angry tomato

AA v. AAA

2011-10-20T20:33:00.000-05:00

2011-10-09T15:24:00.001-05:00

please don't forget the grocery list this time, dear.

recovering heroin addict seeks sugar and BLTs

2011-10-04T22:27:00.005-05:00

Going over words or letters strikes me as someone who was doodling while on the phone, someone wishing to place emphasis (in an effort to create a drawn "bold" font), or - in the case of doing so while writing in all caps - someone who is a categorically insane sociopathic drug addict. Below is the written list and rambling explanations of such character.

Of course bread and milk would be grouped together. Along with bacon. Bread, milk, and eggs are what everyone is supposed to eat. Except that eggs freak me out. I once cracked one that had blood in it. I still have nightmares about killing baby chickens. And for the bread, be sure to pick up rye. It looks the most angry, and it saves me the step of toasting it since it's already dark brown.

Lettuce and tomatoes for BLTs. And because those words both have so many nice, straight lines that I can draw over and over. And it reminds me of how we end our NA meetings, "We stand in a circle because we don't do lines anymore."

WHITE CHOCOLAtE and MAC NUT creamers for my decaf. My therapist recommends that I no longer drink regular, as I need to wean myself away from all chemically altering substances. And decaf is usually all they have at meetings.

Chocolate ice cream reminds me of when I was growing up. We had a dairy farm with some Jerseys. My cousin Dale would visit each summer and every Sunday, we'd make ice cream together so we'd have something sweet to finish the day off with after milking in the evening during the week. One summer, Dale's mom called to report that Dale wouldn't be able to visit and help out at the farm for the summer. Turns out that Dale was made a recent resident in a West Virgina prison for producing, selling, and using meth. Funny, I just thought he was an insomniac with poor dental hygiene.

Contrary to my doctor's recommendations, I started my detox from heroin at home. I ended up blacking out on a number of occasions while still apparently otherwise functioning, then fell into a coma for a week. My aunt brought me to a hospital where I was to finish out my detox while monitored and medicated as necessary. Due to my so-called carelessness prior to hospitalization, I still have seizures now and then. While my penmanship has always left much to be desired, I feel as if this may be the cause of what some may call "sociopath" handwriting. Whatevs, yo.

Finally, don't forget the VANNiLLA PudiNg MIX (INSTANT. At rehab, I was told to expect sugar cravings - this is one of the few things I remember. Since getting out last month, I've spent $482 at Yankee Candles. I have the entire candle collections of the Buttercream, Sugar Cookie, and Vanilla Sundae lines. Sometimes, I burn the candles and eat vanilla flavored sweets at home while watching "Golden Girls" - it's my guiltiest pleasure these days. Oh, and the VANNillA WAFFERS cannot be forgotten - my beagle Jethro and I share them after our evening walks.

244140625

2011-10-04T01:01:00.004-05:00

short term memory loss

I met a genuinely happy person today

2011-10-01T21:39:00.004-05:00

Seeing as I had not turned on my television in 4 or 5 months, I finally cancelled the non-cable-but-still-get-the-news-and-the-Simpsons-on-local-channels television portion of my U-Verse account. I think that takes off about $20 each month – that’s enough to buy 120 limes when they’re in season. Or 200 key limes when they are in season and on sale. While on hold with AT&T waiting to speak to a human, I marveled at the image of the spread of key lime pies my savings could produce. I wondered if they had key lime festivals in Florida – including best pie, Miss Key Lime, and best marinade with key limes cook-off.

When I pulled into the otherwise full strip center parking lot, I spotted an empty spot directly in front of the store. I was almost expecting to see a sign with my name on it. While I consider it a bothersome practice to circle around looking for a close-to-the-door spot, there seems to be something magical that happens between the consumer and the store when the consumer finds a close-to-the-door spot. It makes one feel welcome, expected. Like a neatly decorated place card at a dinner party given by a cherished friend.

When I got out of my vehicle, my eyes were immediately engaged with a set of frighteningly rhinestone-studded flip-flops, worn by a woman who was also wearing a displeased look on her face. I stepped inside, television unit thing in hand. It smelled like a combination of dog shit and new, cheap carpet. And there was some tapping – no rhythm, just random… but persistent – coming from a wall of the store. The rhinestone flip-flop woman then walked in. She had anger about her, so I stepped back – I figured something happened and her transaction had not been completed to her satisfaction. The noise from the wall kept making itself known. I stared at it in an effort to survey the happenings, in hopes of discovering the source.
There was a man in front of us sending Folgers coffee, paper towels, and some other items to someone in Pennsylvania. He spent about $40 to send what appeared to be about $38 worth of products. He knew the address and shared it with a conviction of someone who loves another – the recipient.

When he was done, the rhinestone flip-flop woman stepped forward – I tried to make eye contact with her to let her know that I understood that while she walked back into the store after I’d been waiting in line for a few minutes, she was probably wrapping up what she’d recently stepped out on. But she did not meet my eyes.

It was then my turn. I handed over my television device thing with power cord. Matt asked if I was returning an AT&T device – I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him for knowing, then said that I was, indeed, returning such device. There was something about this guy that just got to me - he seemed genuinely happy. I said to him, “You seem un… unusually happy to be at work. On a Saturday.” He smiled. I went on to add, “There's something... you seem to be smiling. Even when you’re not smiling.” He smiled even wider and said, “Well, I hope it’s contagious.” I assured him that it was.

acornautics

2011-01-25T08:14:00.002-06:00

What do you call a group of squirrels?

Where is this going?

A swim team. I was out walking this morning and counted seven squirrels – enough for a swim team.

What makes you think squirrels would make good swimmers?

I didn’t say they’d be good. But their eyes are naturally bulging so much that one might think that they’ve worn goggles under pressure their entire existence. They’d use their long muscular tails as propellers. And like humans, they’d let their hair grow out during training season, then shave it off just before a competition. Can you imagine what a naked squirrel would look like?

They’re always naked.

You know what I mean.

I rarely do.

What would you call a team of swimming squirrels?

More importantly, would the butterfly stroke still be called the butterfly, or would it be the flying squirrel?

Now you’re making fun of me.

I’m completely serious.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

I can imagine.

she wanted more

2011-01-16T16:34:00.008-06:00

Female, mid-40s, recently divorced (within the last 2 years). She was the oldest of three children, raised in a middle-class family in southeast Oklahoma. She did well in grade school, then went on the earn a full academic scholarship to OU for biology. While she enjoyed it, she changed her major to zoology after the second semester of her sophomore year. This was a difficult choice, as she lost some of her scholarship... but earning a BS in zoology then going on to law school to ulimately work in bioethics in animal research was exactly what she wanted to do.

She took a part-time job at the university in her department, as an assistant to a masters student working on a thesis the diets of invasive species and their impact on the land and natural habitats of native species. It was then that she met the man who would later become her husband. She was sent out to find someone who might help her better understand the traditional and since modified-traditional/modern diets of Native Americans in the area.

He was a history major from El Paso, Texas - his family had lived next to an Indian reservation while he was growing up. By the age of 12, he was spending most of his free time hiking to his favorite secluded spots in the mountains. He carried his backpack full of worn paperback books that his uncle had handed down to him, dried apricots, and two bottles of pineapple Jarritos.

So they met. Their first date was supposed to be at a museum, but once they arrived, they realized it was closed. So, they went to a nearby Mexican restaurant that was painted pink and teal on the outside. There was no patio. She was surprised - and a little impressed - when he ordered dinner for the both of them in Spanish.

13 months, 2 weeks, 4 days later: she discovered that she was 8 weeks and 4 days pregnant. She didn't want kids. He did.

3 weeks of arguing and frustration, they both decided to drop out of school and work on building a home for their new family. They got married at the local justice of the peace. His family attended; her family had no idea of the marriage.

6 months after the marriage, she lost the baby. The doctor said it was stress-related. It took her a couple of weeks to tell him. He went into a deep depression for 8 years. They lived in the same house, but at opposite ends. They adopted a dog on their 10 year anniversary - this brought them together for a short time, but once she started taking over all of the dog's responsibilities, health issues, feedings, walkings, vet appointments, etc., he went back into a depression. The dog was all she wanted. She had no need for him.

The next 10 years were a blur. They spent the holidays apart. He would go home to his parents while she would entertain at their home. He was a professor of history at the local community college, but his time there was running short. He missed lectures. He missed teacher meetings. He failed to post grades on time at the semester's end.

She finally got the courage to tell him that they needed a divorce. They'd be better apart. He needed to gain his own independence once again. And she needed the freedom.

So here she is now. Shopping on her own. She likes ice cream. As a young girl growing up near the Southeast, she has a taste for good ice cream.

French Vanilla - not just vanilla, but French Vanilla. With a lower case f - perhaps a political statement, or perhaps just her style. French Vanilla ice cream means more eggs, and a richer flavor than traditional vanilla. Popular in Louisiana and other Southern areas.

The rest of her items are all capitalized. See this when individuals are dissociated with the English language due to outside stress. Or when they just don't know. I'm going with the former on this one.

Butter Pecan - another Southern favorite. Hands down delicious.

Carb Smart - early mid-age woman (40s) product

Miller Lt - Blt - Midwest girl faithful to AB, on a semi-diet

Plates - going to have people over, don't want them to judge my home or how I clean, and I don't want to have to clean after them

Lettuce - please help me with my new diet

Saltines - guilty pleasure that does not feel too guilty

Coffee - I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink coffee

Sasa Packets - no idea... looks like Salsa Packets

She wrote this on a purple post-it.

2010-08-15T13:22:00.003-05:00

While I am not familiar with the origin of 'angry as a hornet,' it strikes me as a southern proverb. It finds itself shelved alongside 'frog strangler' and other sayings that tie in creatures we find in nature that somehow describe our situations and innermost thoughts and feelings. These colorful expressions are of our doing, the creatures were not at all involved in the negotiations when we were so brilliantly forming these sayings. It doesn't seem entirely fair, but I suppose that is a burden that birds, amphibians, insects, etc. must bear. Then again, perhaps the joke is on us; we depend upon them to communicate our emotional language to one another.

My mind wanders back to hornets. Are they always angry, or is it simply that their exhibition of anger seemingly goes to the extremes of poisoning its target of discontentment? I found myself questioning this as I was sitting at my back door, reading... then quickly became distracted by two hornets (while I am not sure exactly what they are, this is what I am calling them) that appeared to be arguing.

When they become angry with one another, do they sting their hornet victim? It would seem odd that one could poison the other. Logic would dictate that a hornet would not be affected by the sting of another hornet. But then, nature is not logical. Maybe hornets do not hold natural antidotes to hornet stings. It then came to my mind that I did not really know how hornets reproduced. I have some reading to do.

Considering the anger and competitiveness of insects begs the question of how mosquitoes interact. Andrew and I spent a good part of yesterday morning discussing mosquitoes, and we soon came to realize that I would need to do further research before forming an opinion on their place and my perceived lack of their contributions in this world.

I once read that the strongest athletes help out his/her greatest rival, thus making the rival that much better and increasing the standard at which both hold themselves... ultimately motivating the first athlete to become ever stronger. This came to mind when we were on the topic of mosquitoes. Would a mosquito act in this way? Or would one competitive mosquito decide to bite another one to gain more blood? Can a mosquito bite another mosquito and effectively drink its recently attained blood supply?

Thankfully, I was soon distracted by a couple of plants I'd adopted from a local nursery. As I was repotting them, I dug my hands into the warm potting soil and realized that it was life. Simply life. I felt as a surgeon of sorts, digging my hands into the blood that plants required for being and thriving... then my mind was back to mosquitoes and their lust and reproductive need for blood.

Choose your towels carefully

2010-07-07T22:38:00.005-05:00

Friday evening was certainly not the first time I'd considered my favoritism for particular bathroom towels based on color, which of course was correlated with each towel's personality.

The green towel - green, of course, being my favorite color - is the king of all my towels; it is only to be used on days that I expect good fortune. It would be disrespectful to use it otherwise. And it is only to be washed with the smallest amount of bleach in order to preserve its power, exhibited by its rich green color.

The orange towel is a fairweather friend of sorts. I really don't keep up with its best care, but I do appreciate its presence when I am heading out for a trip and it is my last option to pack. We don't have much in common, but I do appreciate its vibrance.

I feel a bit sorry for the yellow towel, as it is somewhat drowned out by has-beens. You see, yellow used to be my favorite color many years ago, so all of my old towels are yellow. Rather, were yellow. They have had more than their fair share of bleaching, so they are a worn out, exhausted shade of yellow. So, while the new yellow towel is promising, it does fall into the unfortunate circumstance of being related to its substandard relatives of mine. It can be difficult for a flower to get noticed when surrounded by weeds.

Blue towel is good for weekends, as it is such a fun-loving color. He gets the light bleach treatment, too.

The red towel, by nature of its color, has control issues. We have come to an agreement that it gets used on Wednesdays, as Wednesdays are when I engage in weekly operations team meetings, and a little back-up of someone (rather, something) with power issues is rather encouraging and sometimes reassuring.

So you can imagine my confusion when I arrived at home on Friday evening and found the floor between my bedroom and record room covered in water. I couldn't use green or blue out of respect... red was in the laundry... I had some has-been yellow and the good yellow and orange. It felt as if I had to pick which child to send to war. Why did this happen? Were the towels really the best choice to remedy the situation? Did I even have the proper towels for such a task?

As this rain continues, I hope we can figure out ways for my towels to maintain their integrity while also taking care of domestic issues.

English Morphine

2010-06-03T21:23:00.007-05:00

It's even capitalized on both words, as if it is an actual formal item that one would include on a grocery list for shopping on a Tuesday afternoon. At first read, it sounds like a harder version of morphine that a regular user would have to ever so carefully titrate up to in order to tolerate. On second read, it sounds like the name of the next Placebo album.

Morphine would sound like muffins if you were speaking in a cloud or carwash. But the idea of the writer of this list expecting to pick up some English Morphine rather than English muffins lends to the magic of interpreting strangers' grocery lists. And that it was actually written as "Morphine" on the list means the only cloud this writer likely experienced was the pink one she felt before relapsing.

This list is clearly written by a female. The handwriting, vegetable items, decided periods on ends of items, and corrected writing... it just speaks female, older woman. Older woman because if you look at the handwriting - look at the way she moves from letter to letter... example: corn. See how the end of the c leads to the bottom of the o. The writing of this o is a sort of backwards approach to how children are now taught in handwriting (an o would start at the top rather than bottom). She actually uses an ampersand in her writing on the celery & milk entry. Many folks born after 1955 don't regularly use these in handwritten notes (however often still used in typed notes) unless otherwise formally taught.

And one more thing about canned corn: I have to give a high five to my English Morphine addict friend... canned corn is so much easier than ears of corn. Sure, ears of corn when schucked and grilled are so much tastier, but the volume of available good individual kernels of corn (for soups, salsa, etc.) that comes in cans makes it a pretty damn marketable item. Especially if the shopper is an older woman who doesn't have the time or strength (or teeth) to grill then slice off (or bite off) the grilled corn.

Heads of lettuce: not just one, but multiple heads of lettuce. Again, this speaks of an older individual who grew up in the Depression or perhaps more likely was raised in the Depression. She still eats plain lettuce and doesn't exactly see the value in other more expensive greens like spinach or mixed baby greens. And most other greens are now in bagged varieties, for which you pay much more per ounce.

Cherry tomato: I'm guessing this means a pint of cherry tomatoes, since it is singular. Have noticed that lovers of cherry tomatoes and grape tomatoes are often folks who eat their fair share of vegetables, and often had or have their own home gardens. Yep, old lady.

Mushroom: let's just pretend she is talking about the vegetable. I mean, I think the English Morphine will be enough.

Cucumber: another item on which you will see handwriting that is not part of what is commonly taught now.

Celery & milk: for some unknown reason, these two are on the same line. With a period at the end. As in this is a definite need. Not just celery and milk. But CELERY & MILK.

apples: perhaps she does have teeth capable of eating corn on the cob.

As far as the paper goes, it is noticed that it is ripped at top and she only uses the bottom half for her grocery list (as it is guessed that the top half was already used). Another point toward a Depression era kid, knowing to waste little and make the most of anything - including free notepads. This particular notepad makes me wonder if it is a woman who recently lost her husband due to old age and she is looking to sell her house that they happily lived in for the past 58 years. The pain that would come with such a change in life and loss of love would help explain her need for English Morphine.

the hidden magic of grocery lists

2010-05-27T19:08:00.005-05:00

A single grocery could be regarded as sacred as a personal journal entry that a pre-teen girl might write under the cover of a baby blue checkered bedspread with flashlight in hand. If you write in the dark, no one will see. If you write in the dark with a cloak of bedding, not even the spying ghosts can see. A grocery list reveals intimate details of a person's life that even his or her closest friends and family may not know about the individual.

Your over-the-counter sleep aid, the detergent used to wash your favorite gym shorts, the microwave popcorn habit you could never kick, the food you feed your adopted puppy, the coffee you buy to brew at home because the food you feed your adopted puppy tastes better than your office coffee, and exactly what sort of texture (and perhaps scent) of toilet paper you prefer to wipe your ass.

The items on a grocery list hold only a fraction of the story of the person behind it.

What sort of paper it was written on...
Stationery with a schoolhouse and a Bible quote
Hotel letterhead
A post-it
On the back of some unrelated print-out
Personal professional stationery
Back of a business card
Back of a napkin
Torn off piece of paper
Typed out master grocery list with items circled

Handwriting...
Manic, serial killer, all caps
Looks like your grandmother's
Obviously inked by an engineer
Carefully drawn letters of a control freak
Inconsistent, moody, identity crisis, multiple personality... or collaboration of more than one person
Written in a rushed, diagonal on the post-it fashion

Editing...
Place an "X" next to each item once in cart
Scribble through with fierce anger
Strike-through once
Leave alone, no written indication of whether item was picked up or not
Edit multiple times before even making it to the store
Other non-grocery list related items on list (phone numbers, directions, etc.)

Spelling and grammar and abbreviations...
R-berries
Deoderant
Veg
Desert
Frozen brocoli
Snack's

Categories...
Items in parentheses
Items with question marks
Items categorized by store and/or aisle
Items with no specifics: white soda; lunch meat

And any accompanying quirks such as hearts to dot the letter i, budget analysis for grocery trip, an EKG, and individuals' names linked directly to a listed item... always good.

I have over 5 years' worth of collected grocery lists that I'd like to share. Hope you enjoy as I add them.

2010-04-21T20:14:00.002-05:00

There was some sort of explosion. It came out and divulged itself like a starfish eviscerating itself for a meal. Except more colorful.

It was a disordered rainbow and reminded me of the old Print Shop graphic of layers of colors that slowly moved from the inside out as the computer fed the image to the printer that printed onto the paper with holes in the sides and perforations between each sheet. This is one of my favorite dreams as a kid. There are certainly more memorable ones, like the recurring one of the orange tiger chasing me around the tree in my family's backyard. That one lasted for years and it was always the same.

I used to keep a dream journal of sorts: a spiral notebook kept at my bedside that I wrote in when I awoke from a dream... whether 11:52pm, 2:28am, or whenever. Upon waking, I detailed my dreams and often drew pictures of the images in my mind's dreams (crayons were kept on the bedside table for this reason).

That practice has not been followed in years. Yet I still recall my dreams from each night's sleep every morning. And, somehow, my dreams have become so much more vivid with each year of age.

The two basic categories of dreams are realistic and non-realistic. The non-realistic ones are so damn detailed that I can recall each square inch of my adopted 8-armed monkey... the realistic ones are the ones that trick me.

My dreams are so vivid that the realistic ones are often confused with reality. I actually had to sit down in our VP's office and ask him about travel dates... I'd had a dream that he sent out an email (written in his verbiage) about us traveling to CA on April 12-16. I nearly booked that flight... then decided to check my email for the email I read in my dream... never found it. It did not exist in reality. He didn't send it.

Chewing on cords does nothing.

radio killed the sleeping star

2009-07-20T04:52:00.003-05:00

I must have been about 5 or 6 years old. I asked my dad what made my ceiling fan turn, and just what he meant when he spoke of electricity. He went on to explain that the fan was powered by little green men on little green bicycles, and this was the power that ran the fan on a pulley system.

His plan worked.

I spent the next several years forgoing simplicities that I had never even considered before. I turned off the fan before going to bed (if I was going to rest, it was only fair to allow the little green men to rest), I turned off lights any time I left a room (so that the light bulb sergeant at arms could take a break), and I ate cold food (so that the little green aliens that powered the microwave wouldn't have to make special trips to my home to heat my broccoli).

However, the one thing I would not give up was radio. If I could only stay up all night long by listening to the radio, then I wouldn't die in my sleep if the house caught on fire.

This idea was abandoned when my brother burned our house down in late afternoon on a Thursday.

Since it happened once, it didn't seem likely to happen again any time in the near future. I got over the fear and got over trying to stay awake at night listening to the radio.

Yet, this did not keep me from listening to the radio during daylight hours. I still did feel guilty about it, since I knew that the artist was forced to go into the recording studio to belt out my favorite song just to let me hear it on the radio. I later forced myself to leash in my selfish listening demands and cut down on my radio hours. Musicians had better things to do with their lives than to just spend the day waiting for me to turn on the radio to hear their voices.

I think I knew more when I was a kid as I do now as an adult. At least, I had better ideas then.

I may never hear frogs croak again

2009-07-19T13:20:00.010-05:00

I can only tie two types of knot on fishing line. Yet, somehow, I still became certified as a Master Angler by Texas Parks & Wildlife. It was at that training that I met Scott #2, quite possibly the craziest human that has ever come into my life. Good crazy. He'd wake me up in the middle of the night with his unusually large, excited eyes, saying things like, "Hey, get up! We're going climbing at Reimers Ranch in our underwear. I just finished packing. It doesn't open for a few hours, so we'll stop at the 24 hour Mexican place to have jalapenos and shots of tequila for breakfast." I also recall that he would order a bowl of cut lemons after every meal, then suck on each as if they were some magical little batteries that kept his mind blazing and eyes oddly, widely open for days on end. "Scott, you know that acid is harsh on your tooth enamel." "I know, but they're so good. Want one?"

Damn, I miss that guy.

So, once I started volunteering with TPWD as an angler educator, I chose to lead the topics of ethics and habitat for fishing day clinics. Some kids would produce chaotically colored and complicated underwater worlds for the rather simple channel catfish, while others would include in their drawings domestic staples such as a cozy twin bed in a quaint room with curtains and a desk complete with a charming little lamp (which somehow did not require any sort of electricity for its illumination) for their marine creatures.

It was during the ethics sessions that I came to realize the peace and innocence we as adults all too easily forfeit in order to gain convenience and selfish gratification. These kids lived in worlds painted with hope and laughter. The few precious moments I got to go behind their eyes and see life's glowing fireflies and croaking little green frogs on water lilies was refreshing, effortlessly captivating.

So, when I went to the salon yesterday, I was struck with fear and guilt that I may have done something to disrupt this enchanting world where frogs croak. Ruckus the beta had died.

As I found myself once again being placed below the alien mind reader that my stylist Amy calls a dryer, I looked next to my cushioned vessel at the small table with stacks of hair magazines, and it seemed to cry aloud for something with more vitality to hold than glued slick pages stained with strange coloring chemicals that held hairstyles seen nowhere but a fashion show. Terrified, I looked up at Amy, "Where is Rufus?" Amy corrected me, "Ruckus. He died." It was me. I did this. "Amy, how did it happen? That is awful news." Amy looked at me with what I imagined curiousity to my questioning of a beta that I had somehow channeled the alien mind reader powers to kill. "I don't know. It was a few months ago." Which neatly placed me in the time frame of the crime scene. I wanted to ask if they kept his fishbowl, if they'd had a funeral for him or if his tormented little body was let go in the Mississippi River (or maybe the Missouri River, since Amy lives in Illinois), or if they planned to get another fish so that the table wouldn't have to go through life with nothing greater to look forward to than more collections of pages of eccentric hairstyles. But I didn't ask.

My certification to teach maritime recreation activities should be revoked.

dogs we housed

2009-06-28T20:25:00.003-05:00

Growing up, we always seemed to have an open-door policy when it came to animals. If it meandered onto our taxed property, we would feed it. This is not always a good thing to do with wandering animals, as one might belong to a devoted owner... and all we were doing was teaching it that s/he could find a meal at our home. Nevertheless, we did it.

Among stray dogs, we also had pet-store purchased pets. I had a fascination with hamsters that my dad allowed me to indulge in. I didn't like the idea of these furry little creatures locked up in a plastic cage, so I would let them run free in the house. This resulted in furrowed brows of my parents, and a few hamster fatalities.

In an effort to show them how much they were loved when they were forced to live in their little plastic cages, I would wait until everyone was sleeping, then sneak to the scary plastic cage and pluck my little fuzzy creature into the world and into freedom. I figured God made them fuzzy because he knew that they wanted to be cuddled, so I would take them to bed with me. Unfortunately, God forgot that I was a heavy sleeper... so, I ended up rolling over my fuzzy little friend(s) in the night. It wasn't long before hamsters went on the list of animals not likely to ever enter the house again.

Growing up in Louisiana and Texas, we rarely had the occasion to light the fireplace. But, with the combination of begging for a fire and 60°F weather, we were able to get a fire going one night. My dad opened the flue and found a charming little nest of chimney swifts. This immediately became more interesting than a fire. I told him that we had to keep them. All they knew was the chimney, and surely it would be much too shocking to let them into the wild. We had to keep them until the fire was gone, then they'd go back.

We got a cardboard box, and placed the nest of anxious birds into it. I talked to them for hours, and I really don't even recall if we had a fire that night. Even when there is no fire, a chimney just strikes me as a warm place... so, with this thought, I felt sorry for the cold little birds. I only had room for one, so I again waited for everyone to go to bed, then gently took one of the baby birds back to my bed. Surely a bird sleeping with a human in a human bed (rather than in a nest in cardboard box not in the chimney) would have a greater chance at life. Except that I rolled over this one in my sleep, too. The chimney swift family -1 was returned to the chimney the next day.

Seeing as I could not be trusted with small animals, my family moved on to dogs and cats. One of our first strays was a dog that appeared to be part pitbull. He came along, he ate well, and he seemed to like us. So, we had a family meeting on what to name the dog. We all wrote out our chosen names for the dog on pieces of paper and decided that the piece of paper chosen would be the dog's name. My brother's suggestion of "Boner" was chosen.

Years later, we adopted a greyhound. This has since become my absolute favorite breed of dog. He exhibited excruciating anxiety and bad breath. The GPA had named him "Storm." I demanded that we rename him "Greyhound." It stuck. This dog was so fascinating... he was more nervous than coffee, and he could run and play to no end.

My brother wanted a yellow lab for hunting. He found one, but failed to train her. This dog ended up being the most spoiled fat lab ever. Ty. She ate a slice of pizza on Fridays, followed by a scoop of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. She lived a very happy 11 years, and her passing still makes everyone in the family cry. She had such a laid back, easy-going personality... and, she loved everyone. The world would be a better place if there were people like Ty.

We had other dogs. This is not in chronological order.

Rex was a Doberman, and I think he had some intestinal issues. He was loved and caressed by all members of the family on a regular basis. And, a little more. Despite any family troubles going on, Rex always brought us together. However, he did seem to exhibit some digestion problems. When a dog farts, s/he usually just raises an eyebrow or two and waits for the audience response. When Rex would fart, he would moan and leave the room. As if the smell was so foul that even a dog should not endure it.

We had other dogs with other stories. Rest assured, all dogs were treated well (often better than the human children) while under the Gamble care.

equal pie

2009-06-10T22:24:00.000-05:00

I went to the store today for kale and to stare at the doughnuts. Upon entering the store, I saw an elderly woman smoking a cigarette and sitting on a bench. She had lots of wrinkles. I reminded myself to use my wrinkle cream when I got home.

I had just dropped off my load of plastics and metals and glass at the recycling place, so upon my arrival at the store, I hurried to the restroom to wash my hands. Just before elbowing open the restroom door, I noticed a number of quarter machines. One of them held little plastic monsters made in China. I made a note to visit this coin-operated thing after washing my hands. I entered the restroom, and to my excitement, they provided foaming soap. It seems that public facilities are using this more and more. I like that. Something about it just seems more cleansing than liquid soap. The restroom was blessed with a white porcelain sink, so I was able to easily see my dirty suds rinsed away.

I went to dry my hands and noticed that the paper towel dispenser was not a sensor dispenser as I am used to at work. I had to touch the little lever to dispense a paper towel. I cursed myself for not dispensing the paper towel before washing my hands as I usually do. I dried my hands, then let out a couple more towels and washed my hands again. This time, I didn't have to touch a thing.

As I used the paper towel to open the restroom door, I was filled with excitement about the little monster quarter machine. As much as I do not like to handle coins, I dug into my purse in an eager search for two quarters. Found them. I put them into the machine thing, turned the lever, and was greeted with a little pink monster that looked like a bunny. I opened up the plastic capsule with a car key and smiled. I went back to the restroom again to wash my hands since I'd handled coins and that lever. This time, I thought to dispense the paper towels before washing.

I walked out one entrance/exit to enter the other entrance/exit. The second one is closer to the handheld grocery carts, and it's the entrance I pretty much always use, so I had to go out the odd entrance/exit and go into the regular entrance/exit to equalize things and cancel out my entrance to the odd exit. The elderly woman was working on another cigarette. She was sitting in the same position. I told myself that I shouldn't stare, but I did.

I picked up some kale and cursed those damn produce water-sprayers. Is that really necessary? What good does it do for the consumer other than to try to show just how "fresh" something looks? I have my own idea that it is done to add just an ounce or two of weight to per pound of produce.

Then again, maybe the produce has some sort of rinsing complex. I can understand that (even if it doesn't include foaming soap).

I'd done what was most important: getting kale. So, I moved onto gazing at the glazed doughnuts. On my way there, I was stopped in my counted steps by something I saw in the baked goods area. I saw a sign that read, "EQUAL PIE."

I frowned and looked around for an "INEQUALITY PIE," but I could not find such. It seemed all-too American. HEY! It's 2009, so let's pretend that there is no such thing as inequality... so need for an inequality pie.

I don't even know what an inequality pie would look or taste like, but I was upset that I didn't see one. I squatted down to see just what was so great about the "EQUAL PIE," and upon reading the ingredients, discovered that the "EQUAL" part was referring to the ingredients. "EQUAL," as in the artificial sweetener.

I left with a full basket of kale and a yearning for an inequality pie.

the coupon binder is back

2009-06-08T23:38:00.000-05:00

The coupon binder is back. The last time I was faithful to this binder and the practice of couponing was when I was in Austin (2005, I think). I belonged to a coupon club... we'd meet up for coupon happy hour (that just sounds pathetic), where we'd enjoy drinks and pass around our coupon inserts that we'd already dissected, but always left much for others, as we all have different shopping wants and habits.

For the most part, I really had not used coupons in the last few years, as the majority of food I consume = fresh vegetables. Well, and tuna. Seafood here in Missouri really sucks, so packaged tuna is about as good as it gets (with the exception of spending all too much dining at a fresh seafood restaurant).

Eventually, I realized that my fascination with cleaning and beauty products was getting a little overboard... so, a coupon intervention was necessary. I have recently gone back to buying Sunday papers (some places allow you to buy them for $0.75 - $1.00 on Mondays) and clipping coupons.

For those of you assholes who say, "I don't have time for that," I would just like to remind you that we all have 24 hours in the day, and we spend it as we wish. I do not own a TV, so I do not waste time on stupid fucking drama, comedy, or CSI shows. I spend about 60 minutes a week clipping and organizing coupons while listening to the news on radio. The majority of my used coupons are for household/cleaning and beauty/body products... those markets are always coming up with new products, so coupons are rather common and easy to use for consumers of long-branded items.

My 60 minutes a week averages about $20 savings a week. And, again, this is really on household and beauty items. So, if you have a family and use other items in coupons, you could do really well with savings.

If Walgreens decides to do their "Free After Rebate" deals again, I'll write on strategies for that. With the exception of a few salon purchases, I have not paid for shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, toothpaste, etc. in about five years. The FAR is a good thing, so I hope it comes back.

In addition to hygiene products that are of use, there are always a number of products from Walgreens' FAR, as well as nearly-free foods from grocers, that you can collect and donate to women & children's shelters. When I moved from TX to MO, I had a couple of kitchen bags of (new, unopened) hygiene products and other good stuff to donate to Phoebe House. They were grateful, and it felt good to give something that I didn't even have to spend money on... just a few minutes of shopping.

counting monsters

2009-06-07T13:23:00.000-05:00

I do not count sheep; I count squares of toilet paper on a roll. You would be surprised at how the number of squares varies from roll to roll, even among the same brand.

My sometimes-overwhelming habit of counting everything reminded me of something more important today. I may very well be able to tell you how many steps of stairs there are in various buildings of the cities in which I've lived... or just how many florets of broccoli may be found in the average 16oz. bag (again, variances among brand... and per brand).

When I was growing up, I thought that I wanted to be a banker. Not that I knew what a banker did, but I imagined that it was a job that required counting money all day long. I really do not like to touch money in paper or metallic form, but the idea of getting paid to monotonously count something- anything- all day long just seemed too perfect. Maybe they would let me wear gloves. I'm still not sure what type of gloves, as the powder in latex gloves always freaks me out. Maybe I could wear my long yellow plastic home-cleaning gloves. Although, I imagine that might be frowned upon, as it may appear strange to some customers. But if they could only put me in a little green box with my long yellow gloves and things to count for 9-10 hours a day, I think we'd have a deal.

Other jobs I wanted when I was growing up: flight attendant, butcher, laundry folder (is there such thing?), dog walker. And, perhaps my longest-held and most cherished: catfish farmer. I went to school for marine fisheries for two years to pursue this. After two years of study and two volunteer positions as cephalopod lab tech at UTMB and as a docent and renovator assistant to the new curator of the Houston of Museum of Natural Science Malacology Hall (my time there is another story), I chose otherwise. But, I still dig marine creatures. The smell of such work leaves much to be desired, yet I do miss it. As I type this, I am reminded of my stranded dolphin necropsy experience, though that is another life account.

Regarding counting, monsters are another thing. Strange how they can have as many eyes and arms and other appendages as the illustrator designates. They seem to elude all that is normal and regular and counted... but, I suppose that is why they are in a category of their own. It must be freeing to be a monster, to not have to feel the pull to conform to any standard or have any sort of expectations to which it should meet in life, love, community. On the other end of the spectrum, I suppose that could lead to apathy, loneliness, and a sense of indirection in general. But, I like to think that monsters are on the more cheerful side of that rainbow.

You could even call a monster an artist of sorts. No real form, only imagination may interpret just what they are. As friendly or sinister as they may appear, they ultimately choose their own life's will. Better than any other creature, they understand acceptance for their own selves, appreciation for their strengths and concessions for their weaknesses, and recognition with which how they may change this world, for better or for worse.

I think we could all learn something from monsters. In fact, I cannot even count the ways.

16 pennies

2009-05-24T00:36:00.000-05:00

The coffee after dinner was not a good idea. 12:36am. I am sitting on a porch swing with three cushions of some sort of outdoor canvas-type fabric decorated with palm and yellow and pink flowers at my dad's house in Houston. The humidity down here is a welcoming reminder of being back; it's pleasantly mild and a little breezy out this evening. Earlier, I had seen a thin raccoon balancing on three legs, holding his left front paw up and sniffing the air in anticipation of catching the odor of whatever it was he would find to eat this evening. We were both awake at the same time in the middle of the night. He looked up at me and we had a staring contest that didn't last all too long; I won. He was likely distracted by his growling raccoon stomach at the precise moment that he was finally able to catch the aroma of his next meal.

I got up and walked to the edge of the faded blue wood slats and found a new little perch for myself. Looking down at the weathered 2"x6" over which I hung my legs, I noticed 15 equally weathered pennies scattered about in an unsettlingly random manner. Knowing that it would offer me some easement when I organized each into a neat series according to year, I set down the book that I had grabbed the last few minutes before leaving home for the airport, at which time I had cursed myself for forgetting where I'd placed the book I had really wanted to read. As I started to read off the years on the pennies, I spotted a 16th penny on the porch floor, and was relieved to know I'd be working with an even numbered collection of unshiny goodies. On the third penny, I came to the realization that these pennies had been sitting out for sometime in the rain (I wondered if they had been here to see Hurricane Ike), there would be ones- like the one in my hand at that moment- that would require more effort on my part than merely glancing to read the year. I was gripped with my all-too familiar (and perhaps irrational) fear of touching bare metal things, knowing that this would be worse: I'd have to lick a finger and rub some of these pennies that guarded their cast-on years with indeterminable layers of dirt and grime and maybe even mosquito footprints. What would mosquito footprints look like? I'd have to look that up later. I'm sure they are not even called "feet" when referring to an insect, but that was pushed to the back of my mind for later research.

I licked my right ring finger, which was least sensitive to my fear of metal things, and rubbed at the year. This wasn't enough. I struggled to find the greatest potential source of incandescent light on the porch, and was finally satisfied with the angle. I think I saw Lincoln snear at me in his clever way as if to say, "I'm hiding something that yoooou can't see." I rubbed more. Alas! The year 2000. The year I was supposed to graduate with my B.S., but didn't due to my changing of majors from marine biology to microbiology to food science and a minor in political science. Again, I quietly thanked my dean for substituting American foreign policy for accounting when I confessed to him that I really didn't care for it, and that I was too cheap to buy what I'd discovered was the rather necessary textbook. I neatly placed the second year 2000 penny next to the other, pointing Lincoln's head westward. I returned the snear to let him know that I was now in control of him. I continued through my recently discovered treasury of metal things and found that there were quite a few pennies that were minted in the last decade.

Funny how a word such as mint, which brings to mind something so refreshing that it can sometimes be irritatingly so, would also loan itself to the term used for process known as minting, a word describing something that involves bare metal things and paper that would later be passed around in strangers' hands and put in places where people would not even think to dust or steam or wash or otherwise clean. A 1933 penny! I don't remember what these are called, but Billy and I used to call them "One Cent Pennies" as they were marked as such (well, without the penny part) on the back, hugged by two bird feathers of exacting size. At least they appeared exacting. I wondered what the job title of the person in charge of seeing that the formatting of pennies was as exact as possible (if that was, in fact, the goal) was called. The first that came to mind was that of a graphic designer, but I'm not sure what "graphic designer" would be translated to in 1933 lingo. I don't like the word lingo, but it reads better than talk. Done. One 1933, one 1980, one 1983, one 1994, one 1995, one 1997, one 1998, two 1999s, three 2000s, two 2004s, two 2006s. All were proportionately spaced in chronological order by earliest (farthest westward) to latest (farthest eastward) year. The overall design of my efforts looked like something out of Star Wars. Or some sort of futuristic robot that would go into combat against other futuristic robots in a battle over something I didn't care to continue spending time thinking about.

I smiled and went inside to indulge in the delightful treat of handwashing that was required once I'd allowed enough time to pass... and this time promised to be especially exciting since I'd just handled filthy metal things. As I walked inside, I was greeted with the soothing sound of an old wooden floor creaking beneath my feet. I found the restroom, turned on the four-pronged hot water (which was actually just lukewarm water) faucet handle, wet my hands, squirted an adequately-sized dollop of liquid green Dial soap that smelled cleansingly citrusy, then rubbed my hands together and awaited the greatest moment of handwashing: watching the newly discolored suds drip from my hands onto the white porcelain sink belly. This is in my Top 10 Things That Never-Fail-to-Make-Me-Smile-List. After a thorough rinse, calmness overcame my senses, and I wrapped four fingers around the four valleys of the four-pronged faucet handle and turned off the flow of the water.

I walked back outside onto the porch one more time to verify that the pennies were still in their orderly fashion. They were. I gathered my book and plastic cup of tap water and decided it was time for bed. Well, bedtime after washing my hands one more time for the evening, since I'd have to take the door knob into my hands (along with the key to lock the door into my fingers) after passing through the threshold on my way back inside my dad's house in Houston.

sky turtles

2009-05-22T19:11:00.000-05:00

In the clouds yesterday, I saw a whale eating a turtle. He was going directly for the turtle's head at the moment I spotted them. Just a generic toothed whale. Not anything unusual like a narwhal. I don't even think a turtle could survive in the Arctic, anyhow (well, not that there would be much surviving to do if a narwhal was after it). I imagine that a horse and a narwhal on Noah's Ark crept off together and had an affair, then one of them (I have never been able to decide which) later gave birth to a unicorn. Noah got pissed, since this wasn't part of his plan, split the two up... and since there was only one unicorn, it died without a mate to further the species, so that's why we don't have unicorns anymore. Anyway, the cloud whale looked like a cartoon whale I'd drawn a year or so ago.

Seeing that sky turtle reminded me of something I'll get back to in a minute. Writing "sky turtle" sounds funny to my mind. That would be a magical turtle-creature with wings. Since it would be called a sky turtle, I suppose it wouldn't be fitting for it to be a flightless turtle. However, a turtle's anatomy is just not built for flight. I guess it still can tuck it's feet into the shell body to make it more aerodynamic. But it'd certainly take more genetic engineering to make it's frame and center of gravity capable of any sort of flight that would take it up into the sky.

The sky turtle reminded me of my former belief that a turtle's shell size was a constant, while the turtle itself grew. I think this idea came from my fascination with hermit crabs when I was growing up. When hermit crabs outgrew their borrowed shells, I pictured them walking around with those hand-scribbled signs you sometimes see at airports (or, more likely, movies with airport scenes), held by guys dressed in crisp uniforms standing in front of recently polished cars, reading, "siyez XL shell" (hermit crabs are poor spellers). Or perhaps they visited hermit crab funeral homes to look for their new homes. Discussing a sensitive issue as a "new" replacement shell with grieving fellow hermits would be a difficult, stressful situation for a hermit crab due to his lack of social skills and awkward personality around others.

The idea of a naked turtle wandering his environment in search of a better-fitting shell made me giggle, so I drew a picture to reflect what I was thinking. He wore a frown and had a protruding pot belly. He had spent so much time outside of a shell in the way that I've heard about people who work in a job that requires scrubs sometimes gain weight with little initial notice, since they spend most of the day in very forgiving clothing, then come to realize they can no longer fit their regular clothes, and get a little depressed. I think that's why he was frowning. And, I'm pretty sure he was an emotional eater. Unfortunately, the little drawing has since gone lost... maybe it wandered off to look for another place to reside.

About a minute later, I looked back up at the feeder and feedee clouds and saw that the turtle's head was then detached from it's body, growing closer to the whale's mouth. I wondered if the lost drawing of my naked turtle would find this now vacated shell (well, vacated once the sky turtle's body rotted away or was eaten by some other cloud animal). I hope so... though, he'll likely have to do his fair share of sit-ups to fit into it.

smoke

2009-05-19T20:37:00.000-05:00

My daydream was interrupted by the changing of the upcoming stoplight from green to yellow to red. Well, it wasn't really a daydream, as it was night... but, I wasn't sleeping, so I suppose it could be classified as a daydream. Perhaps an after-hours dream.

As I write this, my first thought was that I was on my way home from the gym, but then I recalled that I haven't been to the gym in the evening in a long time. I get unreasonably upset when I walk in and see someone else on my favorite elliptical, and this happens all too often right after work. It's much easier to use insomnia to my advantage and head there at 3:30am. There are often none or one or two other people there at that time, and those who do show up at that time seem to have a strange quirk or behavior or characteristic to him/herself. This kind of makes it more fun, like a game of people watching. But, not really watching, since it'd be rather obvious given that there are so few of us there early in the morning.

I really don't recall where I was going home from. But, that doesn't really matter. As I pulled up to the red light, I noticed a strangely slow, glowing - yet nonetheless translucent - stream of smoke in the vision of my lower left eye. I looked down, but saw only my left shoulder. No smoke. I looked back up to the still red light, then saw it again. This time, I moved quicker. But it still wasn't there. I returned my eyes to the light, but using my peripheral vision to slightly glance to my lower left. The smoke again. I moved my head carefully, slowly this time, in hopes to not startle the smoke to disappear, but I still was unable to catch it in its ghostly presence. I felt defeated and looked back at the light. It was glaring red, as if reflecting the embarrassment I felt from beginning to think that I was seeing things.

The left arrow turned green and I cursed the elusive smoke that may or may not have been there. I saw it two more times on what seemed to be the otherwise inexplicably forgetful 3/10 mile home.

The smoke came back the next day, but with a faintness to it that was not there the night previous. I have not seen it since.

to the asshole who stole my purse

2009-05-18T18:16:00.000-05:00

Hi! Just wanted to send a quick note to let you know I'm finally getting all of my shit replaced. I tore apart my home trying to find my Tiffany gold-embossed stationery that was blessed by Pope John Paul II, but I am at a loss. I hope this blog serves as an acceptable means to express my gratefulness to you, and my wishes for your shiny, bright future. And, alas, I cannot even spritz my great grandmother's cherished perfume on this blog, but please know that you are in my thoughts as well as hers, God rest her soul.

I hope you rot in hell. Actually, no. You will rot in the toilet in hell. And, much like Saddam Hussein, the Devil has multiple bathrooms. The toilet in which you will rot is really not even a bathroom at all. It is the overflowing hole in the ground that Mr. Devil only relieves himself into after he has had a liter of tequila and a baker's dozen Salmonella and E. coli O157:H7 ridden breakfast burritos. Hey, it may be fast food, but by the time UPS gets it down to hell, the ubiquitous population of pathogens characteristic of fast food have generated more than the parents of Baby Boomers. Enteric, isn't it?

Mr. Devil knows just how foul of a so-called toilet in which you live is, so he rarely asks even his filthiest inmates to clean it. In fact... Dahmer declined. Berkowitz backslided. Rader refused. Bundy banned the idea. Manson mooted it. Gein was too green. Gacy was so gregarious that it freaked out Mr. Devil. But, in the end, Henry Lee Lucas confessed to cleaning the so-called toilet 3000 times, so Mr. Devil was pleased.

Don't believe Mr. Lucas. Your toilet home is never cleaned. You are as filthy as the urine and crap that was excreted into your home 16 months ago. You smell. And, I hope you continue to rot. You deserve it, asshole who stole my purse.

straws

2009-05-15T19:25:00.000-05:00

It just seems wrong to use a straw more than once. Unless it is one of those solid plastic ones that are dishwasher-friendly. I don't even know what kind of resins are used for those. I once received a gift of a package of silly straws from a friend who said he'd gotten them from a dollar store. While they were attractive, I opted to not use them. They came from a dollar store, which led me to wonder if they were sold to the store from the original manufacturer or distributor because they were on a recent recall list due to high levels of lead, but the dollar store buys stuff like that sometimes because I don't think they read the news. Or maybe they don't care. But, if a store did knowingly buy something that was recalled, that's pretty shitty to buy it and try to sell it to un- or underinformed shoppers. Or maybe they know that people know that the junk is there for single uses, like decorations for a party. With this in mind, perhaps they think the person acknowledges this and feels that the tradeoff of minimal exposure to the risk posed by the product is worth it for the low price.

I didn't know if they were recyclable or not since there was no resin id code on the rather vanilla package, so I just threw them away.

ruckus the beta

2009-05-07T21:38:00.001-05:00

ruckus the beta

She sat me below their second dryer as the distinctive smell of the bleach on my hair seemed to clear my nasal passages. Except she didn’t turn the dryer on, which I found pleasing. The bulbs always smell funny when they are alight and the red-orange glow casts an all-too-obvious artificial tan glow on my skin. I don’t really believe that the bulbs are piercing my mind or that aliens are penetrating my thoughts when I sit beneath that glow, but it does come to mind. Eerie brightness. I embarrassingly laugh and remember to not consider it next time. Although I will.

I am glancing at her two-toned hair that she has confessed to me is actually a wig, then she smiles at me and I ask, “What is the fish’s name?” She tells me that the shop has had him for a while and that his name is Ruckus. I smile back and think of all the hairstylists and their perfectly imperfect hair, and wonder how they came about their own cuts and colors. I wonder who named Ruckus, and suppose it might be the girl with the pin in her hair that looks like a combination of a jewel-encrusted dragonfly flower. Not that I know of a flower called a dragonfly flower, but if a flower and dragonfly were to breed, her hairpin would be the offspring. Would the act be called sexual pollination?

I open my book that I’ve marked my place with an old utility bill that has my unit identified as FN (first north, I think), and recall sitting with my dad as my car pulled a U-Haul from Texas to Missouri, calling to set up my utilities and internet and power. I tried to explain to the customer service representative that it was unit A. I didn’t know why it would be called any other letter(s). She shared with me just what FN stands for, but I have since forgotten and have replaced it with what is likely what I made up in an effort to make some sort of abbreviation that makes sense to me and perhaps even others, if it is even front and north of something or anything. The book gets better and I soon run across what is now in my Top Ten Favorite Lines in a Book. It is in “A Wolf at the Table” by Augusten Burrroughs, page 34. “She might have been mad at me because earlier she had let me lick an envelope and it was so good so I went into her study and licked all the envelopes in the box.”

I look back over at Ruckus and wonder how often the girls clean his fishbowl. I can see rings on the glass that once represented the water levels before it evaporated to the level at which it now sits. The water looks foggy and I wonder what it smells like. I had a friend also named Kelly who had a turtle for a pet. Kelly was really skinny and ate Little Debbie Swiss Rolls everyday. Her sister was Marsha and once left Kelly a note on her turtle’s cage-bowl that read, “Clean this… it smells like cow ass!” I think it was in all capital letters. I didn’t smell the water that seemed to magically suspend Ruckus, but did begin to wonder why this fish seemed so content to sit in the same spot. Since he had just a tiny bowl for a home and the creepy dryer lights for his sun and appeared somewhat neglected (due to the water and rings visible from my chair), I thought he might be depressed. I ran my fingers along the glass just above his predominately anterior eyes, but he did not move. I really started to believe that he was depressed, so I stroked circles on the glass following his head and tail and back, hoping for any sort of reaction, but he showed nothing.

My left index finger met with the cool water and I reached down to soothe his back and dorsal fin. Movement. He shot forward several fin strokes in his tiny bowl then just sat. And sat. I know fish don’t really blink, but his eyes just seemed so fixated on something that just was not likely there. Maybe Ruckus could see something with his tiny fish eyes that I could not see with my human eyes. I started to wish that I could, for just a moment, have the visual acuity of an ostrich so that I might see what Ruckus was staring at. I don’t know if it is quite possible to achieve fulfillment of such ideas as that, but I do often wonder what sort of prayer or karma or whatever it is that it may take. Then, he slowly started drifting backward. It appeared as a strange vision of a dead fish floating upwards. I wondered how large the air bladder of a beta was versus its body size and if it would be possible that they took time to turn upside down upon death. Or maybe they had recently fed him, so his stomach somehow weighed him down temporarily. That would explain some of the cloudiness in the water. And, if he truly was depressed, perhaps he was an overeater.

Did my touch give him a fish heart attack? I had made a concerted effort to lower my index finger down slowly so as not to startle him. But, nonetheless, he may have not been used to touch from a human. I thought of the rings on the glass and wondered again at just how long it had been since it had been cleaned and how long it had been since he had been handled.

Though his pelvic fins remained motionless, his pectorals began to twitch like some sort of monkey undergoing experiments with methamphetamines. I was sure this was all the sign of a heart attack of a fish his size. I am unsure as to whether or not fish can have heart attacks or not. Perhaps they do not live long enough for such things to be studied. After a few seconds that seemed painful to the both of us, he stopped. His eyes returned to their familiar fixation, but somehow seemed a bit more alive than last he and I had spent such time together. I saw some motion in his tiny red-purple body, then my stylist appeared and cheerfully announced that she was ready to wash my hair.

ride 05.03.09

2009-05-03T22:32:00.000-05:00

terrible little poem about today's ride:

rode from home through downtown

anticipating the rain in which I might drown.

made it to the Riverfront Trail

saw birds, but not a single snail.

some small hills and a light wind,

saw a guy peeing and grinned.

got lost on the way home,

around downtown I did roam.

then met a fellow cyclist at a stoplight

with directions, she was quite bright.

we rode together on the streets

she even had some funky socks on her feets.

made it back home with smiles

got in 54.38 good miles.

2009-04-21T20:36:00.000-05:00

here

I reach out trembling fingertips to feel my every movement through the abandoned house. Any fragment of illumination has been absent for months. It is night. The sky holds a new moon; not even a shadow is cast here.

There is a window open, maybe two. It lets in a slight breeze that feels strangely calming as it passes across my body. I breathe it in as if I am consuming the spirit of lost friend. The tiny hairs on my forearms raise up, standing like green soldiers awaiting inspection. A musty presence of the empty dwelling becomes apparent as a quiet, comfortable smell comes to my welcoming senses and passes into this soul, hesitantly exhaled as if letting go of the only forgiving life force it has known.

There lies no understanding in just how I got here, or how I became upon this moment. But it is good. I recognize a distant familiarity within these walls, but I cannot place it. I belong here somehow. Now.

I take another breath.

being green

2009-04-21T19:35:00.000-05:00

Earth Day is April 22. In an effort to be a better earth person, I have tried to come up with some ideas of how I'll use less. Or be more earth-friendly. Or whatever the hell you want to call it.

attempt to be more green

line dry at least ½ of laundry
ride bike to work (more often)
shower at night (no hairdryer in morning)
download albums instead of buying CDs
use library instead of buying books
unplug appliances when not in use
bring lunch to work instead of going out to eat
continue to buy from Goodwill instead of buying new
sew market bags for friends & family (instead of plastic bags)
use towels more than once before bleaching/washing
use rechargeable stuff rather than batteries
collect rainwater to water plants

The towel thing is going to be difficult.

she

2009-04-21T19:11:00.000-05:00

she

upon dreary and lonely eve
she comes as a swan calls
broken, she wears her dress
and silently she falls.
she keeps the all in
indulging in every fear
she knows only anger
emptiness lives here.
she robs a memory
just to replace hers
give in to the loss
euphoria, your mind blurs.
it shall all clear soon
don’t struggle in her grip
she has you now
away you slip.
no longer may you feel
you surrendered to her pull
now you are empty
she leaves you, for she is full.