Blog Posts

Holiday Hijinks

12/21/2016

This is a cheater post, as the event was actually two years ago, and I orginally posted on Facebook. Now, I'm about to attend the same party in two days time, so I thought it might be fun to reminisce.

While attending a Christmas party at an internationally-known nature photographer’s showcase home, filled with his friends, other celebrities, associates and other work-related folk, and quite well-off patrons of the arts:

-It’s crowded and I gently place my hand on a stranger’s shoulder and softly say excuse me as I slide around him, but am halted by the heavenly softness of cashmere beneath my palm. Being of the Heavily Tactile Tribe I turn back and pet the sleeve of his sweater, swaying happily, eyes closed, purring that it’s soooo soft, calming endorphins filling me, until I see he’s not appreciating my attention, nor is the classily-clad woman talking to him, and their coldness attacks me as I stumble my apologies, backing away in confusion, never encountering this type of reaction, as in my opinion if you’re going to wear something furry, or soft like cashmere, it’s an open invitation to be touched. By lil’ ol’ non-threatening me.

-Joe’s talking photography to another guest we’ve just met, and I step over to get some Chex Mix, because no Christmas party is complete without it, and I pop some in my mouth and face in to the conversation just as one of the little salty squares drops into my cleavage. Neither notices, but for the next five minutes while nodding and participating all I can think about is if the greasy little toasted treat is leaving a stain on my bitchin’ shantung silk-looking (Praise Polyester!) party dress. As soon as we’re left alone I embrace Joe while darting my hand down into the void and retrieve the rogue snack. I eat it, no one else the wiser.

-If you’re going to stand in front of me and load your plate up with four (4) brownies, and I flash a warm and charming smile at you and teasingly ask you Mae West-style how many of those you’re planning to eat, I expect playful banter back. Not a deadpan, dead-face “Four.” Grumpy old man. What’s a girl gotta do for a smile around here?

-When a picture of an endless sea of Japanese men clad only in loincloths pops up in the slide show, our host tells us they’re in a mad competition to find two phallic objects hidden in the arena so they’ll have good luck the rest of the year. I say under my breath “Been there, done that” and the woman next to me bursts-out laughing. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

-I’m on the outskirts of a circle of people, and Joe’s feeding me a bite of something fancy and delicious and I realize I’ve placed the spike of my heel into the heating grate. I pull up my foot and the grate comes. Out. Of. The. Floor. Hilarity ensues as Joe uses his foot to push the grate back and I wiggle my foot free. Sometimes my life is like an I Love Lucy episode…

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Catalina Noir

11/30/2016

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For an indulgent treat yesterday I ate a couple of servings, maybe a few, of Chili Cheese Fritos, which resulted in having heartburn so bad that when I got into bed I couldn’t sleep. As I rolled around uncomfortably, I was reminded of how I shouldn’t eat that kind of stuff, and should be getting more exercise, and maybe lay off the ice tea after 7, but you know, it tasted so good! I finally got up for an antacid, placing the calcium communion disc on my tongue where it began to dissolve, accompanied by the curious echoing sound of dwarves chipping away in the mines – the antacid was clicking loudly against my night guard, apparently of its own accord. Meanwhile, Joe twitched and snored away next to me, content as Old Yeller. I started thinking of calling him Old Silver. (Uncharitably, as I love Joe’s silver hair – he’s a damn handsome man! Which always leads me to that X-files episode where Michael McKean/Fletcher Freaky-Friday’s – I know! I used a movie title as a verb! – Mulder’s body and looks in the mirror and says, “You’re a damn handsome man!”) But just in my head. At night, when I can’t sleep, and he can.

I felt like maybe I’d be slipping into dreamtime soon when the name of a salad dressing that was escaping both of us during a dinnertime discussion of the iceberg lettuce salads our mothers used to make regularly when we were young popped into my head. I rose from bed and tiptoed into the bathroom where I did a slow motion, super sneaky quiet ninja search for the dry erase marker I use to write on the mirror sometimes. I wanted to let Joe know I had remembered the name, and that I had been wrong at my insistence earlier that it was simply French dressing. It was a futile search. I tried several different items at hand, including a peachy lip liner, green eyeliner, and mood-lipstick that changes colors when you put it on that I won as a prize for winning a costume contest at a long-ago spy party, but none was showing up legibly on the mirror. Finally my eyes dropped to the soap in front of me. I scrawled “Catalina” on the mirror at what I guessed was eye-level for Joe. As I donned a robe and headed for the living room to read until I got sufficiently tired, I hope he realizes what I mean when he sees it, and isn’t thinking of a scary movie moment, discordant knife-wielding music soaring as he squints at the ghostly word in his sleepy state, and believes that when he found my spot in bed empty I was abducted and this was my last desperate clue. Because that’s the obvious conclusion I would jump to at 6 in the morning. Oh, what Chili Cheese Fritos will do…

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The Green Lanyard

11/11/2016

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I suited-up Monday morning by tying on a bright orange Home Depot-style apron with a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. and King County Elections printed on it over my jacket. This was topped off with a huge and boxy one-size-fits-most-but-I’m-swimming-in-this-thing fluorescent green traffic vest, and a green lanyard dangling my name on a badge. I was perhaps overly happy that I had orange tennis shoes and earrings to match my outfit. Suddenly, I was transformed from pasty little desk troll to The Green Lanyard! AKA Customer Service Specialist I, trained to help you with all your voting questions, ready to guide you to the Ballot Box with a friendly non-partisan smile! Step right up, ladies and gents, democracy this way! Thank you, thank you, and have a great day!

Some post voting observations:

-After two grievous gender-identity mishaps I persuaded my ballot-gathering partner to drop his cheerful “Thank you, Lady!” and “Thank you, Sir!” and just go with a simple Thank you!

-The process of democracy would be much speedier if people refrained from taking selfies in front of the ballot box, shoving the ballot through the slot, because simply telling people you voted is not enough proof.

-That said, selfies were totally understandable for the first-time voters. And the woman who came dressed up as Wonder Woman. I should have had my picture taken with her, come to think of it…

-Most of Tuesday I wore a square bag with a ballot slot on top, so I could take ballots from folks driving up. The bag was HUGE! I walked, pranced and danced around like a blue SpongeBob, the weight of the ballots bouncing against my shins. Sometimes I pounded it like a drum. It was a very long day.

-I saw one person kissing their envelope before dropping it in the box, and another praying.

-I developed a little OCD habit of double-tapping the top of my ballot bag after I dropped in someone’s envelope; a little visual reassurance that their vote was cast. “Ballots? Thank you!” (tap tap) After I first started doing it I had to do it every time. Quirky much?

-I was surprised at how many adults asked for “I Voted” stickers. We were not supplied with any to give out, however I improvised and provided hugs if they wanted them. They were well received.

-Best drive-up drop: King County Metro Bus. By the driver.

-There were several people who were skeptical of the safety of their ballot in the (thick steel, locally-made) box: “There’s not a shredder inside, is there?” “What if someone took a hose and filled the box?” “Or shoved ice cream into the slot?” “It’s going to be guarded over night, right?”

-Midday on Tuesday a Sheriff came to join our crew of four and one State Trooper, just in case we needed help with traffic and such. I couldn’t help sauntering up and greeting him with a hearty “Howdy, Sheriff!” I’ve always wanted to do that.

-As we neared 8PM on Tuesday, I was getting a little punch-drunk from smiling and being helpful all day. I asked the Sheriff if I could use his Taser the next time someone asked me if the voting was rigged. I got a nice smile from him, but no Taser. I could tell he admired my initiative and wished he had me on the Force. One can read a lot in a smile.

-The location of our box was within smelling distance of Dick’s, Seattle’s famous burger joint. Their exhaust fans were wafting the alternately tantalizing and nauseous odor of French fries directly our way.

-There was also a pervasive skunky odor in the general neighborhood. Ah, Washington!

-My favorite question? When a twenty-something man came up to me with a puzzled look on his face and asked “What’s going on here?” Since I was wearing that bright orange King County Elections apron, and a giant blue bag that said the same, people were walking by to deposit their envelopes in a clearly marked Ballot Box in several languages, and it was, you know, November 8th, you can perhaps forgive me for pausing a moment while I looked into his face for signs of trickery. I may have squinted my eyes. I may have sniffed him a little for skunky traces.

-Bucket List item fulfilled: When the ballot box was locked up and sealed, and we were all hugging and saying goodbye, I asked Tom the State Trooper if I could give him a hug. He complied and I couldn’t help but say “Is that a pistol, or are you just glad to see me?” It was a pistol.

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Slow Mo Nanowrimo

11/2/2016

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Day 2 of Nanowrimo: National Novel Writing Month.

When I woke up this morning I decided to put aside the fresh new novel I started to write yesterday, and return to one I started a couple of years ago. So after breakfast, coffee mug in hand, full of fresh Writerly Resolve, I go to sit at my desk in the office nook with my laptop and realize the big and bulky computer is taking up too much room, yet I have to decide where to put it. I think the closet in the guest room might be a great place, so I go in and see the pirate costumery from Saturday’s Halloween party piled on the steamer trunk at the end of the bed, which needs to be swept up and taken to the basement, so I do. Then when I dump the pirate items on a bench to be put in with all the costume stuff later (in bins that are stashed too high for me to reach safely) I notice a long-neglected lamp on the floor, that looks so sad – damn that cute animated Pixar lamp! I feel sorry that we have no use for it anymore, and I decide I need to gift it on Buy Nothing Shoreline where it can have new, more loving owners, so I bring it upstairs, clean it up so the brass and marble shine, and take a picture so I can post it later. After all my writing, you know?

I go back into the guest room where I’m still planning to put the old computer, and I notice a decidedly crooked painting on the wall, so I reach to straighten it, whereupon it falls behind the dresser. I realize that the mysterious shifting sound we heard last night when we were in the living room but were too lazy to investigate, buried as we were in pillows and S.H.I.E.L.D, must have been this little painting pulling itself off the sticky-mount on the wall! I pull the dresser out to retrieve the painting and it’s all dusty from its descent, so I get the flashlight and see it's scarier than shit back there, like it’s seriously Shelob’s vacation lair, and now I have to vacuum behind the dresser, holding a small flashlight in my teeth like a detective, trying not to gag and jabbing the long extension in like a weapon.

Next I rearrange the closet so I can drag the chest (that had all the pirate gear on it, remember?) in and see that the foot of the bed is now looking kind of empty and cold, so I move the little sheepskin rug there. Now it looks good in the guestroom except for my son’s sleeping bag I took out of the closet and put on top of the bed. Nicely folded, but still. I go back to the office nook and write a note that I need to call him to see if he wants it. I record some notes on my phone to myself at how ridiculous this morning is going, and I notice the big computer is still sitting there on the desk, mocking me. After all that I decide the computer shouldn't be going into the closet in the guestroom to most likely die, but instead should go to the basement where it can possibly be used. I go back downstairs to ponder location. I scoop the cat box. I come back up, disconnect the computer and place it next to the pirate loot on the bench.

Now some untidy papers and such are visible on the desk, so I sort through and file some, recycle some others. The recycle bin needs emptying so I take it to the big bin outside and on the way back one of the few valiant dahlias that graced us with their presence this year attracts my eye with a flash of red in the gray rain, and I think it would look lovely in the stone vase on my desk, so I come back in and get the snippers. After the flower is in the vase, I decide the crudely-welded cube that holds the Sharpies and fat pens I separated a while ago from the normal pens because I didn’t want them intermingling, is bad Feng shui and search around for a suitable replacement. I drag the step stool out of the pantry and retrieve a beautiful enameled red Chinese mug from above the kitchen cupboards. Now, with everything to my liking I sit upon my velvet cushion in my vintage wooden rocking office chair, turn on my laptop, rock back, and…my stomach growls!

Despite the setbacks of the day I did get some notes organized, re-acquainted myself with my story, did some editing, and used some previously written material for today’s word count. Plus, I wrote a post for the blog. And the house looks great!

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The "That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm"

10/15/2016

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Survival. Since the first whispered storm forecasts for the Pacific NW I’ve been bulking up on carbs, throwing cautionary calories to the pending wind. The instinct kicks in every time the weather gets threatening; like a squirrel I’ve been running around stuffing my cheeks with popcorn, that bit of leftover bread I used for making croutons for the French Onion soup I made on Monday, dipping into the bag of chips I got as a treat for Joe, but he keeps forgetting about. If things get truly dire, I’ll be able to survive for weeks on fat reserves alone.

The other night we roamed the grocery aisles foraging for non-perishable goods to stock our pantry. It was no easy task for someone who makes most things from scratch, who shops the perimeters of the store – produce, dairy and meat – scooping happily away in the bulk section for dried lentils, grains and the like. Joe turned his nose up at canned chili and stew. Instead, we’ll make hummus from garbanzo or black beans, (we have tahini and lemons, right?!) using the new food mill (I recently got with my Amazon gift certificate – insert fist pump here) instead of the food processor. We patted ourselves on the back at how resourceful we were. We stared at a mind-numbing variety of boxes of granola bars alongside a woman doing the same thing. “Shopping for the storm?” she said. When we dumbly nodded she laughed. “I think it’s just an excuse to get chocolate!”

We bought fudgy bite-sized brownies. They were mostly gone before the first phase of the storm was over.

We bought 20 cans of cat food. For the cat. It was a really great deal, what can I say? I was self-conscious the cashier might think it was for us, though. If she saw how I gag every time I open a can she’d think differently. Of course, if it really were an apocalypse? Maybe she thought we were planning to fatten the cat for future roasting! Maybe I watch and read too many dystopian movies and novels.

I hear there’s no name for this storm, as it’s really three converging together, so I’m dubbing it That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm. If the power is out for any significant length of time, we’ve got 30 fat brats (bratwurst sausages, not disagreeable children) in the beer fridge downstairs meant for above-mentioned once-postponed, once-canceled party that will have to be cooked. Our corner of Shorelandia will be smelling delicious!
In the meantime, as I sit safe, cozy, and warm in my faux-fur vest, and the rain steadily increases, I think there’s another brownie around here with my name on it.

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Mr. Thirsty is Screaming

9/22/2016

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I’m lying there unable to communicate except for a flutter of my hands. I’m seeing monster faces in the pattern of the acoustic tile ceiling, because, well, that’s what I do. Pandora is playing a Billy Joel song and my dentist is testing his 20-something assistant on her 70s music knowledge. She’s heard the name…He proceeds to tell her about Billy as he knows him – heavy-set, bald, bug-eyed – in his soft and adorable Colombian accent, but can’t remember the name of the beautiful model he was once married to. My eyes are wild behind my protective eyewear, darting to the doctor, the assistant, doctor, back to the assistant, pleading with my eyebrows for them to rip the duct tape off my mouth and let me speak! He fashions my baby tooth to look like an adult one, and sweat forms on my brow as I furiously attempt to mentally transmit the model’s name to him, to throw my voice over to the assistant like she’s a ventriloquist’s dummy, but only this comes out: iheee innneee! I’m the monster in Young Frankenstein in top hat and tails dancing with Gene Wilder and putting on the ritz. Christie Brinkley! Alas, it’s drown-out by the screaming of Mr. Thirsty vigorously sucking the saliva out of the bottom of my mouth. To not be able to sing to all the pop 70s songs of my youth, to not pipe in on the conversation when little-know-it-all me knows the answers; this is true torture!

For now I relax. Or try to – my mouth has become a construction site, as the doctor moves on to removing the last of my ancient fillings from the Land of Metallica and replacing it with a crown. Singing under his breath, “Hold me closer tiny dah-han-cer,” he’s pushed the heavy drilling equipment up to 11, a cloud of fine tooth bits is spattering everything within a three-foot radius, a hot, iron smell fills my nostrils, and over the heinous high-pitched sound my stomach growls. My brain has been tricked into thinking it’s snack time by the sluice of water, metal and mmm-mmm calcium and my stomach responds with a roar like it’s never been fed before. I’m embarrassed at its gullibility.

I’m left alone while the gloppy mold of my new tooth crown is setting, and close my eyes. My teeth are clenched down in a bite, and I do some deep breathing for five minutes, until I feel something wet trailing down the side of my neck and realize I’m so numb I’ve unwittingly drooled Niagara Falls out of the side of my mouth. I’m busy cleaning myself up with my completely useless bib when the assistant comes back in. She gets busy inserting a cord around the remaining bottom of the tooth, which apparently proves difficult.

“Your tissue is very buoyant.”

“That’s what she said!” I couldn’t help but reply. In my head.

When I'm finally done and checking out at the receptionist’s desk, I try to apply some tinted chap stick but my upper lip is still numb, and I fear I’ve smeared it all over my face. I smile sheepishly as I leave, but when I get to the car and glance at the rearview mirror I see nothing but a palsied sneer, a lame Elvis impersonator in the driver’s seat. With a sloppy pink clown mouth.

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Aloha Mole

9/1/2016

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“I’ve got this mole, see,” I said in my best gangster talk as I flipped ashes from my imaginary stogie onto my skirt that was bunched up around my waist. The paper modesty drape crinkled as I shifted self-consciously on the doctor’s chair. He wanted to know what prompted me to come in. “It’s…different.” I hesitated.

Earlier his nurse had asked where the mischievous mole was located, and I indicated with my hand. “Your thigh?” His finger paused over his digital notepad.

“Uh, no. It’s on my…. pubis?” My mons, my hoo-hah, my-god-I’m-nearly-55-and-I-don’t-really-know-what-I-should-call-it-anatomically. Is that a blush or a hot flash I’m feeling? I considered Googling it when I was in the dermatology waiting room with all the other redheads, blondes and fair-skinned of our species, (and one poor teen with acne that made me cringe inside with sympathy). The nurse wrote it down, so I figured one of us knew. He then asked if I would be more comfortable with a female in the room during the (male doctor’s) exam. I shrugged my shoulders indifferently, but secretly wished for an overweight assistant; I don’t feel that uncomfortable showing my body, but the fat…not so much.

I read recently that "The mythical explanation of antiquity was that the gods, concerned that some mortals were just too beautiful, sent dark spots down to mar pretty faces." My face is liberally spattered with freckles and beauty marks, that kind-hearted euphemism. Thank you very much you jealous gods! But the Mons Mole, hidden in its Top Secret location since birth like a discreet tattoo, always held a certain aura of mystery about it. “Has he seen your mole?” became a friend’s code for a relationship’s…progress, shall we say.

“Different how?” the dermatologist prompted me.

“Well, it’s tender, and it’s grown horns.” I demonstrated by wiggling my index fingers at the top of my head. The doctor rewarded me with widened eyes, and eyebrows shooting up over the rims of his glasses.

“Now I’m intrigued! Let’s have a look. Will I be able to see it easily?” he said as he snapped his purple gloves on and reached for a magnifying light. I could sense his eagerness and was happy I could make his day a bit more fun; if there were Master’s Degrees in Lightheartedness I would have one.

“Oh yeah,” I nodded. Put that magnifying glass back, honey, and say hello to my lil’ fren.

We decided to remove it. It was a bit hard to say goodbye to this part of me, this piece of myself, but it was probably for the best. The doctor picked up on my sense of humor ("Can you see any gray since you're down there?") and said that they were going to mount it on the break room refrigerator. I was comforted by the thought of its little horns waving back and forth as the fridge door was opened daily.

I considered ending this post with a recipe for Pumpkin Mole, but that’s too far, even for me.

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Melty Goodness

8/10/2016

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I’ve been somewhat obsessed with the neighbors’ melted blinds this last week, so it comes as no surprise that my recipe of choice last night was a Crab Melt. I’d like to think it serves as a good example of my ability to take something negative and twist it, if sometimes absurdly, into a positive.

The recipe comes from A Boat, A Whale & A Walrus, a local cookbook by Renee Erickson. It’s filled with menus, recipes, beautiful photos and stories sprinkled throughout about everything from her summers in Washington as a kid to the food suppliers she uses for her restaurants. The recipes can be elegant, yet simple, and always fresh. Like the Pacific Northwest itself, now that I think about it.

This Crab Melt is so easy and straightforward I had to wonder why it was even included. But…..delicious! I’ve been eating more sensibly lately, avoiding carbs and bad fats and the like, so this was a truly decadent treat. I wanted to use fresh crabmeat, so sauntered up to the seafood counter at a local grocery store and asked for a pound. That’s all he happened to have, and as he handed me the container he hesitated and told me the price. I froze in shock, but I saw a challenge in his eyes – real or imagined – and pride made me take it from him with a forced insouciance. Plus, the thought of the canned stuff by the tuna fish that always seems to have a lot of cartilage in the meat made me throw my self-imposed budget to the wind; I wanted the real deal. Fresh, succulent Northwest goodness.

I made a half-recipe, as it was only for my husband and I, and it made plenty – enough for dinner again tonight. Neither of us is a fan of tarragon, so I swapped that out for fresh garlic chives from the pot on the back porch. I also used Vegenaise instead of mayonnaise. When I want authentic mayo I make it from scratch, but for day-to-day use I like the vegan version. Using fresh crabmeat was the right call, as when I taste-tested the mixture for seasoning before piling it on the English muffin, I wanted to eat it all up right then! We both waited patiently (well, one of us did) while our little toaster oven took forever to broil, getting that sharp cheddar to that perfect melted, golden stage.

I served this with a coleslaw made from what I had on hand: chopped green cabbage, the last of a bunch of cilantro, (so mostly stems), a dollop of Vegenaise, a bloop bloop bloop of rice vinegar, a sprinkle of whatever is in the sugar bowl (Splenda) because it was closer to my hand than the pantry, and a couple generous pinches of Thai ginger sea salt and vigorous grinds of the pepper mill. Can I hear a YUM?

Crab Melts
(makes 8)

4 English muffins, split
2 lbs. picked crabmeat
½ cup mayonnaise
1/3 cup chopped fresh tarragon leaves
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
6 ounces strong white cheddar, such as Beecher’s Flagship

Toast the English muffins until lightly browned in toaster, and preheat the oven’s broiler setting to high.

In a large mixing bowl, blend together the crabmeat, mayonnaise tarragon, and salt and pepper to taste. Place the muffins on a baking sheet, cut sides up. Pile the crab salad onto the muffins, then top the crab with the cheddar.

Place the baking sheet on a rack about 4 inches from the broiling unit. Broil the melts with the door partway open until the cheese is melted and bubbly, turning the pan once if needed to melt the cheese evenly, 3 to 5 minutes total. (The meat inside doesn’t need to be piping hot.) Serve immediately.

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Blind Obsession

8/10/2016

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I kept wishing they would take the blinds down. Every time I walked past our dining room window, I stopped and stared across the driveway at those blinds. At first glance they just looked broken, like someone bent the slats down when peeping through them and they stayed that way. Then you would notice the odd warping, and realize they were melted. And there was a one by two-foot rectangle just gone, a black absence in the neat pattern of lines at the top. It was so hot in their living room the blinds melted.

The night of the fire I couldn’t fall asleep so slid into a kimono and settled myself on the couch with my book. I was reading for a while and had just raided the fridge for a tasty bite of leftover sausage and settled back into my nest, back to my story. Then I heard a large truck pull up in front of the house. It didn’t move, and I turned to see red lights flashing in through that middle part of the curtains that seems to only close all the way half the time. I got up and pulled them aside. A fire truck was in front of our house and the one next door, and our neighbor was standing in her robe in her driveway lit by the truck’s flood lights, hand to her mouth facing towards her house. I ran outside.

A smell of burning plastic assaulted me as I flew over the lawn in my bare feet. Once I got to J I could see smoke silhouetted against the black sky. I took her in my arms and asked if she was okay. Once she confirmed she was I asked her firmly where T was, and she nodded toward the driveway saying “There.” Relief flooded through me as he came towards us, in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, his bare chest looking so soft and vulnerable next to the half-a dozen fire fighters fully geared up around him. He joined us, and somehow I grew twice my size and enveloped them in a big mama bear hug of safety, murmuring over and over to them that they were okay, while at the back of my mind I was embarrassed that I had sausage breath. My next thought was that I had to get a robe for T.

This was a week ago, and there’s been a fire restoration truck there for a few days now, slowly hauling our friends’ heavily smoke-damaged lives out bits at a time. Incredibly frightening what built-up lint in the dryer hose can do. They were not injured, the house is still standing (though unlivable for at least a month, most likely longer) they have each other – they’re getting married next week; the wedding dress was thankfully at her mom's – but they’re left in a daze of “what ifs.”

The blinds were untouched for a week, and became my obsession. I would make up reasons to walk past our window so I could look at them. They hung there, partly intact, partly drooping in a plastic palsied frown; a grotesque reminder of the biggest “what if…” What if they hadn’t woken up?

If I were an artist, I would take charcoal from the charred floorboard that was beneath the dryer that now sits alongside the washer, both burnt-out hulks of sadness in the backyard. On a white wall I would sketch a living room, with family photos, books, a couch with that special pillow that was finally just right for taking a nap. Then I would blow the black dust from my hands over the scene, draw a window over it, and hang those melted blinds over it all. You would smell smoke and plastic, and you would be able to feel the horror of “what if.”

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Quirky Musings from a Quirky Mind

7/15/2016

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Post-Camping Nirvana. You know. When you tumble through your door after a few days in the woods, kick off your boots, and head for the bathroom, where it is blessedly your own, clean, you don’t have to pull your bandana over your face to prevent barfing, nothing is below your tush but porcelain and water, and visions of that creepy thing from the X-Files that lurked in the hole of outhouses don’t exist. Then that blessed manna from modern plumbing, the hot shower. Down the drain goes the bug spray, the dried sweat, the rivulets of dirt dried to mud on your ankles. And washing your hair! Biodegradable Dr. Bronner’s you’re cool and all that, but give me some Bumble and Bumble in that seductive summer scent of coconut and I’ll give you a new woman. And what could possibly be better than slipping that clean body into your own bed, cool, smooth sheets on an actual mattress a foot thick, a real pillow and not some bundled t-shirts because you forgot the pillows for camping?

Sometimes I wake up with this fluttering in my chest, a shot of adrenalin racing through my veins, and I think: Panic attack? Or is this strange energy called being rested and fully awake? It’s so rare I would hardly know. Should I take a pill to calm the storm, or stretch my arms up into a salutation of the sun?

I was at a museum recently and while I loved reading about the history of each piece, standing absorbed in interest, admiring the craftsmanship, the beauty, I was aching to touch everything. To trace my fingers along the whorls in a chair finely wrought in Celtic patterns by an anonymous carver from Romania, designed by their queen who came over from the British Isles. To cup my hand around the cool, smooth haunch of a Rodin statue. To poke my finger at the waterproof jacket made of seal intestines that looked amazing like a lightweight quilted parka from REI. To add to this hell of holding back my tactile desires were the often crookedly mounted placards, and even some paintings tilted slightly to the left. Unthinkingly, out of habit, I reached my hand out to a corner of a painting and gently pushed it up, but was met with resistance. It was permanently crooked. I gave a sigh and shuffled on.

Sometimes I wonder if I have some sort of neurological disorder that makes squares and rectangles appear slightly tilted down to the left. Or are they sliding up to the right? To this day our wall-mounted TV looks off-kilter to me, even though Joe has adamantly defended his carpentry skills, even whipped out a level to prove it is true. Regardless of science, if my eye sees it as crooked, isn’t it crooked? I see it as my civic duty to straighten frames in doctor’s offices, cafes, stores. Sometimes I do it matter-of-factly, like it’s my right to fix it, and other times I surreptitiously snake a hand out and do it on the sly. I always feel better for having done so, and wonder why it doesn’t bother anyone else. How long has that poster of Clean Hands Save Lives been tacked up on the wall so obviously wonky, and is it just me that feels slightly alarmed? I have to adjust most of the pictures on the walls of our home almost daily. Was there some earthquake in the wee morning hours? Does our old house settle that much during the night? My father, bless his OCD soul, pencil-marks the corners of frames so he knows exactly where to adjust any that are misbehaving. Are quirks passed on to new generations?

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