Mrs. Miyagi and the Warm Smell of Leftover Sunshine

I'm going to do a little cursing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I fucking hate flies.

I can't stand their damn buzzing and their little grotesque metallic green bodies.

I fucking hate flies.
I hate that they land on the rim of glasses and tines of forks. That they walk their dirty little feet over every surface forcing me to follow around behind and sterilize. I feel like a gang of rude offensive bikers have laid claim to my apartment and are inviting their friends to come crash. Where are they coming from?!

I've spent most of my Friday night sitting here swearing and swatting and missing. Cursing and swatting and killing. SPLAT! You would think I would feel better but I am grossed out. Itchy and sticky and down right ornery.

I should run my central AC. Yes, I have it. But I don't like it. I spend half the year being cold that when Summer finally comes around bringing its sunshine and warm degrees like gifts to a hostess, why the hell shut the windows and make it an artificial 68?! I suppose the flies are consequences of fresh air.

Erin and I didn't grow up with air conditioning. We had cheaper ways to cool down...window screens, box fans, sprinklers, slip-n-slides, Popsicles and Jello Pudding Pops, (what I wouldn't give for either one of THOSE right now), cool baths and sleeveless nightgowns.

We grew up in the country so when it was time to come in for the night it was dark. D-A-R-K. You could see glow-bugs everywhere -- for what seemed like miles across the corn fields. There were bullfrogs and cicadas that would start making noises at night fall; sometimes it would start to sound like high-pitched static and then it would abruptly stop. Silence. Dark wonderful, warm, silence. At those moments you could hear Ernie Harwell and the Tiger's game on the AM radio that Poppa would be listening to in the garage as we went in to get ready for bed.

We had two cats that were allowed to go outside and at night they'd come in from their day adventure, curl up next to us and bring the smell of sweet green grass and leftover sunshine from their wanderings. I can sit here now and faintly remember this if I concentrate. (It's the same way I can remember the smell of Great Grandma Myrtle's Avon hand cream or my sister's Tinker-bell perfume). Just around the time we were climbing into bed the humidity would start to break and the big Maple trees out front would filter the breeze and you'd feel it begin cooling off -- perfectly timed to fall asleep. Night time lullaby of bullfrogs and branches swaying in the wind.

I would never have chosen central air over any of those memories.

Let there be INTERNET

The modem wasn't taking my calls.
I think it was screening my connection.

So I made an appointment with a private eye.
Then it came back from vacation; passport stamp and dirty laundry and sunburned.
And the Comcast private eye I had made an appointment with politely called and thanked me for my business but cancelled knowing I would soon be reconnected with my long lost Internet.

I love you, Internet. Please don't leave me again. I promise not to take you for granted.

(Well, that will catch you up on how my past five days have been)

I have this theory: Tuesdays suck.

My favorite day of the week is Monday. It's a brand new fresh start, a new beginning....a venture into the unknown. Tuesdays are both feet in, too far to turn back now -- but miles away from Friday. Nothing good happens on Tuesday.

For example, I have two bags of laundry that I had all intentions of doing on Sunday but ran out of quarters. Got quarters yesterday and then got home and chatted with my neighbor until it was time too late to start, no time to finish, the reality of the work week ahead setting in.....and I staggered to bed with the overwhelming depression that Tuesday was lurking only hours away. Woke up this morning feeling like I was being cracked out of delicate warm egg shell into a hot frying pan.

Didn't wash my hair. Forgot my Kleenex for the commute (the AC makes my nose run). Drank all my coffee before I got to my desk. Didn't leave my desk until seven o'clock at night - a tiring ten and a half hours sitting - got home and ate handfuls of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. And now I'm sitting here reconnecting with you folks. It honestly wouldn't surprise me, the kind of things I experience on Tuesdays, if there really wasn't anyone reading.

My stomach hurts.

Ten hours at work, three hours of leisure, seven hours of sleep --- somehow that seems all kinds of wrong. I haven't had a true vacation since Calistoga, California four years ago. I have good intentions of doing something and no means. Or means and then no intentions. It's a vicious circle. Put my ass in a camp chair with a cup holder, a fire and a lake Michigan in front of me and call me stupid giddy.

Nothing poignant or well crafted tonight, just a girl sitting on her back stoop pleased that her internet is once again returning her calls and the Pandora is flowing like smoke from a tiki-torch. Have your best shot Tuesday, you've got thirty more minutes before I stop taking YOUR calls.

Wednesday, be kind to me. I've had my confidence tested and my intentions squashed by your nemesis, Tuesday.

Ya big FAKER

Best advice I've recently been given, "fake it 'til ya make it, baby doll."

This works in a myriad of ways but I'm talking about one. Attitude. Yes, the big "tude." Mine is as meek as a Jabberwocky, timid as a striptease. Stings like whiskey. Soothes like a thunderstorm.

I can tell when I'm nearing the tank being empty, the short fuse approaching. Things that normally would roll off as easy as raindrops on window shields become boulders in the driveway of my life. I got bit by a mosquito or something this weekend and my answer to solving this minor inconvenience was to scratch it until it no longer looked like a tiny little red dot but rather a large red-hot scorch mark. What would have taken a day to heal is now a 56 hour reminder to put things in perspective.

I try to have a carry a decent attitude for the sake of those around me. Yes, the strangers I come into contact deserve a smile, a door held open, a seat given up on the train when they seem to need it more than I. But more than the strangers I meet, I do it for my friends. I believe that my friends validate my existence.

Hang on, hang on....I'm not saying I live for my friends, I'm saying I love my friends. Truth be told, I choose to keep the number to about that of a baseball team but I love these folks to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. I try to have something special I share with each one, too. Sometimes it's easy to come up with the bond, other times it's hidden like the needle in a haystack. That's the fun in it for me....trying to uncover the hidden feature.

Occasionally though it can be misleading. Season. Reason. Lifetime. Sorry to say, the little saltwater fishes of my friendship come with the Lifetime subscription. I don't like kicking someone off the team, but I'm strong enough to know a painful goodbye is better than a lifetime of disappointment. For those that get the uniform, we may share the strangest common denominator or even seem a fallacious pair at first glance but peel away the layers and there's a reason.

So here's why I love you: For telling me not to wear the duct taped jeans, reminding me not to be silly - that we are best friends and "that's why." For correcting my creative use of the English language, helping me embrace the PIBE theory, for future schemes that include both of us, for sharing history and making memories, laughing for the 976th time about that one day, giving meaning to randomness. Nicknames and pseudo family titles that mean something. Sharing family members before they're gone, not holding grudges, trusting me to find the best secret hiding spots in plain sight. Creative cooking when we should have gone to bed, big plans that fizzle into the best ideas ever. Co-creating Porch Counsel for the purpose of hearing what has to be said and not caring how it sounds. Eating acorns and fast forwarding commercials. For biting and forgiving. For showing up and opening the door. Listening throughout the night to the sad and frustration and never judging. For doing something even though it makes no sense whatsoever and not needing it to. For showing me places I'd never discover on my own. For always having an invitation even when you know I may decline. Taking the good with the bad, the awful with the fantastic. Truly loving my cats when you know you'd rather they be dogs. Challenging me to be better. Recognizing when I struggle to ask for help, congratulating me when I succeed.

You all give me the reasons I sometimes feel the need to fake it. As with the other myriad of ways to fake it, I hope you can never tell the difference ;-)