Mosquitos and Knives

It's summertime in the land of 10,000 (x 1,000,000) mosquitoes! It's hard to escape the swatting and bleeding. It bums me out. In fact, I've started seeing blood everywhere. Call me Lady MacBeth. Find that hard to believe?

Today, I was visited by a young person selling knives, door to door, hoping to make a little money for college. The sales pitch was just about flawless, but I couldn't get over two minor details. On one of the seller's thumbs was a large, white bandage. On the same hand, I swear I saw dried blood. When it came time to pitch the large, serrated knife, the seller looked up and said, "The knives are very sharp; I tried to cut through a watermelon and nearly sliced off my thumb!" I just nodded in acknowledgment.

(2 Months Ago) The View from the Kitchen Window

I had suds on my hands, but I managed to look up and out the window. This is what I saw:

Addendum to Quiet Desperation

This is why people don't discuss their "quiet desperation"... people may confuse that with simple desperation. So as not to confuse the two, let me assure I only suffer quiet desperation. Most of the time, I enjoy my own Concord, without having to visit Walden. (The metaphor is tiring; thanks, Mr. Thoreau.)

My Concord? The backyard on a summer evening, complete with a bonfire and a whole neighborhood of kids running around playing night games. It's just too much gleeful squealing for quiet desperation.

Quiet Desperation

Was Thoreau right? Do we all lead lives of quiet desperation and die with a song still in us? Funny thought, especially from a guy who "went out into the woods" a few blocks away from home and the family pencil business. He knew what he was talking about.

Sarcasm aside, he might have been right. The trouble with the song inside is most of us don't realize it. We're busy. We don't stop to ask why we're busy. We simply accept, "We're busy living!"

In the play, A Delicate Balance, one of couples runs to their friends' house claiming they're scared. They don't know why they're scared. They just are. It seemed like an odd line while I was sitting in the cool theater. Scared? About what? At the time, I listened and heard a traditional type of scared, the type that causes the pulse to take off and palms drip with sweat. I didn't hear the psychological fear that questions, "This is it?" That type of fear only comes when we stop being busy and start paying attention.

That fear is closely tied to living lives of quiet desperation. It's part of all of us, isn't it? We don't tell each other, though. Our society wants us busy. Thoreau knew this. It's why he went out into the woods, even if the woods were blocks from home.

Graduation and Animal Tales

What is it with me, graduation parties, and animal stories?! A few years ago I wrote about my conversation with a woman. This woman told me her story of her pet rabbits that had maggots climb into their anuses when she put them outside for fresh air. The whole story/conversation happened – quite seriously – over a plateful of hors d'voeures at a graduation party.

Well, deva vu, only this time the animal at the heart of the conversation was a ferret. I will admit that I invited, maybe even encouraged, the conversation this time, by holding – without thinking – my 3.06 oz toy poodle who was dressed for the party in her grungy, Kurt Cobain-ish, turtleneck sweater made from an old, human sweater sleeve. I'm sure my dog's cuteness said, "Talk to my owner...anyone who has me must be an animal lover!" In any event, the dog encouraged conversation. It started like this:

"Oh my goodness, that's such a cute dog! She reminds me of my pet ferret, well, the ferret is no longer living. Sadly, I had to put it to sleep after only six years because it suffered from epilepsy!"

A ferret with epilepsy? I couldn't get past the image. Then there was the "only" qualifier. Wow, I had no idea ferrets lived longer than six years. I stared at her, speechless, but then noticed her husband nodding his head as she spoke. He was in complete agreement. The woman continued:

"We were heartbroken when we had to put our baby to sleep. We were so used to his kisses. He'd kiss us every morning when we first woke up."

Her husband chimed in, "Yeah, except when he got lost in the vents of the house. Then we wouldn't see him for days." (I tried hard not to imagine a ferret running through the vents of a house.)

"But, [insert daughter's name] always knew how to get him out of the vents," the woman defended. "Our ferret came when our daughter blew a whistle. Amazing."

And then, silence.

How was I supposed to respond to that? They were grieving a dead ferret, one that had epilepsy and ran through the vents of the their house, only to return by the sound of a whistle. They kissed it. My dog was cute, but that was about it. And, it was another graduation party, and I was holding a plate full of hors d'voeures.

These boots were made for walkin'

We have a new member in our evening workout menagerie: the foot doctor. Podiatrist is his official title, but any man who wears black crew socks, with his New Balance running shoes, while walking on the treadmill, is an ordinary foot doctor. Black crew socks? Surely, he wants to be noticed and become the subject of someone's boring blog. Black?

Fitness Club Observations...again.

It has been some time since I've written about the fitness club, but it's time again.

The fitness club and I have had a long history. To find out about earlier incidents, games, etc., read back through the blog. I know, it's a tedious request. I don't even read this garbage. I just write, and I have no idea why I do.

I digress.

Just trust me the fitness club has always had its characters. I'm not sure if they really are remarkable characters, or if I'm just so pathetically bored with exercise I notice every detail about them. It could be both.

In the past, I've written about a few. Most are not there anymore. I suppose they get bored like I do and instead of observing, they quit.

Now there are all new members at the club. They are the night exercisers, like HH and I. They are fascinating to me.

There is the doctor. She reads on the elliptical and the treadmill. I know she is a doctor because, on occasion, she has swabbed our children's throats for Strep. When she exercises, she never looks up. Every so often, she suddenly bolts out of the club at full throttle when her phone rings. It scares me. I imagine someone dying at the hospital, followed by her rapid arrival fresh off the 4.0 pace and 3 incline, sweating, panting, possessing a target heart rate that isn't good for removing a splinter let alone performing surgery. It gives me the heebie jeebies, but I like her. I'm sure her life is 1000 times busier than mine, and she manages to exercise nightly. Also, she isn't in the best shape. I like doctors who are humanly flawed like the rest of us. Plus, she offers security. If I collapse, I'm covered.

Along with the doctor, there is Michael Moore. He's a walker who looks exactly like Michael Moore, right down to his hair style and baseball cap. That's it.

Next to Michael is Charlie, short for Charles Manson. I don't spend much time observing him, though, because he scares me. He looks like Charles Manson: long stringy gray hair, sunken eyes, angry nostrils. I met his gaze once and decided I should focus on others. When he glares at me, I mumble, "Helter Skelter," at a whisper.

There is the lifter. He's rather nondescript. He's average height, average weight, average muscle mass. He has normally pale skin and dishwater blonde hair. He would be unnoticeable if it weren't for his strength: 650 pounds on the leg weights! No kidding. I make sure he's half way across the club when I do my 30 pound chest presses. Usually, I'm OK because he doesn't venture over to the jippy Matrix weight equipment, where the wimps exercise (intentionally bad pun) feeble attempts at creating definition in their soggy bodies...me. He hangs out with the big boy free weights. He smiles when I look at him. He's probably laughing.

Finally, there are the jelly bean girls. They work together, like Doublemint gum! They find equipment next to each other and they keep the same pace. They have the same hairstyle; but best of all, they wear the exact same shirts and they're dayglow green! Dayglow green, jelly beans! The color is bold beyond imagination. It looks phosphorescent, radioactive, toxic. It attracts me like a lake bug to a porch light. I try to look away, but I always return. It shocks my ADD like a taser. I really hope they haven't noticed. There is some type of printing on the fronts, too. Who knows what the printing says; the color obstructs the writing. The color obstructs everything...

Where was I?

Right, the others! There are others who I will write about, but not now. I've lost focus. Blame it on the green.

In conclusion (God, I hate that!)...
I don't want to give the wrong impression about my observations. If this seems like I'm being nasty, I assure I am not. I like these people. They are my support group. When the idea of walking three steps bums me out, and it does, I consider who might be at the fitness center to "greet" me. It's enough motivation for me to grab my shoes, water bottle, and actually look forward to sweating. That is impressive. I could not do it without them.

Wrong on Many Levels

Yesterday, I went to K-Mart with OMD and OYD. When we were checking out, we were greeted by the uber-enthusiastic, gray-pony-tailed check out clerk. This wasn't the balding grey-pony-tailed check out clerk, but the younger, 50ish one. This one loves her job and babbles endlessly while she rings up the merchandise. Who am I to criticize, right?!

Anyway, after she rang up our items, she asked if I'd be interested in receiving e-mail coupons (yeah, right). I politely said, "No," but could tell immediately that I had disappointed her. I offered a bit of an apology and some hope: "Well, I won't give you my e-mail now, but I might give it to you in the future. My oldest daughter has told me that I could receive e-mail from businesses if I set up a separate account. I might do that."

Her smile returned and her eyes lit up, as if memory was match-like. Then, she gave the confession in one long breath:

"Ya know, I had to do that after my fourteen year old son returned from Boy Scout camp and began putting all kinds of X rated material on our home computer. That's right. I was mad and he was mad and we had to set up a separate e-mail account just for him!"

I was speechless.

Since OMD and OYD were with me, I tried not to react. I simply said, "Well, thanks. Have a nice day," even though that should have been – traditionally – her line.

The girls and I walked out of the store in silence. We hadn't walked two steps when OMD, in a monotonously calm voice said, "Wow, that was wrong on many levels: Boy Scouts, X-rated, E-mail, and she told it all!"

We all laughed our way through the parking lot to the car.