horrific, violent moment - its center liquifies as the husk explodes. The now-liquid inner kernel hardens as it hits the air - one final gasp as rigor mortis sets in.
I warned you. It is not pretty.
What does it mean, then, that since learning the truth about the horrific ending that each kernel of popcorn meets in my Whirly-Pop popcorn exploder, I eat it nearly every night? What sort of horrible monster am I?
Thursday, January 08, 2009
A Post
[Behind the scenes of this blog posting: I spent a great deal of time wavering back and forth on potential topics. I even began writing a posting, which quickly turned so melancholy that I deleted the entire thing. At that point, I was sorely tempted to ditch the project and crawl into bed with my copy of "Through The Looking Glass." No - I reminded myself. Your intent is to do a bit of writing everyday. It doesn't have to conform to any standards or notions of what it "should be." I resigned myself to trying again, but - alas - my creative juices are shriveled. This could easily diverge - at this point - into a posting about WHY the juices are dried up (clue: because of work, the severe intellectual fatigue that it induces, and the copious amounts of my time that it has been consuming) but that's not what I want to discuss either. So here's what I'll do: Bore you with random details about today. Aren't you glad I've set this new personal goal?]
Tonight I bought bunny hay. Two five-gallon tubs of it, for which I paid an entire $8.00. (Courtesy of the House Rabbit Society) Earlier this week, in a moment of desperation (the hay connection has been out of town), I paid over $10.oo for a measly bag of dried-out, unflavorful hay at the pet store.
It was clearly not up to the standards of the rabbits-in-residence, and much time and effort was put into demonstrating that fact to me. Elaborate sniffing sessions took place, during which the rabbits would initially rush toward the hay, as if they had been waiting for hay all of their lives, then stop short at the edge of the mound. Bodies leaning back, they would stretch what little neck they have forward and sniff - testily - at the dried grasses. Tossing their heads, they would - each of them - run back toward me as if expecting the "REAL" hay to be produced. This would go on for some time, and - each time - when "good hay" did not appear the rabbits would spend the next half hour scattering hay around their enclosures.
This ritual has been happening - without fail - twice a day for five days. I am glad to be done with it.
Now, as I type, a happy, sprawled-out Charlie lies underneath the table, close to my feet. Janie tugs at my pants leg, suggesting that I pay a bit more attention to her. When I finish typing this, I will do a bit of work - but not as much as some nights.
I bet you that - despite the warning delivered in the preamble to this posting - you still expected there to be a point, didn't you? There isn't.
Tonight I bought bunny hay. Two five-gallon tubs of it, for which I paid an entire $8.00. (Courtesy of the House Rabbit Society) Earlier this week, in a moment of desperation (the hay connection has been out of town), I paid over $10.oo for a measly bag of dried-out, unflavorful hay at the pet store.
It was clearly not up to the standards of the rabbits-in-residence, and much time and effort was put into demonstrating that fact to me. Elaborate sniffing sessions took place, during which the rabbits would initially rush toward the hay, as if they had been waiting for hay all of their lives, then stop short at the edge of the mound. Bodies leaning back, they would stretch what little neck they have forward and sniff - testily - at the dried grasses. Tossing their heads, they would - each of them - run back toward me as if expecting the "REAL" hay to be produced. This would go on for some time, and - each time - when "good hay" did not appear the rabbits would spend the next half hour scattering hay around their enclosures.
This ritual has been happening - without fail - twice a day for five days. I am glad to be done with it.
Now, as I type, a happy, sprawled-out Charlie lies underneath the table, close to my feet. Janie tugs at my pants leg, suggesting that I pay a bit more attention to her. When I finish typing this, I will do a bit of work - but not as much as some nights.
I bet you that - despite the warning delivered in the preamble to this posting - you still expected there to be a point, didn't you? There isn't.
Monday, January 05, 2009
The Final Nail
Today, after my massage, the massage therapist stared at me thoughtfully for a few moments.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good. I feel good. The shoulders feel much better." I hoped that my response was enthusiastic enough. I never feel quite certain - in circumstances like these - of the appropriate answers.
She nodded, still looking thoughtful.
"That's good," she said, at last. Then there was a pause. "It feels," she continued, finally, "like your left hip is still further forward than your right."
[There really is no story here. This is it. If you don't understand why I would post this, then I must refer you the the posting directly preceding this one - "You Put Your Right Hand In."]
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good. I feel good. The shoulders feel much better." I hoped that my response was enthusiastic enough. I never feel quite certain - in circumstances like these - of the appropriate answers.
She nodded, still looking thoughtful.
"That's good," she said, at last. Then there was a pause. "It feels," she continued, finally, "like your left hip is still further forward than your right."
[There really is no story here. This is it. If you don't understand why I would post this, then I must refer you the the posting directly preceding this one - "You Put Your Right Hand In."]
Sunday, January 04, 2009
You Put Your Right Hand In
A number of years ago, as a new student to Pilates, I was informed by my instructor – an intimidating drill-sergeant sort of woman – that I was completely lopsided. I was, she continued, horrendously unbalanced – my right side completely dominating my left. Her tone implied that I was as close to a freak of nature as anything that she’d seen in some time.
As I grew to know this woman, I understood that I could not be bothered to take personal offense with anything that she said. Were I to do so, I’d be unable to take her classes. “Tough love” would be far too kind a term to describe her teaching style. In spite of – or perhaps because of – this, I returned over and over to her classes. They were amazingly effective.
Besides, I couldn’t afford not to go – now that I knew about my horrible affliction. However had I had managed to live in ignorance for so long? After spending many long hours and days pondering the dilemma, I identified the root of this evil. Juliet Juniper. Caninus Maximus Strongus: the ultimate restraint-resistant 70-pound ball of canine muscle. Not only had I been walking 3-5 miles daily with her for eight years, but I had been doing it using only my right hand. Even worse: She strained against the leash the entire time we were walking, and if she spotted another dog she surged forward with enough power to have broken through several heavy-duty collars in her lifetime. It was, I realized, no wonder that the right half of my body had developed super-human strength.
Sadly, identifying the cause of the problem did not fix it overnight. My life – instead – became much more difficult as I began to walk Juliet with my left hand. This sucked. Juliet could overpower my left side with no trouble at all, which proved to be quite problematic – and embarrassing – on several occasions.
Many years (and many left-side specific exercises) later, I’ve grown much closer to a “balanced self.” My left side is still not as strong as my right, but it plays a good game. Imagine, then, how disturbed I was to notice – last week – that my right hand (and other right-side parts, by extension) had begun to step in where it was not necessarily welcome. Without warning, it would reach for something that the left hand had intended to grasp, or it would assume control of a device just as the left hand had begun management.
Where, I wondered, had this attitude come from?
I had spent many years teaching my right hand that about the value of “stepping back,” of “working cooperatively.” Now it seemed as if none of these lessons had truly taken hold. After a period of thought, I identified a likely reason for this right-sided domination: my recently-developed addiction to the game of solitaire. The game I play is not just any solitaire....it is the sort of electronic solitaire that is available on my phone. You can imagine how handy this is. I play solitaire if I’m standing in a line, I play solitaire if I’m waiting for someone to meet me, I play solitaire if I’m talking on the phone. Sadly, I also play solitaire at many other times, including the time right before I drift off to sleep. Yes, that is right. Late at night, you can find me curled on my side, eyes drifting shut but hand – RIGHT hand – clinging to the bright face of my phone, moving the red 7 to the black 8.
It is embarrassing to admit to, this addiction. Even more so now that I realize the effect that is has had. You see, it is much easier to play solitaire with my right hand – especially if I am sleepy. As my addiction has increased, so has the strength and dexterity of my right hand.
This confession is not just embarrassing – it is detrimental. It is the reason that I find myself – tonight – working once again on reprogramming my body. LEFT hand, I remind myself sternly as I reach for the refrigerator door. LEFT HAND, I mentally shout as I lift ingredients off the cupboard shelf. Moments later, I reprimand my right hand for attempting to take control of the spoon.
As I eat my macaroni and cheese, my left hand – always a good sport – does its best to hold up its part of the arrangement. The first spoonful is so full of heaping macaroni that I nearly choke on it.
“That’s okay,” I assure my left hand, whose self-confidence is now flagging. “I’m really hungry anyway.”
The next spoonful contains a mere two pieces of macaroni. “Wow,” I enthuse, “way to adjust! You’re a fast learner!”
I hope that it doesn’t hear my stomach growling, protesting the slow pace at which dinner is now appearing. The third try is once again overflowing, and I briefly entertain the idea of letting the right hand – now sitting smugly next to the bowl, taunting me with its availability – take over. I see a tremor of uncertainty in the hand holding the spoon, and my resolve strengthens. My mouth closes firmly over the pasta, and I barely choke at all.
As I grew to know this woman, I understood that I could not be bothered to take personal offense with anything that she said. Were I to do so, I’d be unable to take her classes. “Tough love” would be far too kind a term to describe her teaching style. In spite of – or perhaps because of – this, I returned over and over to her classes. They were amazingly effective.
Besides, I couldn’t afford not to go – now that I knew about my horrible affliction. However had I had managed to live in ignorance for so long? After spending many long hours and days pondering the dilemma, I identified the root of this evil. Juliet Juniper. Caninus Maximus Strongus: the ultimate restraint-resistant 70-pound ball of canine muscle. Not only had I been walking 3-5 miles daily with her for eight years, but I had been doing it using only my right hand. Even worse: She strained against the leash the entire time we were walking, and if she spotted another dog she surged forward with enough power to have broken through several heavy-duty collars in her lifetime. It was, I realized, no wonder that the right half of my body had developed super-human strength.
Sadly, identifying the cause of the problem did not fix it overnight. My life – instead – became much more difficult as I began to walk Juliet with my left hand. This sucked. Juliet could overpower my left side with no trouble at all, which proved to be quite problematic – and embarrassing – on several occasions.
Many years (and many left-side specific exercises) later, I’ve grown much closer to a “balanced self.” My left side is still not as strong as my right, but it plays a good game. Imagine, then, how disturbed I was to notice – last week – that my right hand (and other right-side parts, by extension) had begun to step in where it was not necessarily welcome. Without warning, it would reach for something that the left hand had intended to grasp, or it would assume control of a device just as the left hand had begun management.
Where, I wondered, had this attitude come from?
I had spent many years teaching my right hand that about the value of “stepping back,” of “working cooperatively.” Now it seemed as if none of these lessons had truly taken hold. After a period of thought, I identified a likely reason for this right-sided domination: my recently-developed addiction to the game of solitaire. The game I play is not just any solitaire....it is the sort of electronic solitaire that is available on my phone. You can imagine how handy this is. I play solitaire if I’m standing in a line, I play solitaire if I’m waiting for someone to meet me, I play solitaire if I’m talking on the phone. Sadly, I also play solitaire at many other times, including the time right before I drift off to sleep. Yes, that is right. Late at night, you can find me curled on my side, eyes drifting shut but hand – RIGHT hand – clinging to the bright face of my phone, moving the red 7 to the black 8.
It is embarrassing to admit to, this addiction. Even more so now that I realize the effect that is has had. You see, it is much easier to play solitaire with my right hand – especially if I am sleepy. As my addiction has increased, so has the strength and dexterity of my right hand.
This confession is not just embarrassing – it is detrimental. It is the reason that I find myself – tonight – working once again on reprogramming my body. LEFT hand, I remind myself sternly as I reach for the refrigerator door. LEFT HAND, I mentally shout as I lift ingredients off the cupboard shelf. Moments later, I reprimand my right hand for attempting to take control of the spoon.
As I eat my macaroni and cheese, my left hand – always a good sport – does its best to hold up its part of the arrangement. The first spoonful is so full of heaping macaroni that I nearly choke on it.
“That’s okay,” I assure my left hand, whose self-confidence is now flagging. “I’m really hungry anyway.”
The next spoonful contains a mere two pieces of macaroni. “Wow,” I enthuse, “way to adjust! You’re a fast learner!”
I hope that it doesn’t hear my stomach growling, protesting the slow pace at which dinner is now appearing. The third try is once again overflowing, and I briefly entertain the idea of letting the right hand – now sitting smugly next to the bowl, taunting me with its availability – take over. I see a tremor of uncertainty in the hand holding the spoon, and my resolve strengthens. My mouth closes firmly over the pasta, and I barely choke at all.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Well Hello 2009. How Funny To See You Here.
For those of you who missed it, the calendar year of 2009 has come upon us. No, don't get up. He's an informal sort of fellow. In fact, he'll just hang around in the background while you go about your business. No - really. Keep doing what you're doing. He doesn't mind.
Yes, I'm sure.
In honor of 2009's arrival, I decided to humor him and his "resolution" fetish. He's waited a long time for this, after all. Over 2000 years. Because I have been a bit indecisive as late (thanks to his younger brother 2008 and his chaotic influence) I proposed that we use a bit of time - mutual time - to really make certain that I pick the resolutions that "work for both of us." (His words.)
I will, therefore, be using the month of January to "try out" some different resolutions and find "the right fit." There have been no decisions made as to the number of resolutions that are to come out of this experiment, but there is tacit agreement that the more difficult that they are to adhere to, the fewer I shall adopt.
I admit, I did try to use that unspoken agreement to sort of...well....cheat.
"I will," I stated, dramatically, "resolve to WILL myself into a man."
2009 was silent. I could feel the disapproval. He - apparently - doesn't take these resolutions as lightly as I do.
"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I've been reading lately about a number of species of animals....or at least fish... that spontaneously switch genders. I shall will myself to do that as well! This will - of course - be EXTRAORDINARILY difficult, so perhaps it should be my ONLY resolution."
I refrained from mentioning that at the slightest sign that such an experiment was having any effect I would be forced to cease all efforts immediately. I mean - really - who would want to be a man?
In disgust, 2009 threatened to leave.
"Fine." I conceded. "We'll pick something LESS INTERESTING." I sighed melodramatically, and affected an air of disdain that was meant to suggest that 2009 was LESS than "with the times." He - naturally - didn't even pause to consider such an absurd notion. (It was, admittedly, a lame affectation...what with him BEING "the times" and all.... but I was still smarting from the rejection of my proposed resolution.)
Since our conversation, we've resumed a semi-affable relationship and have been tossing ideas about all day. Most of mine have been shot down immediately. It appears that the resolution to not scratch itchy skin is not a lofty enough goal, and that the resolution to enjoy peanut butter is not an option - just because I ALREADY DO!
"Who," I asked, peeved, "Is making up these little rules?"
Still in the running: The resolution to write - a little something - every day; the resolution to try a new form of exercise every month; the resolution to tackle (unnamed - at my insistence) a long-ignored project.
"I can't help but notice," I sniffed, as we reviewed the potential candidates, "that - so far - all of my potential resolutions involve ME exerting effort, and YOU doing nothing but sitting back and watching."
2009 smiled, saying nothing. He didn't need to. He knows that I don't have - metaphorically - a leg to stand on. His role is not nothing. In the accomplishment of these resolutions, as in the selection of them, we will need to work as a team. At the moments of failure, it will be his role to offer me another chance, to pick me up and carry me forward to the next opportunity.
Still, I don't care for the smug look on his face.
Fortunately for me, nothing has been set yet. When it comes to the selection of my year's resolutions, time is on my side.
Yes, I'm sure.
In honor of 2009's arrival, I decided to humor him and his "resolution" fetish. He's waited a long time for this, after all. Over 2000 years. Because I have been a bit indecisive as late (thanks to his younger brother 2008 and his chaotic influence) I proposed that we use a bit of time - mutual time - to really make certain that I pick the resolutions that "work for both of us." (His words.)
I will, therefore, be using the month of January to "try out" some different resolutions and find "the right fit." There have been no decisions made as to the number of resolutions that are to come out of this experiment, but there is tacit agreement that the more difficult that they are to adhere to, the fewer I shall adopt.
I admit, I did try to use that unspoken agreement to sort of...well....cheat.
"I will," I stated, dramatically, "resolve to WILL myself into a man."
2009 was silent. I could feel the disapproval. He - apparently - doesn't take these resolutions as lightly as I do.
"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I've been reading lately about a number of species of animals....or at least fish... that spontaneously switch genders. I shall will myself to do that as well! This will - of course - be EXTRAORDINARILY difficult, so perhaps it should be my ONLY resolution."
I refrained from mentioning that at the slightest sign that such an experiment was having any effect I would be forced to cease all efforts immediately. I mean - really - who would want to be a man?
In disgust, 2009 threatened to leave.
"Fine." I conceded. "We'll pick something LESS INTERESTING." I sighed melodramatically, and affected an air of disdain that was meant to suggest that 2009 was LESS than "with the times." He - naturally - didn't even pause to consider such an absurd notion. (It was, admittedly, a lame affectation...what with him BEING "the times" and all.... but I was still smarting from the rejection of my proposed resolution.)
Since our conversation, we've resumed a semi-affable relationship and have been tossing ideas about all day. Most of mine have been shot down immediately. It appears that the resolution to not scratch itchy skin is not a lofty enough goal, and that the resolution to enjoy peanut butter is not an option - just because I ALREADY DO!
"Who," I asked, peeved, "Is making up these little rules?"
Still in the running: The resolution to write - a little something - every day; the resolution to try a new form of exercise every month; the resolution to tackle (unnamed - at my insistence) a long-ignored project.
"I can't help but notice," I sniffed, as we reviewed the potential candidates, "that - so far - all of my potential resolutions involve ME exerting effort, and YOU doing nothing but sitting back and watching."
2009 smiled, saying nothing. He didn't need to. He knows that I don't have - metaphorically - a leg to stand on. His role is not nothing. In the accomplishment of these resolutions, as in the selection of them, we will need to work as a team. At the moments of failure, it will be his role to offer me another chance, to pick me up and carry me forward to the next opportunity.
Still, I don't care for the smug look on his face.
Fortunately for me, nothing has been set yet. When it comes to the selection of my year's resolutions, time is on my side.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Chicken... For The Soul
"Kate," I called to my friend and co-volunteer as I lifted a rabbit out of its cage and tucked it under my shoulder, "Did you notice the chicken in the gift shop?"
Kate glanced up from the rabbit that she was attempting to coax from behind a litter box. "No! They have a chicken in there? I love chickens!"
"Me too." I ignored the squirming of the little fellow in my arms as I waited for her to retrieve another soon-to-be-socialized-rabbit.
Together, we walked through the hallways of the animal shelter toward the "socialization area." At the entrance to the gift shop we paused, rabbits in our arms, to peer through the glass.
"Do you see it?" I asked.
"No....." Her head craned to the left and to the right, and she shifted a few feet toward me.
Just as I spotted a bundle of rust-orange feathers, Kate exclaimed in delight. "There she is! Oh, she's beautiful......"
She was beautiful. Her orangeness was unparalleled, and - having been given free reign of the gift shop - she strutted about in a manner that only a confident chicken can.
Step. Head bob. Chest out. Step. Head bob. Chest out. Step. Head bob. Chest out. Head bob. Head bob. Step.
Kate and I watched, entranced by her beauty, until the rabbits' gentle nips and wiggles grew not-so-gentle and we finished our journey to the bunny day rendevous.
Hours later, as we trekked back and forth in our efforts to return the now-socialized rabbits to their assigned cages, we paused again at the gift shop door. This time, the pretty hen was loitering near the entrance, examining the floor closely for wayward foodstuffs like caterpillars.
I clicked softly at her with my tongue, and cleverly called for her. "Here chicken, chicken, chicken," I sing-songed. "Here chicken."
I was rewarded for my efforts with a look that can only be described as "chicken contempt." If you have never seen this look, I advise you to take great measures to avoid it.
The hen fixed me with the contemptuous look for a considerable length of time (for a chicken) - at least 20 seconds. Having made her point, she returned her gaze to the floor and lower shop shelves, moving her head from side to side as she scanned the area closely. Her chicken savvy was stunning. It was obvious that no insect or spider stood a chance in this gift shop. What a clever idea! I thought. I should keep a chicken in my storage unit! (I have been scarred permanently by the sight of the freaky house centipede - HAIRY house centipede - that I caught scurrying up the wall of my storage room.... but that's another story.) My enthusiasm dimmed somewhat as I considered the fact that I would need to either move into the storage unit myself or only take my chicken for supervised visits, as I would feel too guilty to leave it in there all alone. Perhaps it wasn't such a clever idea after all. I obviously could NOT move into a space inhabited by monsters-in-the-guise-of-arthropods. (Did you KNOW that they are carnivorous?!!!)
The chicken continued with her business, determined not to let us interfere with the busy day ahead. At the same moment, Kate and I noticed that something about this chicken was... not quite right.
"What," asked Kate, leaning forward for a better look, "is going on with her beak?"
I was wondering the exact same thing. The end of her beak appeared to... well, actually, it did not appear at all. It was missing. Where the lovely yellow point would be, this chicken had nothing. The beak ended in a very un-beak-like bluntness.
The hen, oblivious to this "problem," had begun preening herself with great flair. Dramatically, she fluffed all of the feathers on the right side of her body and lifted her wing away to tuck her head underneath. Emerging from beneath it, she wagged her tail a bit and glanced up at us. Her look managed to convey both surprise that we were still bothering her and extreme boredom induced by our presence.
We continued to stare as she moved on to the left side, lifting her wing away once again.
Knowing Kate, and the way that she thinks about life (which can be very similar to the way that I think about said topic), I imagine that at that moment we were thinking very similar thoughts. In my head, I was struggling to reconcile my first rush of emotion - pity - with the apparent contentment of the hen before me.
But, a voice in my mind protested - already donned in mourning attire - this chicken is PITIFUL! Look at it! Something horrible must have happened! It will NEVER be the same!!!
From the left second-floor library of my brain came a voice. No, it agreed. The chicken will not be the same. None of us is ever the same from one moment to the next. That is what living does to us.
Ah, someone else had decided to speak up. About time.
But, the first voice protested, increasing in volume, it's a....w....f....u....l! That POOR thing!
The voice from the library returned. Really? Does that chicken look upset to you?
There was no response. Likely because the only time the chicken looked at all upset was when she noticed that we were still staring at her. No doubt she blamed us for the lack of tasty snacks.
I glanced at Kate, wondering what sort of decision her voices were coming to. It was clear - to me - that there was no room for pity in this chicken's day. Without speaking, Kate and I began walking, together, back toward the socialization room to clean up.
It was time to move on.
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.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
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