Thought while walking....

Do you think that the Afterlife has technology? Will there be upgrades and updates like in the Nowlife? How advanced are they already? Will it remind me of the first time I sent an instant message or heard, "you have mail!"

Will it be as foreign a concept as Twittering?

Or will it revert back to old technology so things are slower. Like using the card catalog?

Trapeze swinging fishes

I'm good at alot of things. I make my bed, I recycle. I say hello to neighbors on the sidewalk. I make a good bloody mary and I can grill a steak. I know when it's time to stop fast forwarding thru commercial break of a recorded show. I can grow plants, flowers and vegetables. I can make strangers feel welcome at a party (even one I'm not throwing) and I remember my Grandma's birthday. I can mostly tell when someone needs a joke, a hug or to be left alone.

I remind myself, I am good at many things.

However.

Taking things at face value is not one of them.

It's so stunning the level of energy I use trying to come up with a hidden message. It can not possibly be as simple as it is stated in words. I must decipher what is clearly not being said. It is my paramount need to understand something that I know to be there but it's just missing. Give me time and I'll find it. I know I will.

I swear, if there was a secret language that no one spoke and no translation existed, I'd be the expert.

Why yes, I have received a PhD in Deciphering Nothing. It has taken many long years and required hours upon hours of debating and re-reading with furrowed brow. But as with any other degree, it's only in hindsight that I realize I dedicated time and effort that was overall unnecessary and at great expense I now hold a degree in something that does not prove useful to me.

I'm like a kid learning to ride a bike. Until I get used to the idea of falling, I won't ever want to take those training wheels off.

Washing Windows

I've always been fascinated by things in which order is created upon completion. I admit, this stems from a mild case of OCD. It's not so much turning the light switch on and off 43 times before walking clockwise three times around the bed before getting in OCD, it's more that everything has a place. Things look better to me....more in focus, clearer....peaceful....when in order.

A very close friend of mine (yes you, Anne) is the direct opposite of me. It's not really all that surprising that we are friends, opposites attract. Except when it comes to works of art. Our current game is finding art for her office. She'll search online and then email me at my desk (we work together) that she has some choices to show me. I prepare myself and go in.

"Ok, here's the first one...."

Please believe me when tell you it was as if someone had blindfolded the artist, spun them around and instead of "pin the tail," it was "paint the canvas."

(I think my eyes started to water)

"Not so much? What about this?"

Oh come ON! That's just not a good use of paint. Imagine the artist painting the pile of Pick-up Sticks.

(My head hurts)

"Duly noted. Here's the final pick...."

Evil. Just down right wrong. If someone could paint the sound of screaming, this would be the result.

(I may have passed out)

My idea of art, she reminds me, is B-O-R-I-N-G. Snoozefest. Really? I don't see how a perfect horizontal line running across the canvas is wrong. Starring at it makes the radio stations that seem to playing in my head (simultaneously, sometimes non-stop) quiet down. All broadcasting ceases to exist. It's so wonderful.

I'm not crazy. Pinky swear.

I know my habit of creating order is apparent to others. A perfect example is the dishwasher. Loading and unloading is a form of art to me. I was unloading it one time and my mom commented, "I just like to watch you. Every move you make plays off the last move. It's choreographed so beautifully." Aw, shucks... thanks mom.

She's right and I hate admitting that, but I know what she means. I feel it. I know when things are lining up right -- I don't have to pay attention, it's fluid. It's how I imagine dancers or jugglers, guys who toss/catch the fish in Seattle, chefs or speed freaks on the highway feel. Things line up and it allows you to just do what you know.

That's why I love watching the window washers who do the outside of high rise buildings. It's systematic: Soapy water, squeegee, swing to the right and repeat. What's left in their wake is a streak-free clearer picture.

What got me started thinking about all of this happened on my way home from the loop today. Being a Saturday, the Thompson Building (aka: the State of Illinois building) was empty and there was a group of guys working on washing the windows.

HAVE YOU SEEN THE THOMPSON BUILDING? The windows are like, forty feet up and on a slant. These guys had the most amazing equipment and talent I've ever seen. Being awe struck at the process, I headed to the train. As the train pulled up and the doors opened, the song on my satellite radio changed.......to Van Morrison's Washing Windows. Seriously. No shit. And I can promise this to you because while I like VaMo, I only know a handful of his songs and wouldn't have ever given this title as an answer in a trivia contest.

So I dedicate this post tonight to the redheaded-window-washer-master and Van. Thanks for giving me some much needed clarity.

French Horns and Accordions

I really like to laugh. Which is good because when I laugh everyone around me knows. I laugh like I hug, every part of me joins in, it just comes bursting out from somewhere inside. I like how it feels just after laughing. You know what I'm talking about, those little tremors that if not heeded would bring about a fit of giggles and right back into full-on laughing all over again.

Man! There can never be too much laughing for me. Chances are, if you and I don't share a laugh, any from the list below, I probably wouldn't be expecting a Facebook friend request any time soon.

There's the small smile from seeing someone do something sweet or kind for someone else. Offering up their seat on the train, picking up a dropped item or random litter, offering an umbrella or an arm across the street, even catching someone do something silly and think (or hope) no one noticed. Come to think of it, this small smile (not to be confused with a smirk) is also the reaction I have with compliments. They're great to get, just hard not to squirm around when getting them. A small little one sided grin which doesn't mean I don't want it, it means I don't know what to do with it. Like Anne tells me, "Just say thank you."

Then we've got the full toothy grin. Even my eyes will join in and light up with this. It's real. I've seen it in pictures that I didn't know were being taken. I have a smile like this from when Robyn and I celebrated our 31/32 birthdays. I look at that and immediately get the same goofy grin. I like to think that this grin makes people wonder...what's gotten into her?

Occasionally this happens when I am riding on the train or walking around. It's when I'm quiet and reflective that I can take time to really see my surroundings. I love noticing someone do something crazy and out of the ordinary. Catching someone cartwheeling down the sidewalk or getting good news on the phone and doing a little jig. Often little kids can make this happen. Or dogs. They are both always so damn happy to just run around. Who wouldn't smile wide from such innocent play?

But then we get to the silent laugh. You'd think the silent laugh is the polite laugh -- when something is not all that funny but you have to pretend so....and you would be incorrect. The polite laugh, a.k.a. the uncomfortable "it's not funny or I don't get it" laugh is more like the character Janice on Friends. It's awkward and too loud and just feels metallic to your ears.

Kinda like chewing on tinfoil.

No, the silent laugh is the kind that I have to hold in or it's going to go everywhere....it's just that damn funny. Most times my shoulders get involved. I really like this one because it minimizes the number of unexpected audience participants (those folks unfortunate enough to be close by when the out loud laugh breaks).

And now we come to the last two. The doozies. My very best friends, family and unlucky co-workers know these all too well.

There's the Cackle. A full out loud laugh that might be likened to a machine gun. Rapid bursts of laughs. I wouldn't liken it to that. But I know it is. It usually starts with the hard burst of laugh and progresses into the next stage. This is when the unexpected audience participants turn their heads to see who's laughing and begs the question, "What's so funny?"

Which precedes the final stage....the Mt. Everest of my laughing.....the Wheezies.

Yup, I'm one of those. Imagine your Uncle Al, the Lucky Strike smoking, whiskey drinking Uncle. Tell him a dirty joke and see where it takes him. Now, add some tears from laughing and you'll have a fair representation of me. I know it sounds obnoxious and it's probably damn annoying if you aren't a part of the fun, but I can't help it. I don't know how some people have a great laugh -- the kind you could listen to all night long -- and others have, well, the Wheezies for example. But I know for sure that won't stop just because it sounds ridiculous. I don't remember laughing like this when I was growing up, though I do remember trying to practice laughing -- yeah, that didn't last long. I wonder if it will morph again into something down the road a few years. God I hope it's not worse sounding than the Wheezies!

Until that should take place, and I wouldn't hold your (laugh!) breath, please feel free to join in with me. Shake what your Momma gave ya, and all that jazz! I mean....even an Accordion has a place in a pop song every once in awhile. You just have to accept it and decide if you like the noise it brings to the table.

Whatever it is, take it back!

Walking from the train to my office this morning I almost collided with the oncoming traffic of the morning commuters on the sidewalk.

(it's a very busy intersection...)
(even when it's not, I have to dodge pedestrians...)

It would have helped if I'd been paying attention. But I was distracted. By the woman with the hat. The stark white hat. The stark white hat that looked vaguely familiar?

Hair.

Maybe a certain kind of wool?

Hair.

Maybe an old sweater or hat of my own perhaps?

Hair.

Could it be possible it was.....nah.

Hair.

A stark white hat that I'm pretty positive was a bad dye job and a perm gone horribly wrong. I don't mean to bring more attention to what was probably a salon failure and resulted in tears and possible loss of employment, but it was awful. I have seen a bad color or two, a perm that was left on a little too long and bangs that looked like the stylist was "in the cups" if you get what I'm saying...so it's not just that. It was catastrophic because of the odd shape that it was. The shape that threw me at first glance to think it was a stark white fuzzy (shapeless) hat.

I apologized to the lady I had run into but who was equally apologetic for doing the same thing to me. As we situated our bags and coffee cups and newspapers we parted ways, eyebrows raised, sharing that brief non-verbal conversation.....was that a hat?!

A dedication of sorts: Calling all Courage. Come in Courage.

If courage is the car, than strength is the fuel.

Problems. Humungous, teeny, petty or possibly life-altering...they come in many different packages. They come at many different times. Sometimes one right after the other with no remorse.

It takes courage to pull the blinds up and peer into the hot mess that is your life and realize shit needs to change. Courage helps to admit that healing steps must be taken. If left alone, fear and denial can build up and make your stomach seize or your mouth go dry. Courage stops by, knocks on your door and offers you a breath mint and a chance to help you take the first step out the door.

But just because courage gets you to take the first step doesn't mean you won't turn and retreat at the first sign of difficulty. That's where strength enters in. It keeps you moving forward. Holding onto the banister and steadily taking one stair step after another.

You can't successfully have one without the other.

I applaud you. I raise my glass and toast in your honour. I know you wanted to find comfort and safety hiding out in your living room, secure behind a locked door and a loud television keeping you distracted, but yet you chose to get in the car (proverbial car) and hit the problem head-on.

Yeah, okay so it was a total collision...but hey, I say go big or go home! The result? A fiery mess of problem being dealt with.

Take that you dirty, pissy, no-good sissy-ass problem!

You are strong. And as I sat and listened to us volleying the "life can be sucky" ball back and forth I realized the depth of your strength. Your gas tank must be huge to hold all the strength it has taken over the past year. It's astounding.

Here's my way of telling you that you inspire me to be courageous. To have strength. And to remember that I must stop by the gas station and refuel every now and again.

(By "gas station" I mean conversations with good supportive friends, like you)

Thank you for this insight. Thank you for the fill-up.

The Panic Room

Jody Foster may have her fancy totally-titanium, fully-computerized secure panic room, but I have....my bathroom.

In years past I have had the unfortunate luck of a Winter Mouse. It's like the coming of Santa Claus, only smaller and more hideous (And I don't think children run screaming in the opposite direction from Santa).

Well, okay maybe a few of them do. Maybe I did.....but never you mind my old fat men in red velvet suits paranoia. We are talking about the nasty mice, people.

I should mention that I share a family phobia of mice. I know that there are very few people that actually enjoy finding a mouse in their house, but when I say my Dad and I have a phobia, I mean the break-out-in-hives-sweat-dripping-from-head-to-toe-pale-I-can't-breathe sort of F-O-B-I-A. You don’t believe it’s true? Ask Corri. She’s seen it happen, twice.

Last year I had a mou-----wait, did I mention there's a warrior cat? How fucking stupid of a mouse are you to hideout in a house with a feline warrior? I should really give him a little tuna cake for earning his Boy Scout Hunting badge two times over. It is true that for all the shit I give Owen, he deserves my love and admiration today.

So, last night I was making some dinner while my roommate was getting ready for her class. Quietly focused on reading the directions from the back of the box of noodles, I was totally caught off guard when the fucking mouse leapt from somewhere off to my left across the counter in front of me and scurried off in the direction of the coffee pot. I can only assume to hide behind the coffee pot at the other end of the counter. I’m assuming this last part because the second it jumped I started screaming and running.

Screaming. And running. In blind PANIC.

When Corri’s heart started beating again she lovingly tended to her whacked out roomie (THANK YOU AGAIN) and asked what happened. I tried to explain that the monster had shown itself and it looked like this: When we braved the kitchen we couldn’t find it and Corri was late for class. Bidding her a terrified and frightened "Goodbye, please come home soon" she was off. Not five minutes later I was looking for Owen "the Hunter" and couldn’t find him. As if he heard me mentally calling him he trotted out of Corri’s room with Winter Mouse dangling from his mouth. And even though it makes NO DIFFERENCE WHATSOEVER in my panic covered head, Winter Mouse looked like this:

Being the phob-a-riffic chicken I am, I made a B-line directly into the bathroom (aka the Panic Room) and into the tub. I called Corri-- because she’s step two of my emergency plan after first securing myself in the tub – and she made a quick call to Scott -- her step two in an emergency plan -- and she assured me he was on his way. I kid you not Scott rectified the emergency Winter Mouse 09 crisis in a matter of minutes armed with only a pair of rubber gloves, a soothing voice and a blue plastic shopping bag. Scott deserves my love and admiration today as well.

While I rationally know that this crisis has been taken care of, a large part of me still has the heebie-jeebies and I can’t bring myself to go into the kitchen for any long period of time unaccompanied. Tonight’s dinner was peanut butter and a spoon because it was the first thing I could grab. I just keep seeing this:

That’s why when Scott and Corri walked in the door tonight my hearbeat calmed and I knew I would have sleep. No panic tub for me tonight.