I Resemble This Remark

Bill Watterson's comic "Calvin & Hobbes" has been a favorite of mine since it came out in 1985. Before then, I was a huge Peanuts fan from a very early age. Among my most precious possessions are about 70 pocket-sized paperbacks from the mid-60s into the 90s, all comic books of Charlie Brown and Snoopy and Linus and Lucy and the rest of the gang.

I like these comics because they are funny. But I think they are funny because they are true.

I wish I could be like this comic strip more often. I manage to jump back up on my feet and say "TaDA!" sometimes, but not often enough. I am pretty famous for making dumb mistakes, for landing on my ample keester, for choosing just the wrong moment to hike up my underwear, or let go a rolling burp, or saying that one perfectly inappropriate thing.

So far, my all time best was telling a man that he looked great after having lost a lot of weight, only to have him tell me that he was dying of AIDS.

Oh.

I have inquired on whether or not the baby has yet kicked when, yes, you see this coming, the woman is not pregnant. I have congratulated parents on their well behaved son, only to find out they have a girl. I have called a skull tattoo "cute" and much as I hate to admit it, I have actually said that "some of my best friends are black/gay/men/women/Mexicans/Republicans/Jews/your sensitivity-point-inserted-here."

On my very first date ever (I was 17), I took a bite of pizza four minutes in, then wore a chunk of black olive in my front incisor tooth for the remainder of the evening. Shouldn't have worried too much, turns out the guy wasn't looking for a boyfriend, just a beard.

But that's another story.

I once served a homeless dinner, which was nice. But in the process of walking the freshly baked cornbread to the table, I said, "Come and get it!" and promptly dumped the entire tray on the floor.

In college, I once responded badly to a handsome young man I had admired from afar. He had decided to get my attention by tickling me in the ribs from behind. Without thinking, I elbowed him in the stomach then turned around and immediately kicked him in the nuts and dropped him to the floor.

He did not ask me out, as I had hoped he might.

And neither did his friends.

But again, that's another story.

But this comic gives me hope. It reminds me that the falling over part is inevitable, but the "TaDA" is optional.

Today, I am still a little down, but I can imagine myself getting up soon. I hope that I will have the presence of mind to make it look like a triumph. Or at least give it the old college try.

But if I don't, I'm sure I will have many, many, many more times to practice in the near future.
Clunk.
TaDA!

Ok, So Here's a Story.

It's a short story.

It's me at my in-laws' party, a couple winters ago. I am there with my ever faithful, ever patient husband Jon and daughters Stacy and Janae and the rest of the Nelson gang at his brother's house, and I am watching the cat.

I am watching the cat because there is a lot going on. A lot of people are mingling and talking and reminiscing over stuff I know nothing about. They are talking about places in Montana that I have not been to, and they are asking about the health and well being of folks I do not yet know. They are really nice people and I like them, but I don't have a whole lot to contribute to the conversation, and so I am watching the cat.

The cat is supposed to be upstairs, but he is not. He is on the stairs, half-way up to where he should be, half-way down to where he wants to be, near the plate of crackers and salmon.

And between him and the crackers and salmon is six steps, and a bowl of almonds.

I watch him sniff the almonds, then gingerly stick his rough tongue out to scrape off a bit of the salt on them. He likes them, and so he licks, licks, licks the salt. The almonds barely move, he is so delicate. And no one notices him but me.

Someone asks me if I want something to drink, and I say yes, mostly because I can't think of anything else to say at the moment, and I want to keep watching the cat.

A very nice man goes over to the almonds and scoops up a handful and pops them in his mouth. He has not noticed the cat, who has bolted upstairs so that he is where he should be.

The cat returns. Lick, lick, lick. Then bolts. The man returns, too. Scoop, munch, munch, munch.

I should not be pleased at this, but I am. I like the man. I like the cat. And I like the idea of the two navigating around each other and this bowl of nuts.

I start thinking about all the bowls of M&Ms I have nibbled at during parties. Dishes of Chex Mix. Peanuts. Trail mix. Crackers. Chocolate covered raisins. And I can't help but wonder who tasted them before I did. What unseen dog, cat, kid has been there before me? I should be disgusted, but again, I am pleased. The peanuts become opportunities, the almonds become experiences, the Chex Mix - well, that's just Chex Mix. The metaphor only goes so far.

That's my story, short and sweet and salty and crunchy. And I think it may actually have a moral, such as it is. I think the moral of the story is this: Whatever it is, someone's been there before you. Whatever it is, someone will be there after you. So go ahead and get some but don't forget to leave enough for the next one who comes along. And in the meantime, don't get too bent about how it tastes. It's good. You'll live.

Sometimes It Just Is.

Some days are like this. There is nothing wrong; in fact, its been a quiet, lovely no-pressure day.

And I am in the dumps anyway.

Nothing to see here.

No great trial, no horrible tragedy, no impossible twist of fate to throw me off my feet and render me faceplanted to the earth.

I just feel....small. Of no consequence, of no great merit. Dumpy. Boring. Wormish. Poor Jon, I explain to him the dumpiness of Dumpdom, but how do you explain sticking a metaphorical box over your head and standing in a metaphorical empty room? It doesn't make sense.

There are some great sayings out there about this. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar" is one of them. "Much ado about nothing" is another. There was a great one that showed up in Peanuts once: "Shut up and leave me alone."

That's probably the best one for today.

It does not make sense for me to feel like this. Nonetheless, I do. And if I were more mature or enlightened, I might take the time and effort to decode it, to defuse it, to deconstruct it and rebuild it into some lovely glitering bauble of self-awareness. Failing that, I would at least take the effort to pull the stinger out, put some ice on it and move on.

But I am not.

So for today, it will just Be. I will try not to let it spill out over the rest of the folks around me, but I will embrace my inner Dumper and keep the stupid little trollwoman inside me company until she picks up her sorry ass and toddles along. She will sit there under the box with messy hair, unwashed face and unbrushed teeth. Maybe she will be picking her nose. Don't care. Don't give a crap. Shut up and leave me alone.

Not every day has to be wonderful or instructional. So there. Nothing to see here.

Let it be.

Wobbly, Wobbly, Wobbly Down a New Path

Today, the package of weight loss materials arrived.

Tomorrow, my husband and I go on the "Together Diet."

Will we become svelt and sexy? Or will we attack each other and the winner eats the loser?

The drama is about to unfold! The wheels on the tricyle go "wobbly wobbly wobbly wobble" and we begin our trek down a new path.

Success? Doom? Only the future can say!

Stay tuned - but don't stay too close.

Just in case I get really really hungry.

A New Affirmation!

I am very excited by this woman. She is Elaine Morgan. She is 92 and she is shocking, offensive, stubborn, curious, obstinant, and brilliant. She may also be completely wrong, and I don't even care.

Born in 1920, Elaine started out as a writer, then became a playwright, then a journalist, then a scientific writer, then a nuisance.

Elaine believes that humans evolved from apes. A lot of people do, so that's not earth shaking, although it is contentious to a lot of folks, some in my own household.

But Elaine also believes humans evolved from AQUATIC APES. She is driving her fellow scientists absolutely nuts. This woman will not shut up.

This is why she believes it (in her own words):

1. All other non-human mammals which have lost all or most of their fur are either swimmers like whales and dolphins and walruses and manatees, or wallowers like hippopotamuses and pigs and tapirs. One general conclusion seems undeniable from an overall survey of mammalian species: that while a coat of fur provides the best insulation for land mammals the best insulation in water is not fur, but a layer of fat.

2. Humans are by far the fattest primates; we have ten times as many fat cells in our bodies as would be expected in an animal of our size. In land mammals fat tends to be stored internally, especially around the kidneys and intestines; in aquatic mammals and in humans a higher proportion is deposited under the skin. When an anatomist skins a cat or rabbit or chimpanzee, any superficial fat deposits remain attached to the underlying tissues. In the case of humans, the fat comes away with the skin, just as it does in aquatic species like dolphins, seals, hippos and manatees.


3. The only animal which has ever evolved a pelvis like ours, suitable for bipedalism, was the long-extinct _Oreopithecus_, known as the swamp ape. Only two other primates when on the ground stand and walk erect more readily than most other species. One, the proboscis monkey, lives in the mangrove swamps of Borneo. The other is the bonobo or pygmy chimpanzee; its habitat includes a large tract of seasonally flooded forest.

4. We have conscious control of our breathing. In land mammals these actions are involuntary, like the heart beat or the processes of digestion.Voluntary breath control appears to be an aquatic adaptation because, apart from ourselves, it is found only in aquatic mammals like seals and dolphins.

5. We have millions of sebaceous glands which exude oil over head, face and torso, and in young adults often causes acne. The chimpanzee's sebaceous glands are described as "vestigial" whereas ours are described as "enormous". Their purpose is obscure. In other animals the only known function of sebum is that of waterproofing the skin or the fur.

6. We have the largest brains of all the apes. The building of brain tissue, unlike other body tissues, is dependent on an adequate supply of Omega-3 fatty acids, which are abundant in the marine food chain but relatively scarce in the land food chain.

7. The oldest pre-human fossils (including the best known one, "Lucy") are called australopithecus afarensis because their bones were discovered in the afar triangle, an area of low lying land near the Red Sea, which was completely flooded about 7 million years ago. The ape population living there at the time would have found themselves living in a radically changed habitat. Some may have been marooned on off-shore islands - the present day Danakil Alps were once surrounded by water. Others may have lived in flooded forests, salt marshes, mangrove swamps, lagoons or on the shores of the new sea, and they would all have had to adapt or die. The first and most famous austrilopithicus discovery, an individual dubbed "Lucy" was found lying among crocodile and turtle eggs and crab claws at the edge of a flood plain near what would then have been the coast of Africa.

I don't know if she's right. Neither does she, although she's getting enough flak from the scientific community to suggest that she's on to something. Nobody likes change, not even scientists.

And this is why I love thinking about her, and her theory, and her persistence. I love it because it is what I value so much - an inquisitive and interested mind, ready to take on the established and turn it on its head. I love that she was a writer, then a playwright, then a journalist, then a scientist. It makes me wonder what she will be next.

And it makes me wonder what I will be next. Can I keep that crisp and brave mindset that hungers to learn, learn, learn? Can I risk the joy and disappointment of redesigning myself as the years go by? Can I be heroic enough to not be finished, to be ever in process, to be perhaps at time irritatingly right, or ridiculously wrong? Can I keep going?

I want that. Not just for myself, but for the ripples my life will make. I want the stones I throw to be wave-makers. I won't throw them at others, but I want to keep throwing them again and again into the well of my own self, to see how the ripples and splashes will intersect, will make new and ever changing patterns on the surface, and ultimately keep the waters of my life ever fresh, ever moving, ever disturbed.

People hike to find waterfalls. People rush to the ocean's edge. People throw inner tubes into rivers and ride them, to see where the river will take them.

It's important that the water moves.

It's important that the water of my life keeps moving, even if I'm the one who has to break the surface again and again. Please Lord, let me never shut up.

I want to be aquatic, whether or not I came from an aquatic ape.

Stop. Look. Listen.

When I was a little kid, my mom taught me to be very careful when crossing the street. I was supposed to remember three things: Stop, look, listen. It meant that I was supposed to get out of my own head, come to a complete and total stop, then take a really good look around and then, as a final precaution, listen as well as I can to make sure there are no invisible cars about to sneak up behind me and run me over. It was good advice. Now that I am an adult, I still stop at the red light, look around, and listen carefully before running the risk of jaywalking, which I am sure my mother would not approve of, even though I did the S-L-L routine. This morning, I was in church during the semi-annual "Worship Through Music" in which the choir and orchestra get together and present a really impressive piece of music, that, hopefully, people get a chance to really hear, if they are willing to stop, look, and then finally listen. Some people did. I know this because of the ones who came up to me afterwards and remarked about how extraordinary the experience was, and how much they loved the music. And that's good. But sitting out in the narthex (lobby to you unchurch-ey folks) I was amazed to see how many people simply do not have the skills to master that which was given to me at the tender age of five; namely, the ability to stop, look, and listen. I sat on the lowest stairs and watched people milling around with cups of coffee and children and big purses and, in one case, a magazine. They sat for a while in the chairs in the narthex, and drank their coffee. Then they got up, walked into the community center to check out the music in there, and shortly, returned to the narthex. Within five minutes, they'd be going to the restroom, or getting a refill, or headed to the main office area, or going up the stairs. Pretty soon I'd see them wander back to a different chair, sit for a while, then get up and mill about again. A few of them couldn't handle even that, and they walked out to the parking lot; perhaps there is something of interest to see there. The point was, they could not possibly see anything of interest, or hear anything that would hold them still, because they cannot stop. They have the attention span of children. No, on second thought, I suspect they have less than that. I have seen a child carefully attending to a butterfly or a beetle, stopping in their tracks to look at it, and listen for the sound of its wings. (For those who have really listened, you can in fact hear the sound of a butterfly's wings, but you have to be really still.) I went back and forth between being angry and being sad. They were like ants milling over a patch of asphalt, when three inches away an entire meadow is singing in the sunlight. They were so busy, so very busy with absolutely nothing at all. And as I watched them, I realized that I, too, was getting sucked into the busyness, watching them, forgetting the music. I had let my soul start wandering around with them, seeing only coffee cups, hearing only the patter of restless feet. Hence, the dandelion. I took this picture in my backyard yesterday, when the dog was happily digging up a rock to bark at. This dandelion is a good reminder of what we should be doing: STOP. Quit fidgeting. Stand still. Better yet, flop down on your belly in the grass. LOOK. The perfect symmetry of this dandelion puff is easily as complex as our best architecture, our finest sculptures, our most impressive skyscrapers. We have done nothing to eclipse that beauty which lies in our own backyard. That beauty we are about to spray with Roundup. LISTEN. You are bound to hear music. It might be in the wind, or in the rustle of leaves, or some distant birdcall, or the flutter of a moth. They are all part of the symphony, and it is playing all the time. Your heartbeat has a part, too, a quiet but insistent beat that must move in time with the rest of the orchestra. When you stop being part of the music, you die. We heard some wonderful music today. Well, some of us. Some of us just had coffee. Some have filled their souls; others have given themselves a lovely caffeine buzz. I'm not against the buzz, I just don't want to live in it 24/7. Sometimes, you just have to get back to what's real, what's rooted, what truly lasts. Stop. Look. And for God's sake: LISTEN.

I Want a Disclaimer, Too

I want one of these for my life. "This vehicle not responsible for flying debris."

That pretty much sums it up. But I think I would need a larger sticker:

"This vehicle not responsible for flying emotional debris, jumped conclusions or dropped f-bombs; not culpable for injured feelings, rocked boats, inappropriate behavior, offhand comments, unreasonable requests, unreliable information and intermittent cracks, wise or other; not accountable for occasional gas leakage or other unintended emissions; damage caused by popped buttons, split seams or burst bra straps is not covered by this institution or its subsidiaries; individuals spending time in the company of said vehicle do so at their own risk. The statements, appearance or any other aspect of said vehicle do not represent the views of management and are not admissible in a court of law."

Yep. That'd be a good start.

Ten Things I Can't Explain.

1. Vladimir Putin's back.

2. Anything associated with this address.

3. The Kim Kardashians of the world. You think they'd get tired of being this after awhile.

4. This. Although I once spent an entire summer reading nothing but Einstein's Theory of General Relativity. And then my head exploded.

5. Not this, either. String theory. Still wrestling with it. Still putting cotton in my ears so my melting brain doesn't ooze out onto my clothes. Cotton made of tiny, tiny vibrating strings.

6. The words to Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody."

7. Size Zero.

8. How these things stay in. What's on the side you can't see? Speaking of belly buttons...

9. Why do Adam and Eve have them? And lastly...

10. How the God of the Universe still has time to spend listening to me. A.Ma.Zing.

Twenty-Six-Point-Nine!

This is Wonder Woman. I do not look anything like her. But I feel like her today. I rode 26.9 miles with Jon on the tandem yesterday. I rock.

Ok, I don't rock. On Friday, I was bemoaning my old-ladyness. On Saturday I was leaving self-respect behind as I loaded my substantial behind into spandex. Again, I remind the reader how much I do not look like Wonder Woman.

But I have to admit to a certain level of self pride that I sincerely hope is not self aggrandizement or worse, self delusion. I can twirl the Lasso of Truth and say in all honesty I have accomplished a Small Something. Last week, I did nineteen miles after not having ridden for a very very very long time. Yesterday, I was able to do seven more miles than the week before; up to twenty-six with a little left over. And only one dose of Advil. Not bad.

Yes, I am still a tubbybubblebutt. Yes, my legs are about as fit as a set of Oscar Meyer weiners. Yes, it will be quite some time before spandex is my fashion statement of choice. Wonder Woman could still kick my tushie with her little finger and not mess up her perfectly touseled hair. And yes, I have a very very very VERY long way to go.

But hey, I've covered the first thirty-eight-odd miles!

Your Average Old Lady

On days like today, when I need to pay bills and do laundry and I really should take the dog for a walk and probably get the oil changed and then when I go number two it takes me more than ten minutes I get to feeling just a tad old.
Not this kind of old. This kind of old is countercultural and pissy and full of vinegar and knows more about cuban cigars than Castro. This kind will break her hip kicking your ass.

And not this kind, either, who clearly would give anyone a massive guilt trip for breathing too much air or taking too big of bites at the table. This one will have an apoplectic fit and wind up in emergency because you squeeze your ketchup packet from the bottom instead of the top.

And much as I love this kind, the ones who are sweet and celebratory and know how to make "I love you" signs with their gnarled little fingers, I'm not feeling this either. Sorry, sweet old lady, cuddlier than a koala.

No, today I feel old in a completely unremarkable way. Like the hangers that have been in the closet for the past twelve years, quietly tangling and holding shirts and slacks. Like the floor, needing waxing but still keeping the rest of everything from dropping down into the basement. Like the deck railings, sturdy enough but cosmetically less than Restoration-Hardware-Catalog worthy. I feel old in the manner of invisible things that continue to serve their purpose, but by and large, are just not that exciting to think about.

I'm not too worried about this, though. The day itself is an old day. It started out that way and is likely to continue into the evening. It is cold but not bracingly so; it is rainy, but not stormy or passionate; it is cloudy but once in a while a sunbreak makes you think the weather will change, and then it doesn't. It is the type of day in which one is pretty sure not much of anything noteworthy is going to occur, but the important little things will soldier on, and the flowers not yet in bloom will work their quiet magic. We just won't see it today.

Today is a day in which the toilet paper roll is half full. Today is a day in which the bills are almost due. Today is a day in which the dog naps after having chewed his bone for exactly seventeen chews. Today is so ordinary, it's almost stereotypical.

And I am feeling exactly the same way. Far from my youth, but not of an age to be revered for my wisdom. Kinda like that toilet paper roll. Right in the middle of Average.

I colored my hair today. Nice. Not quite blonde, not really brunette anymore, and the gray is gone for now. I like this. I don't love it, but I like it. It's average, too.

Old lady inside me, get comfortable today. Tomorrow, it's possible the internal five-year-old will be in charge again, and we will be rolling.

Maybe. For now, we will take a nap.