I have never, believe me, ever been one to litter. I don’t like it. I find it tacky, low-class, and uneducated of people to throw trash along streets, highways, and front yards. I’m sure some of this has to do with the near religious obsession U.L. and I had with his own front yard, when I was growing up. The first beer can I ever saw was face-down in his bed of calla lilies, the ones that sat out near the end of the driveway.

People threw trash in the yard, all the time. It wears on you. It reeks, of refuse and disrespect.

So, I grew up hating the idea of natural beauty being marred by discarded McDonald’s bags and the occasional Budweiser can.

But, sometimes though the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, a strong wind can come along and blow it a few feet further down the orchard.

That has happened to me, recently, I’m afraid. And ever since, karma hasn’t left me alone.

Six days ago, to be exact, in some terrible lapse of personal judgment, I rolled down my window and threw my gum out of it. Just like that. Like I didn’t know any better.

Five days ago, as I was walking to my afternoon class, I stepped in a fat, fresh wad of pink-hued Bubble Yum. I am still regretting it, even though I reasoned, as you probably will, that it was no less than I deserved.

It’s gotten worse, though.

Chewing gum has now given way to my cell phone. Which I have come to hate with the burning passion of a thousand flaming suns…and not just for its proclivity for butt-dialing.

Further, I’m afraid it’s warranted.

You see, this past weekend I flat-out told my phone, to its interface, that I hated its guts. (And I do; we’ve had a torrid past as of late).

It rebelled by shutting off. Turning back on. Freezing up. Shutting off, again. Rebooting itself, and so forth.  I reached such a pinnacle of absolute disgust that I did the unthinkable: I went to the Verizon store and waited my turn.

Just me and my Blackberry Storm.

For over an hour. In the Verizon store, have I said that part?

This is the second thing I hate. Not just waiting, mind you, that’s bad enough, but waiting in the Verizon store, and let me tell you why. I have come to the conclusion that the majority of people who are Verizon customers are a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Myself included.

When my turn to speak finally came, I’d been standing behind the woman with a hundred children, thirty-two of which she brought inside with her, I believe the other sixty-eight were in the Chevy Caprice Classic with the illegally tinted windows (something a student of mine was ticketed for, I learned, earlier this semester).  Oh, how they enjoyed the store!  I can only assume she held the largest number of private shares of stock in Verizon as her children, her little loud kiddies, were given free run of the floor. They picked up every item from car chargers to silicone phone covers and hid them elsewhere in the store, pretending they were Easter eggs (what is this residual obsession with Easter, this year?), or my favorite, as every toddler is a turncoat-in-waiting, where one child decides, suddenly, that what every other child is holding is what he/she was supposed to hold.

Thus, tears are shed. Yanked. Pulled. Slapped. Dropped. Yelled. Hollered.

And, of course, most importantly. Ignored.

I was, I swear, an inch away from scolding them, myself. But I feared that, as in most families, maternal tolerance has a threshold that only runs blood deep. Should I have intervened, they would have formed a pack mentality, and attacked me. Even though I know she had to feel the same as I did. She would punish them, accordingly, though; not me.

I could respect that, but just barely. (I’ve been with my nephews before when they were out of control, and I’m not sure I would have stopped a stranger from jerking a knot in them, personally).

After she and her mighty clan exited, I stepped up to the counter and explained my problem. Below is a transcript of this exchange.

HIM: “So, what’s the problem?”

ME: “My phone. It won’t do what I tell it to.”

HIM: “Ah, issues with the Voice Activiation?”

ME: “What?”

HIM: “The Voice Activation, it’s not responding?”

ME: “Oh, no, no, I don’t even know about that. I don’t use that.”

HIM: “Oh. Ok.”

ME: “I just mean, the phone, the whole thing isn’t working. No Internet, no—“

HIM: “Whoa. No Internet? You can’t get the Internet on it?”

ME: “Uh, no, not anymore. It stopped—“

HIM: “When did it stop?”

ME: “Day before yesterday.”

HIM: “That is not good, that is not good, not with a Storm.”

ME: “Right. Well, I need…can you fix it?”

HIM: “Oh, I bet I can. Let me see.”

He then proceeded to take the entire phone apart. We waited for five minutes. Then, he put the entire phone back together. We waited again. He turned the phone on. We waited some more.

The phone then worked. I was elated…mostly because I’ve spent a good deal of money on this stupid phone and I expect it to do what it’s made to do.

But then, along came karma.

As he said, “ ‘Cause these here, these Storms, they’re top of the line, they’re good and they need to…shoot, hold on a second, please….”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his own personal Storm (no pun intended), held it up to his ear and said, “It’s not me, I didn’t mean to call you. It’s this phone. I don’t need anything. Talk to you later.”

“Sorry,” he said, “My phone keeps dialing my Mom.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, smiling, “I know just how you feel.”

The service was free, so I left after it was fixed thinking, It’s a real shame that they don’t sell gum here.

A real shame, indeed.

Related Posts:

• Butt-Dialing, or, I’m sorry, Abigail…
• Nothing but the blood: GamVa.
• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• I daisy-chained the heck out of this head cold.

Having played tennis most of my life, I am more than well aware that I have a good, nice, firm butt. Like, I could point my butt toward a bowl of walnuts and they’d crack immediately.  Out of pure-D respect.

I mean, facts are facts.

Now, I don’t often talk about my butt because a) it isn’t tasteful to do so, and b) I mean, look at it. I don’t really have to talk about it. It’s a little gift from Up Above (two, if you count my I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter legs) that I have somehow managed to take care of…where other things I let fall by the side.

That’s also a fact, I’m afraid.

The point is: I have, all in all, a magnificent butt.

And usually, I give it its due credit. When it behaves.

And I do what I can to take care of it; though I wish I could get out on the tennis courts more regularly, these days.  I frequent the gym (well, mostly just the tanning bed located at the gym); I’ve bought the specially designed Shape Up shoes that are meant to help aid and tone the buttocks area when doing mundane activities such as walking to the copier, grading papers, and racing your swivel chairs down the long, lonely hallway outside your office with a select few of your really cool colleagues.

Apparently, though, my butt had other ideas as to how it wished to spend its time: butt-dialing.

For starters, I have no qualms sharing with you the fact that I am not a fan of my own cell phone. As a matter of fact, next to Hitler, the pending Apocalypse, and people bad-mouthing the good honest work of Jamie Gertz on the ill-fated sitcom “Still Standing,” there is nothing I hate more than my Blackberry.

Had I only known at the time of purchase the sheer hatred I’d carry in my heart for that dreaded piece of smart plastic, I’d never have gotten it.  Had I further known the secret love affair my phone would have with my butt, I’d have taken the time to practice my once-perfect penmanship and reverted to that old art form known as letter writing.

However, I was already a Verizon contract-player, so I held out in the hopes that I was finally and successfully integrating myself into Modern Society by getting the next Big Thing in the world of cellular communication.

I have since 86’ed that notion.

I’m six months into my torrid relationship with the Qualcomm 3G CDMA model of the Blackberry Storm, and am more than ready for the clouds to clear. Of course, to ensure a proper storm passing, one must be ready to break the contract, and that costs a pretty penny.

At first, I took Blackberry aggravations in stride. Because the root of the problem seemed to be at hand: my hand. I hit everything but the right button and became accidentally more intimate with the Voice Activation Command than voice mail.

It was a real talent I had, there. I do everything backwards, I guess.

But, never did I expect that all along my beautiful butt was waiting for a chance to betray me.

I have, for as long as I can remember, never, never put items in my pockets. I couldn’t stand it. It felt so weighted to have coins, keys, the like, in my pockets.  So, why I ever started putting my phone in my pockets (front and back, mind you!) I simply cannot answer.  But, I did.

That’s when the trouble started.

I have to date butt-dialed twenty-two people. One person, my friend  Abigail, has been butt-dialed no less than six of those times. She’s the first name in my Address List. I can only imagine the strange, unintelligible messages she’s been left by my butt.

She did have the decency to call back, though, and leave a message for me, after the fourth butt-dial. “Kris, so good to hear from you, I hope everything’s OK, you’ve called a lot recently. Let me know.”

Bless her heart. (I hate you, Butt).

Back in the shameful days of my heavy drinking, I had a bad habit of “befriending” everyone at the bar. This led, of course, to many random exchanges of phone numbers. Some with real names assigned to them; others with, what I can only guess, were nicknames I’d given them at the time of the second or third round.

My butt knew this, and as payback, has also butt-dialed them. For kicks, I guess.  This has led to viciously punctuated text messages along the lines of WTF?!? Who is this?! and so on.

I’ve never been one to like a phone. I’m harder to track down with a cell than without. I just liked the convenience of a cell phone.  You know, in case I ever get lost backpacking through the Appalachians, my cell phone would have GPS; or, if I needed to immediately rifle through endless Facebook updates, then, Voila!, there’s my cell, ready and at the helm.

But for talking…I can do without that part, though, apparently, I don’t even have to worry about dialing should the need to talk to someone arise. My butt is more than happy to do it for me.

I don’t know how to prevent this, so instead, I keep my phone far, far away from me at all times, now. I let it ride in the passenger seat, seatbelt on, on my way to work.  I’ve put an extra chair in front of my desk, and there it sits all day, while I’m in my office. I don’t touch it unless I have to. 

Its ringer is on Vibrate because the other sounds scare me. I’m in search of a name to call this so I can at least have a viable diagnosis for this newfound phobia.

It’s not just butts you have to worry about these days, either. I have a chilling tale to share with you that involves another unbelievable betrayal.

Purse-dialing.

Several years back, I was driving a friend of mine and myself to a last-minute dinner, in town. We’d worked hard all day and were bent on rewarding ourselves with a tasty morsel or two in a local diner.

Two things had happened to her that week that she was eager to share with me: her cell phone purchase, and the introduction of a new man into her life.

She was ecstatic.

She was, however, still married.

We were barely a few miles down the road when a cat darted in front of my vehicle. We lurched forward in our seats, her purse fell from her lap, and the contents of it (and god were there contents of it) spilled all over the floorboard.

She picked them up, and continued talking—about the new man. In detail. Full. Graphic. Detail.

I did what I could to share her enthusiasm. I did what I could to not be judgmental. She was, after all, a grown woman.

Fate intervened, though. Because somehow in the course of dropping her purse and picking it up, the phone was dialed. The number? Her husband’s. Who then heard every word she had to say.

Now, that, my friends, is a confession. No?

Thank god I don’t have a purse because I’m having enough trouble with my butt.

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• Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.
• This is a sappy blog, and it was well overdue.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• One of my favorite games, growing up, was Beleaguered Librarian.

That is an absolute lie.

I have no record of good days versus bad days. I just try to get through them, either way. Like the rest of the herd.

I was reared by a bona fide cynic. I got it honest. Our world view was as follows: Bad day…well, at least, it’s only got 24 hours to live. A good day…well, same deal.  So, wipe the smile off your face and a) get back to work, or b) quit slouching in the pew and sing out.

Sounds drab and pitiful, doesn’t it.

But, of course, this is what Memory does to the average, plain moments of our pasts. What I call the day-fillers. You know, those parts that at the time we live through them we don’t really give much credo to them until one day, someone reminds us of a “moment” and all of a sudden, as we sift through those “moments” searching for a thread of recognition, we notice that we’ve rolled them all into this big, cerebral, massive chunk that we’ve labeled the “good old days?”

For some reason that changed this week for me. Because I noticed that each chunk, when broken back into its respective pieces was really the life I thought I was missing. Those weren’t just days filled with aimlessness and detritus of ennui and structure.

Those day-fillers, they were, and are, the real memories. The Full Life.

And guess what? That Life, those memories, both are completely at our mercy, at the feet of each and random whim that crosses our minds.

I’ll try to unpack that a little.

I used to have such angst or dread, and worry and stress, and fear and disregard for mornings, and evenings, and work, and…you know, that crappy substance that is day-filler, those aggravations, second helpings of cake, family photo albums, funerals, boring conversations and grocery store encounters, traffic jams, looming deadlines, burnt suppers, and egg hunts we all experience but seem to forget until some fine spring morning bursts onto the scene and we spend half the day rubbernecking about the “way it was.”

Last week, I found out that before it “was,” it’s the “way it is.”

(God, this kind of cheese is better suited for a piece of toast, but work with me…I’m new at this sort of self-discovery).

Because I swear it never really occurred to me that I was like the CEO of my Conscience, and in charge of my Memories.

What a simple, yet startling revelation.

All this time, I faced each day with headache and reality-wrestling because those days were inevitable. And how on earth do you fight what can’t be changed, right?

Well, here’s how: you remind yourself that each day has more than one hour, and each hour can be its own.

This past weekend, I hit a point where I fully became aware of the approaching upheaval I not only designed and created, but invited into my life. I have no idea what all is about to happen to me, in the next few months. I’m walking away from comfort, stability, and completely throwing myself into the spotlight of a final curtain call. (Aaaaaaaaaand, scene).

But, like any natural disaster, the following day when the sun comes back up and apologizes, there’s nothing to do but the doing, left. I’m leaving home, leaving Starkville (again), leaving, period. However, this time, I’m moving with purpose (that old theatrical adage), and I’m actually going to take time to stop when it feels too heavy, too overwhelming, and smell the roses.

Or, in my case, the wisteria. (Is this making any sense? My editor is gone this week…)

In my weekend clean-up of an, as of late, neglected house, I collected many items such as clothes, trinket-things, alarm clocks, candlesticks, etc. and instead of finding some other unnecessary place to put them, decided to donate them. (In this case, to the 50-some-odd victims of the terrible Crossgates fires, out on Highway 82). And unlike a typical donation, I gave away things I still wanted, still used, and you know what, it felt great.

I wasn’t expecting that.  But…

…doing good things really works.

And I can do a little good, everyday.

I can make “good” a part of the typical routine of conducting the “business” of myself. That’s a memory I can make for myself, and I can do it right-out, upfront, on any given day, regardless of the traitorous time-stealer than any job becomes.

Whether it’s donating things, smiling back, saying thank you, wishing someone well, sending positive thoughts, or, dragging the wicker chair off the front porch and putting it under the wisteria in the front yard and reading a book. (Thus, the above comment about wisteria).

Did you know: Until this past Sunday afternoon, I had no real idea how many people walked right by my house. Amanda and I are so often too tired to appreciate the yard, after working all day (even though we plant our own vegetables and herbs and flowers, each season). It’s as if we just reserve a little energy for that one long, backbreaking Saturday and plant everything at once…to be done with it.

That’s the problem, I’ve realized.

And I have a feeling that’s about to change. Now that I’ve figured out that time really is a gift, a privilege, not a task-master.  

I had no less than six people stop to say Hello, as I sat under my wisteria, facing the magnolia (our house really couldn’t be more Southern). They had such nice things to say about the yard, though it’s in progress, and some asked what all I’d be planting this year. One man even offered to finish raking for me; I’d started that process earlier that morning. (Of course, I realized his offer was only partly in my favor).  

They all, however, gave me a deeper sense of satisfaction about the amount of time I’d spent on the yard, even though I’d done that out of guilt and responsibility. But, the way their comments settled on my mind spilled a little downward, to my heart, and I didn’t feel burdensome, anymore.

I felt invigorated.

It wasn’t a chore; it was a choice.

And that’s my motto for this spring, with its cheesiness and all. There’s a lot I can’t change, but my goodness, there’s so very very much I can. So much so, that I had to ask myself: Why the hell haven’t I been?

My answer: I hadn’t read Epictetus yet.

So, whether it’s a shovel, a gift card, a pat on the back, whistling a tune, prayer, an email, words of encouragement, or continuing to read an irregularly written blog like this one, it’s not hard to do good, for others.

Being good…well that’s a different story.

Let’s just shoot for doing good, for now, shall we?

Related Posts:

• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
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• Nothing but the blood: GamVa.
• You can go home again…it's just frustrating.

I like to think I’m savvy and a smooth operator, most of the time, but I had a bit of a bitter pill to swallow yesterday, when, on my way back from Scooba (perish the thought!), I had to stop and get gas.

This is hardly a new thing for me, but unlike my usual stop-and-gos at the Scooba Junction gas station, I had neglected to look at my gas gauge until I was in Brooksville, about twenty minutes north. I had no choice but to pull in at the only other gas station on Highway 45 between Starkville and Scooba.

I can’t remember the feebly-attempted witty name it had (Kountry Korner, or some other god-awful collective rape of the alphabet), so I shall refer to it as a vortex of evil. But, that’s as far as I’ll go because, oddly enough, I’m not here to talk about the gas station itself, other than this last thing: they overprice Every Thing.

No, what I’m here to talk about is the elderly black man with his walker pumping his own gas, which he somehow did by propping the pump itself in between the upper and lower handles of his walker. He left it there, and got back in his car. 

I swear I need to get a digital camera.

I had finished pumping my gas, at this point, and as I drove away, he looked up at me.

So, I smiled the same smile I’ve been giving all people-I-don’t-know-but-I-want-to-appear-like-a-decent-human-being for years. He returned my smile with a look that was, if I do say so myself, dismissive and impolite.

I need to frame the rest of the story first, though.

No snake eyes for me.

I have a tendency to turn the rearview mirror onto myself when I drive. It’s silly and a bit narcissistic, but it also makes me feel less alone when I’m on the road. I’m not much in the way of this world, but I can be a fun traveling companion.

Also, I like looking at myself.

And, I’m not one bit ashamed to admit it.

I’m not gorgeous, it’s not that, I just like to see someone I respect looking back at me on my sojourns.

I say that to say this (a lovely phrase for so many cliched reasons), when I offered my smile to this man, I was actually able to catch my own reflection of said smile, in the process.

I’d never noticed this before, but as I drove past him, mulling over his look of disapproval, I, for the first time in my entire life, actually saw the smile that I gave him. The same smile I have given to thousands.

And boy was I in for a shock.

What I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles (but only the King James’ ones) was a sweet, how-do-you-do smile was in fact, a smirk.

I saw it, myself. A bona fide, certified smirk.

To be honest, the big one on the bottom scares me.

All this time, all these years, I thought I was giving a kind, acceptable and welcoming smile and instead, what was coming across my face was a holier-than-thou-even-if-there-could-be-a-week-of-Easter-Sundays grimace of sorts.

I looked as if I were a snooty man whose sole purpose was to drive through evil gas stations and through nothing but the sheer force of my facial expression alone moderate comeuppance to others.

I couldn’t believe it. I hated that look on my face, and above all, certainly because I wasn’t snooty.

Or, was I?

Because the little niggling doubt in the back of my mind is that I have a somewhat solid foothold in the belief that there’s a direct line of truthful communication between your subconscious and your face…even your head.

The Japanese hold to a belief that the head will always tell the truth, no matter what the voice is saying, that’s what Makoto told me.

So, I tried it, and it worked. Try it, yourself. Next time you ask someone a question, like, Do you think I look fat in this? Watch their heads. They may say No, but their heads will nod yes. Afterwards, jump down their throats for not telling you the truth.

Time and again, U.L. has said, Be mindful of your face. It’ll often say what you won’t. Head, face, it doesn’t matter. I need to get better acquainted with them both.

The horror is I think I was doing just what U.L. said, yesterday. God knows, I don’t mean half the things I must subconsciously think, but it’s hard to escape an upbringing. It’s hard to get away from your “home culture.” And part of our “home culture” in the Deep South is thinking, to some degree, that we’re a little bit better than other people. At least, those people at the end of the street, right?

And, who knows, maybe I was thinking that yesterday, without realizing it. Offering what I believed was a smile, saying, in effect, Hey, sir, we both get gas at the same place; we’re not so different, after all. But, my mind was apparently saying, I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas. Ha, ha.

Thus, the smirk.

Would you trust this man?

I’m a bit upset by this. But, my only alternative would be to show my pearly-whites from now ’til kingdom come, and that just won’t do.

I’d look like an idiot.

That’s what I said to Siciliana.

She came back with, ”Yeah, but at least you’d be an honest one.”

Can’t argue with that.

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God help us all if we get arthritis.

You tell me if you get this: a student gets up to leave at the end of this morning’s class, and casually turns back to me and says, “Well teetle, I guess! Have a good weekend!”

Teetle?

Do you know what that means?

I didn’t either.

I asked her to repeat it.

“I said ‘teetle.’”

“Do you mean like toodle-loo? Is that what you’re trying to say? As in, See you later, toodle-loo?”

“I would never say that. That sounds dumb.”

There was a lull as we tried to figure out how to communicate what, at first glance, appeared to be nothing but a simple, closing remark as she headed out the door.

“So what are you actually saying to me then?”

“’Teetle’ like you know, T-T-Y-L? Teetle.”

Let’s stop right there for a moment, shall we? I’ve never known anyone to say this in actuality, ever. I’ve never even known anyone to use it in a fashion other than via texting.  I have in a joking conversation heard it used before, but they spelled it out, as in “Well, t-t-y-l, I guess. Have a good weekend,” where they pronounced each letter carefully so as not to shroud the humor implicit in using texting code in passing conversation.

But, to use it as a complete word, and so nonchalantly, as she did…both frightens and fascinates me.

We’re redefining the way we communicate in this culture at an alarming rate.  Case in point, I think I’ve told you this already, but I’m experimenting with some of these new-fangled definitions of communication in my composition classes. I got so frustrated with them constantly texting during my lectures, etc. that I decided to embrace it, instead.

I certainly couldn’t get them to stop without jeopardizing the “learning environment,” per se, so I challenged them to write their first narrative assignment entirely in SMS text code. Far from daunted, they leaped at the opportunity. I’ve never seen a class so focused on a task before. I’ve also never had a class turn in an assignment so quickly and on time before either. I collected their papers and perused them a moment.

Rarely seen in its natural habitat, the A+ paper is an herbivore.

It might as well have been Klingon.

I had not one clue what they’d written. I was, however, impressed at how condensed a three-page narrative paper becomes when all we use is text; it reminded me of Nana’s shorthand notebooks from when she was the Church Social Secretary. Somehow, in those strange conglomerations of letters, and very few vowels, they’d, almost hieroglyphically, told me their life stories.

I thought, Think fast, Kris, what do you do now? And was instantly given this idea: pass the papers back out, but randomly, and then have them re-write the paper in Standard English. I mean, we all use texting, pretty much, but we don’t all use the same “codes,” it seems, little of it actually SMS.

That proved to be the real challenge. And one they faced with proper grumbling. They whined and moaned and griped that they couldn’t “understand most of this.”

I pressed further, saying, “OK, then write down what you think they’re saying, or what you think they’re trying to say. We’ll ask afterwards.”

It was a remarkable day, I must admit. They had to actually think through the assignment because one student complained that she didn’t “say it like that” when she texted. Another student said she used several versions of a couple of codes depending on whom she was texting (i.e., her friend a.k.a “BESTY,” or her mother).

The very idea of texting your mother.

No, what it really challenges is language we’re comfortable with. Language that we’ve been taught; this is a generational issue, any way you look at it. Even though I text, myself; I already feel as old as my parents. I imagine it wasn’t much easier when Gutenberg’s and Shakespeare’s “thees” and “thous” were thrown out in favor of the more colloquial “yous” and “yours,” but at least they were still using whole words.

Or, you could pick up an Austen novel. Or Shelley’s Frankenstein. We don’t talk like that, anymore, either.

I also understand the resistance. The uneducatedness of utilizing text in formal writing. If I have to circle one more “ur” and mark it for not being “your,” or “you’re,” which still, as far as I know, represents two different sets of semantics, it’ll be too soon. But, it seems we’re standing on the precipice of a major paradigm in communication, all forms, but especially written communication.

Back in the day, writing a letter took effort, and time. It had to travel, so we prepared each letter with a certain timelessness considering the art of handwriting. These days, there’s no such consideration given. Or, so it seems, though I’d be willing to bet that personalizing an entire system of texting the way “you do it,” as compared to someone outside your circle, is nothing short of a craft in and of itself.

Even if it looks tacky.

Really, texting is just glorified telegramming. And it’s here to stay.

Looks like a size 6, to me.

Of course, this could all be a long phenomenon. And nothing else. I suppose when all else fails we still have the ability to actually talk to each other. And to listen…though that’s challenging enough for some. Somehow, today, in my catch-all Opening that begins each of my lessons, I managed to address several broad topics: cell-phone usage while driving and Maria Shriver, the horror film Paranormal Activity, Halloween costumes, and carbon footprints.

I’m not sure if he was joking or not, but it was still funny – I’d just mentioned the term carbon footprint. And a young man asked me to explain what it meant. I said, “I thought surely you would have discussed this in your Chem Lab. I’m no scientist, but surely you know what a carbon footprint is?”

He said, “Well, I don’t know about you, but mine’s a size 12.”

I looked at him a second and then allowed the wash to come over my brain. What other choice did I have?

I looked him straight in the face and said, “LOL.”

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They just follow a different line of worship, a la gossip and such.

I attend the grocery store with far more regularity, I’m ashamed to say.  But, it’s only because there’s no set, organized amount of time one must spend in a grocery store.  There’s also no special music, or altar calls.  Those can tend toward embarrassment, from time to time.

The gist of this comparision is that no matter what, when, where, or why you find yourself in either of these places, you’re bound to run into people…most of whom you don’t mind speaking to, for a few long minutes.

But, there are similar church-y places that, for me, at least, seem to attract all the people I don’t like seeing and don’t want to speak to – and it seems to attract them with alarming regularity.  I mean, what else but an evil mastermind of the greater cosmos could align with such frequency a majority of those people I Simply Could Do Without, and lure them to the one place I find I can’t Do Without: the post office.

I swear. It does not matter what time of day, which day of the week, which month out of which random year that I drag myself to the P.O. (I try and hoard all outgoing mail until I pick a sudden hour in the day to try and run in and give the clerk all my mail, then leave. And before you offer this as protest, note: a book of stamps doesn’t really work in my favor; I have less  letters and more parcels, etc.), it never fails that there will be a line as long as China’s perimeter; only one clerk on call; and, there scattered in the milieu will be no less than two people I’d rather not run into.

Especially at the post office.  Once you commit to that line, it’s a contract. Social or otherwise…one reason it’s so binding in this town, is that of the two post offices we have, neither are in a convenient location. The one on campus has six parking spots, all timed (10 minutes or less); the one out by Kroger is a pure death trap.

And just in case you convinced yourself otherwise, you talk yourself right out of leaving because 1) you don’t want to make the trek back out there and wait in another atrocity of a line, and 2) they seem to close at will. Sometimes it’s around four, every now and again at a quarter ’til, and when you least expect it: somehow a federal holiday has occurred, and they’re not even open.

Yesterday was all my fault, really. All I had to mail was a letter to Wood; he’s overseas, now, in Afghanistan, and I decided to write him a letter instead of the usuals: phone, text, email, Facebook.

I mean, I’m already stressed that handwriting is a dying art, and really, who sends letters anymore. Well, except for Lora, and my sister. She sent a sweet card to me today, via post. And you know, silly as it may sound, it really brightens a day to get an actual, real-live letter in the mail.

So, I had mine to send to Wood, and since it has to go through some government facility in New York prior to crossing the Atlantic, I wasn’t sure how much the stamp would cost. I had no choice but to assume my position in what I knew would be, pardon me, one heckuva line.

I was more than right. The line started literally a foot from the front door.

I’m not sure we ever moved. I think somehow an angel eventually took mercy on me and delivered me to the clerk, but before that miracle occurred, I was firmly stuck in the line, and minutes passed…a lot of them…and before I knew it, I was no longer the last in line. Five or six others had congregated behind me.

In other words, I had signed my contract with this line, with the post office. And so, I wasn’t going to leave.

I wasn’t coming back out here, whatever the cost.

Such brave words. No sooner had I said that, than I heard my name.

“Hey! Well, looka here, hey there!  How ARE YOU?!”

Even before I saw who it was, the voice alone had spine-tagged me. (Note: spine-tagged is a term I learned this past month at OnStage! Drama camp). I didn’t want to acknowledge the voice, but my name soon followed this salutation, and thus, I was dog-eared, shall we say. There was no escape.

I turned, I spoke…there were several people between us. I thought surely this was sufficient to keep her at bay.

No.

I was incorrect in that assumption. I had to think fast.

In my shoulder satchel, and yes, I said shoulder satchel, I knew I had my cell phone.  Now, you should know that as a rule, I don’t care much for people who use their cell phones in public, especially at a restaurant. It seems tacky and gauche.

But, I’m amending that rule, here and now, because sometimes, a cell phone can be a lifesaver. Keyword here: sometimes.

As she began to make her way, so sickly sweet and gently, down the row, excusing herself but in that tone of voice and with that look to her eyes, heavily lidded, that suggests it’s somehow really your fault for being in the line, and thus in her way, you know the look and the tone of voice, I’m sure…she hadn’t fully seen me.

What I mean is that the poor innocents that were between us were taller than me, and I’d managed to keep most of myself hidden. I quickly pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be on it. (When will I ever learn?)

She squeezed by the last of the barrier people, and looked up, saw that I was on the phone and apologized, mouthed, “Sorry.”

I thought surely she’ll get the hint. She’ll elbow her way back to her spot.

She did not.

She waited.

And so, I was forced to continue my charade of conversing with someone I had named Johnny. Johnny, apparently, was wanting to play tennis; we were setting up a time for very very soon after I left the post office.

Then, the phone actually rang. This is the second time in my life this has happened to me – note to self: cell phones never get you out of trouble.

Guess who it was? My mother. Of course.

I turned to my unwanted guest and tried to talk my way out of it, which I think made it worse. I pretended I’d lost the call, naturally, but I don’t think she bought it.

Nevertheless, she remained by my side until I gave the clerk my letter, expecting an exorbitant amount as due punishment for my behavior.

The blame letter cost $.44.

The shenanigans? 28:00.

___________________________________________________________

ONE LAST NOTE: For some reason, I was not able to upload any pictures to help illustrate today’s blog. I will try to remedy this by tomorrow.

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This is how flying feels to me.

And that is the day in which I must board a plane. And fly to Memphis, in which, I will get off one plane and onto another one…and head to Tacoma. A city in a state so far away from here that it might as well not even be a part of the United States.

Few other things make me as defensive or difficult as flying. Because I’m so afraid of it. Not just because I’m mean. 

Flying is something that I can safely hate. I become neurotic, distraught, maybe even mean…I’m spending all my free time right now focusing on two things: 1) I cannot become so disruptive that I’m considered a person-of-suspicion, it wouldn’t do to be on the 6:00 News, and 2) I keep saying over and over, “I love flying, I love flying,” which is a bald-faced lie.

I went by McDonald’s yesterday, and so scatter-brained was I, that when the woman told me to have a Good Day, I responded with “I love flying.” I was able to order my fish sandwich without incident or confusion.

I’ve been having nightmares about flying for months, ever since we advanced at Regionals…and that’s been back in March. I suppose it’s something that in each of my nightmares, at least, the plane lands. Well, at least, it lands…now.

That hasn’t been the case this entire time; we weren’t landing up until, like, around the end of May. 

What I seem to be focused on the most, lately, though, is the size of the windows on the plane. Last night, for instance, I was at some truck stop standing in absolute awe of this fry kitchen, you know the type that accompany most truck stops.  Inside, it was buffet-cafeteria style, but outside there were hundreds of windows all open, all stemming from this one fry kitchen, and each window had its own style of cuisine.  One window sold Mexican food; another, Creole; one was French, another, Italian. So forth and so on, all the way down the side of the truck stop.

I was standing outside with someone when a plane flew overhead. I was immediately struck with vertigo and dizziness and couldn’t find my balance. I think this is, in truth, one reason flying upsets me so. I have such bad myopic astygmatism that heights frustrate my ability to re-focus my eyes. And if I can’t maintain my balance, little else tries to maintain its balance as well: my legs, so I fall over; my stomach, so I get nauseous, etc.

I cannot not look at this plane, though. I feel like I’m staring it down, that with my very own intense gaze I’m steering it to a safe landing. I’m praying it lands safely; I’m worried about these passengers. It lands just fine, and without any help from my intense need to worry over that which I can’t control.

As it lands, the wings are pulled back into the body of the “plane,” and I see that it’s actually a large bus…with windows so big that I almost throw-up from thinking of how inescapable they would be from 30,000 feet in the air.

Oh, god, I think. If the plane’s windows on Wednesday are this large there’s no way I can fly. Because I need to be able to not see outside the plane.

I start to panic.

Whoever is standing next to me points to the window that’s selling Moroccan food, and that gets my attention, that seems to do the trick.

The last time I flew was from Indianapolis to Jackson, Mississippi. U.L. wanted me to sing in some gospel concert. The ticket was purchased at the last minute, perhaps as a means of making it all happen so fast that I wouldn’t have time to get afraid.

That, by the way, never works. Just FYI.

The plane was leaving very early in the morning, and I thought: This might be do-able. If it’s too dark out, it won’t seem as frightening. Of course, by the time I got to the airport, there was the Sun. Bright as a new penny. (Which by the way, very few people like, anymore. Who even uses a penny, these days?)

Lincoln did a lot, but can he save the penny?

In an effort to make myself feel better, I’d rented a limousine to pick me up at the house and drive me to the airport. Maybe if I stepped out of a long-neck limo, I’d feel important, special, famous, a singer, Watch Out, World – that’s what a limousine says to an airport – We’ve got Someone Special in this car so you have to fly right, and not crash.

Of course, when you go to any airport, you get out on the opposite side to the air field. No plane ever sees the car that brings you to the “dance.”

That’s ok. People saw me, and that almost made up for it.

Until I stepped through the metal detector…then, there was no turning back.

I had four drinks in the airport bar. It wasn’t even 9:30 in the morning, yet; the bartender had to be convinced, persuaded. Thankfully, she took pity on me. It calmed me just enough to walk onto the plane and find my seat; then, my nerves came back. I immediately started to order another one, from the airline attendant, when I realized that I’d be seeing U.L. that afternoon, and tsk, tsk, tsk, that kind of breath just wouldn’t do at all.

I ordered instead tomato juice, told myself I was going to be pretending it was a Bloody Mary. I didn’t want to be drunk, mind you – if the plane did crash, I didn’t want to stand before God and have him think less of me. But, nothing else was going to calm my nerves, either. So, what to do?  Pretend. Just try and pretend, I said to myself.

She brought the tomato juice and then asked me, Was I prepared to sit in an Exit Row?

I said I didn’t know what that meant, but No, Thank you, I was fine where I was.

Where I was, was an Exit Row, she informed me. That’s why my legs weren’t cramped. Exit rows, you know, have extra space to accommodate for the mass exodus of other passengers who would be flooding my small three-seat row in the event of an emergency landing.

I, in one flat second, spilled the contents of my tomato juice all down my shirt.

I could move, I said, I should probably move.

You’ll do fine, she replied. We were about to taxi down the runway.  “Let me get you a napkin, sir. In the meantime, you should familiarize yourself with this.” She handed me the laminated tri-fold pamphlet explaining the procedure for emergency landings. There were no faces on the people jumping down the yellow slide to safety. I found that creepy. Maybe if they were smiling, I’d feel less inclined to barricade myself in the bathroom and sing spirituals.

Fact: tomato juice always looks better in a glass than on a shirt.

She returned and then began to explain that they’d never had to use an Exit Row before, but it was protocol to explain to each passenger who sat in one.  I looked around; apparently I was flying with a seasoned group of passengers.  No one else was in an Exit Row; or, if they had been, they’d moved already.

She continued, If were to experience an emergency landing either on land or over water, all passengers needed to be made aware of how to exit the plane calmly.

Do all airline attendants take a “crash” course at Disney, or what? This wasn’t real language; this was make-believe. I turned to her, in an attempt at being funny, and said, Well, if we crash in water, we’re in really big trouble.

I was only flying down to Jackson, Mississippi, I grinned, Where was the water? (A question that I should have never asked).

She, in as professional a voice as I suppose they can teach you at Northwest Airlines, reminded me that we did fly right over the Mississippi River. And, that it was a large enough body of water. But, not to worry.

We were in good hands.

Sure, sure, I thought, I just don’t know whose.

At least, she gave me my next tomato juice for free.

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Duplicitous. I used to think that described a man who had lots of love affairs. Would that it were true.

Yeah, but one wipe and it's all gone.

But, driving out to campus, I really questioned what I, up until this morning, had believed was my emotional and physical elasticity when in the face of any crisis. Now, I wonder: what if all I’ve done is misunderstood what I thought was others’ general defection of accountability because I’d mislabeled it in my own life?

I hate this thought. I’ve hated it all morning. But, it won’t go away. It just sits there, staring at me. Even now.  

I think, at my age, I shouldn’t be learning this kind of lesson. Isn’t this something you pretty much have figured out by recess?  You know, when you Tom Sawyer everyone into playing Red Rover, so you can get the slide to yourself?

Or at least, get to it, First?

I’m having this thought for the very real reason that last night was a disaster, to me, personally. A definite blow to my faith in people and theatre, and not just people, but friends. (That’s another thought I’ve had today, and it’s only slightly secondary: that I really have no actual people skills. And am thus, a poor judge of character). That thought would kill me dead except I’m not entirely sure it’s a real thought; it might just be stuck under the duplicitous half of me.

So, last night.

Before we even got into rehearsal, others got into it, with themselves. And it wasn’t just over costumes, I overheard several issues-in-the-making. As the director of this production, it ultimately becomes my responsibility to fix these things, you know.

I’m not complaining about that. It’s always a threat: that something will fall apart in the ever-spinning gyre, and need long arms, strong ones and yet still soft, to pick up the pieces and place them back in the centrifuge that is theatre.

But, that responsibility comes with a terrible arthritis.

This is where I wonder whether or not the fault is really with me. Am I really as resilient as I want others to think I am, or have I just found an acceptable way to display duplicity?

I like to think I’m resilient. I like to think I’m well and aware. I like to think I’ve paid my dues, already. But, I have a sneaking suspicion that I haven’t…after last night, anyway.

Theatre is in my blood. So, it makes sense that every now and then, you have to bleed for it. It hurts, but if you don’t want to hurt, don’t put it in your blood, I guess. I hurt even worse when I think that somehow a project that I’ve put together, lived with, dreamed about, worried over (and more than anyone else in the cast and crew) has had the opposite effect: it turns one away from the beauty of collaboration that is theatre instead of inviting them in.

The thickness of this line is far too generous.

Far be it from me to suggest that ego has no place in theatre; or that there are no egos in it. I know there are; I’m one of them. But, I draw a very fine line between ego and vanity. I draw an even finer one between levels of ego (i.e., be egotistic in your search for the character’s fullness, life). However, vanity, in my opinion, has no place in the art of theatre.

No one’s that important.

And, I recognize how difficult it is to actualize the parameters of “your place,” in any given show; it takes time…but not attitude. I hate, as much as anyone (having been on the bitter, receiving end myself) that a hierarchy has to exist, considering the collaborative concept of theatre, but it does exist, and it exists for a reason.  That isn’t to say that, last night, others didn’t have their reasons, I’m sure they did. And I’m sure they all truly believed that they were doing the right thing…for the right reason…

…and this harkens back to my theory that compromise isn’t real, and doesn’t exist, because it all ended in argument, and what hurt me about that was the sheer and luxurious waste of energy and time that was lost in such an exchange. And that, there was no “return trust” given to me. A director handles problems, all problems. And I was right there, apparently, when all of this was occuring…and no one asked me, no one came to me. No one brought it to my attention. After all the trust I’ve put in them to do their jobs; they didn’t allow me to do mine…until after the fact, after the damage. When it was too late, really. And my arms were tired…

I’m not there just to pat backs and say “Good job.” I’m there to put back in order the show I directed…and to keep it in order.

Instead, I gave a feeble pep talk, I tried to skirt around the issues without pointing fingers because this show has to go on, with or without me, or him, or her, or them. 

And there’s a part of me that wanted to, last night, tell everyone to just shut up. To shut off themselves, the outside world, and concentrate on the show. There’s part of me that felt like I was dealing with children, instead of adults. Like each member of the cast and crew, I have put too much time in this endeavor for it to be rendered childish. There’s also a part of me that wants to say, Get over yourself, and into the character – that’s the only reason you are here: when you leave the theatre, Fine, hate me, but wait until then to do it…in here, you’re the actor, nothing else, they’re the crew, the SM, whatever, nothing else – let’s all focus on that and – nothing else! I can, so why can’t you (that’s my default question: that’s also the part that I’m scared is duplicitous: I don’t ask from you what I wouldn’t give you, myself). 

And, there’s a part of me that’s still angry about last night; angry that we’ve come so far to be offset, even if it’s just for one night, by petty, inconsequential items that are holding a powerful amount of control of the show’s psyche. It amazes me the depths to which we sink to protect our own interests…

That’s criminal in my theatre book. 

And, no matter what the argument, it’s always rooted in vanity. No matter what anyone else has said; I am the one who gets to say things about this show. That’s the right you get when you become a director.

Any one of them could have been the director, too. It wasn’t something I chose to do, but it wasn’t something they chose to do either, obviously. Since it fell to me, I’m not going to lessen my standards now that it’s done.  I can’t. I don’t know how.

One size fits all butts. Mostly.

I’m tired of having to be on the forgiving end when it isn’t how I feel at all. I’m tired of “allowing” behaviour (so as not to offend the creative process) because, now, it isn’t creating new growth. It’s forming habits, and cliques, and it’s making my mouth sour.

So, in quick retrospect, I’m done with theatre, after next weekend. At least here. At least for now…thank god, I have other things to do. But, it still makes me sad.

I don’t like working hard to instill faith just to have it ripped away. I mean, it’s one thing to lose faith, it’s another to watch it being taken away from you.

Maybe, if nothing else, I could argue that if I am duplicitous, at least being duplicitous has a built-in safety feature: there’s always two sides to it.

If one doesn’t work out…you just turn the other way…

And pray real hard that when all is said and done, no one “unfriends” you on Facebook.

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It's a cabal all right. Against me.

My mind…it often goes into Mach 7 when I attempt to procrastinate (by the way, the word “procrastinate,” itself, is ironic – I mean, by the time you write the word out, you could have done something already – it’s not a word for the lazy), and the only thing I can physically do to make it stop is to sleep (even though my dreams are usually full of anger when I do that – last night, for instance…ouch!), but if I don’t stop it, from time to time, it just runs all days with thought after thought after thought, and so what I’m about to do is a little experiment I engage in, every now and again: I’m going to pause, take a deep breath, and type out every single thought I have in my head right at this moment in an attempt to empty my brain.

Because I really want to take a nap…without feeling guilty about it.

Ok? So, here I go:

How on earth do you wash a Fedora…pancakes…the way Max sleeps with one open, staring…the other day when the tornado siren went off some student in the hall asked if North Korea was attacking and I was impressed because he didn’t seem the type to be that aware of the world around him, his clothes made that suggestion…why a city has the name of Scooba…Old Man Frank came by the house yesterday to tell me I’d left the water hose on and flooded his driveway, he’s an old man with scoliosis but my god he can knock loudly…that time I brushed my teeth with Cortizone-10…my glasses are broken – well the leg fell off but still it’s going to cost money to fix it better than I did with hot glue…apple juice gives me heartburn and so do onions and so do Tums which is ironic since they’re supposed to fix heartburn…I really like sweet potato pie…why can’t I start back working on my new script, I think it has potential, and I sometimes feel guilty doing other types of writing but Gary tells me just write everyday so I do, this blog if nothing else…why won’t I finish this other script I have because I know the deadline is looming…I’ve only once seen an actual loom and the word loom makes me think of a loon…Smoking Loon is a type of red wine…I’m allergic to red wine…how is too much water bad for you…I’ve switched mayonnaise brands, U.L. is shocked…I wish I’d planted those irises deeper in the dirt…where would I put a bicycle if I had one…I hate my cell phone…at some point I’m going to need new tennis shoes…my ankle still hurts…I am still angry because this morning I was almost finished with a new blog and then I hit some button and the whole damn thing was erased…what it would be like if I could magically freeze people and take off their clothes and then move them somewhere else and then unfreeze them and laugh at how embarrassed they’d be…how people can eat warm mayonnaise is beyond me…why I don’t have any pet fish, they’d be so much easier to handle until the cats found them…why some doctors don’t use anesthesia…I’m very glad my dentist did even if now I have a new health concern called synethesia and it feels like ice-cold water is running down my chin and neck several times a day…if people could float indefinitely…what would constitute a magic umbrella…would having sex with a centaur be bestial and illegal…why John Mark Karr would lie about JonBenet Ramsey…how to love through pain, and mean it…how do I manage to memorize all my lines each play I’m in…what would happen if I could disappear…how many people would come to my funeral…why I drink so much…if we’re all hiding something, what then are we all compensating for…why trust is so hard to get and so easy to lose, and doesn’t that imply a serious flaw in the nature of trust…what does God do when he rests…do I have cancer, or West Nile, or Swine Flu, or diabetes, or RLS…why can’t I focus on losing weight…how upset I get when the media overlooks the devastation of Katrina in Mississippi, even now four years later..should I give Olive Garden another chance…why does gorgonzola taste so bad when you melt it…I cannot abide any more of the heat…I cannot stand it when I sweat without purpose…should we build a bigger fence for Max…why can’t I find a handwriting that I approve of…when did I develop this paranoia…will I ever write a good play…how much of your identity is in your name…how many people did I upset this week…what would happen if I always told the truth…why are there so many bad spellers…why don’t people read anymore…what happened to conjugating verbs…how did Latin die…why do I have to have a favorite color, or food, or anything at all really…what will my next car be…why am attached to the name Cutter…I’m still mourning Bea Arthur’s death, but I’m glad we still have Angela Landsbury for now…how can one face death…what is a timing belt and how do I find it…who was the first person to stain glass…why do I have a desire to be famous…I’m not sure there’s such a thing as compromise, one will always retain the power…does anyone ever really forgive…is my first cat, Aristophanes, mad at me for leaving her at U.L.’s…I hate doing laundry…I can’t believe I’m almost 33…I’m afraid I’m losing words…what happens if I go crazy…I don’t like orange Powerade…why don’t I speak better French…why do I always pretend everything…I take back what I thought a minute ago, I think I may be partial to blue and deep reds…I hate the word “cubicles”…a young boy yelled at me one day from across Main Street and said, “It’s raining gayness today!” and I yelled back, “Well, we needed the rain, didn’t we?”…I need to buy more nose strips, for my apnea…what is it about men in uniform…why don’t I approve of steel top roofs, especially green ones…some days are so beautiful I think to myself, if I have to die, let it be on a day like this…I do not want to be put in the ground, though; I want to be in a crypt above it…I’m glad that even in my darkest days, I still believe in God…why can’t I bathe all day…I’d like to thank everyone that I’ve ever met…I can’t stand it when I go to the hair salon and they spritz my hair instead of shampooing it, that is a pet peeve of mine…sometimes I use room spray as cologne…was Jean Harlowe a more tragic case than Jayne Mansfield…

Whew…and just think, I didn’t even get to the part where I’ve invented a new form of poetry that I call a “tri-ku.” It’s a re-constituted, inverted version of a haiku, in three stanzas, each one goes 7-5-7.  I’ll leave you an example of one.  We’ll talk about it later, don’t worry. Each one is based on my belief that there are nine universal truths.

The Ancient Art of the Written Word.

Universal Truth #1: Berth

Other people would have left.
They might have laughed.
No, no they would have, I’m sure.

And not because of your face,
or indifference,
they didn’t care how you were,

All they would care about was
that your smile had flaws
and that your bite had no teeth.

Speaking of teeth…I can’t wait to tell you about Rasputin. The Kitten Who Lived and Had Teeth.

That’ll have to be after my nap, though.

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I don’t have many great qualities, I’d imagine (for instance, I find it increasingly difficult to even get a date, so I’m tempted to say that I must be lacking some crucial quality – unfortunately, it’s a temptation I never give into. I know better).

What I do have, and consider a good thing to have, is a large, uncontrollably malleable heart. Even if it’s quite a fault of mine to have it, a liability.

It’s still not the worst thing to have.

Attention: Will Robinson and The Clever Kris

Then, again, I’m also ignorant about a great many things, and most often, after the initial shock of owning so much pathos, I tend to hole away again into my own, insular world.  So, no loss is ever that greatly overwhelming, except death, antithetical cliches, and poorly played tennis matches. (i.e., a missed dating opportunity, small potatoes; a grocery store out of small potatoes when I want potato salad, devastating).

I know it’s not going to come across this way, upfront, my big heart, etc. in today’s blog, perhaps…since, one of the two kittens in question attacked Amanda, the other day, sending her to the fate of a Tetanus shot, but “hold off the earth” your criticism, for awhile, to paraphrase the Bard.

What you should know, first, about the cat attack: Max, the dog, was let into the backyard, which is his backyard, and there, underneath the last step, were two kittens, kittens that had appeared from nowhere but out of the calm green grass, and there they were sitting, the two kittens, as was told to me, like a planned lolcat photo op, by the bicycle.

Max, of course, immediately fell under the impression that he’d been given the greatest gift of all: toys that were alive with fur and embedded noisemakers, like his stuffed polar bear. Amanda barely rescued one kitten from his vice-like jaws; this is the kitten that bit her so maliciously on her pinkie…and maybe, we’re not sure, somehow on her wrist.  

The other “kitteh” got away…and, we thought, would stay there.

Amanda, whose heart is, admittedly, only slightly larger than mine, due to a misshapen left aorta, I believe, (that’s what I tell myself) took the helpless, strikingly demoralized kitten to the Vet School, here on campus. I must say, here and now: I find it rather ironic that several blogs back I was bragging about the stewardship of this school and program, and yet, here they were, unwilling to assist; they wouldn’t help Amanda at all. Not really.  

Instead, she was referred to another veterinarian’s office; he was also irate.  Not at her, but at their inability to offer the very assistance they should be offering in order to better learn their craft. What few options they gave Amanda were ridiculously expensive.  That, or, euthanization. 

I was, then, via proximity of incident and the ridiculously-expensive-options only rule, irate as well.

This other vet, though, has done the right thing, mostly, in my opinion. He has been nursing this ravaged kitten ever since that Fateful Finger Day. He called yesterday to say several things:  1) the hole in the kitten’s side had healed; 2) his lung had reconstituted and his diaphragm was not, after all, damaged; 3) he had finally decided he was hungry enough to eat; 4) the quarantine was in effect and working well; and 5) when would be taking him home, please?

Amanda said, Well, could you put a collar on him and perhaps, neuter, him, first, and then we’d bring him home and go from there.

The vet said that it would take 10-14 days post-quarantine before he could neuter the poor, feral, pure evil, vicious, frightened, intimidated feline that we’d taken already, around the house, to calling, affectionately, Rasputin. The tone of his voice said more than enough. Neuter him on our own time.

He’s been poked, needled, fed, stitched, prodded and watered, the vet continued. He’d also bitten a vet assistant who had attempted to pet him.

I’m pretty sure I think I love this kitten.

I’m not sure, however, what will happen to him, even after we bring him home, as we’ve all but flat-out decided to do that.  If nothing else,I reasoned, our house was where his people were, right? It might give him a better leg-up to return to his homeplace and start from scratch here. It made sense to me.

There were several kittens under there, originally, and for safety’s sake, we called the Humane Society; our neighbor has a crackhouse of cats, apparently. The congregate, they do their “drugs,” they kill a few birds, no cockroaches, though, I should point out, and they hang around in the yard, all damn day and night.

The Humane Society, like cats themsevles, came, in the still of the night, apparently, because all the kittens were gone the next morning. Sigh. Of course…he has no people now.

Or, so, we thought…

…until last night, when I was taking a much deserved bath, propping my sore ankle over the side of tub to let it wrap itself in steam. The other kitten, the one we thought had run away, seems to have come back; it’s like, almost right out of the Bible – 99 sheep lay down to sleep, or whatever, but one wanders off and you really only want the one that went away.  (This is my version of that shepherd story because truth be known, I worried sick about that other kitten, the Houdini). To me, he was the one that stayed awake, and aware, and wandered off…to live. (He’ll have the best stories, if he ever comes back). Prodigal as his nature is, he did. So, I said, he must belong to me.

He gets by with a little help from his friends.

I kept hearing this tiny meow, as I lay steaming in the tub, but I refused to think that one had been left behind. I convinced myself that this was the one that had returned. I couldn’t bear thinking he’d been overlooked. How lonely that would feel. I know. 

No, no, he must be the one that left and returned, I mean, how could they have overlooked a kitten, I kept saying over and over to myself. 

The next thing I knew, I’d said it over and over to myself so many times that I was crawling underneath the house, fresh from my bath, at midnight last night, searching him/her out. I couldn’t stand that pitiful mewing. I would never get a night’s rest with that awful, plaintive cry for love and affection. Especially not when I have these arms, so eager to love and affect. It’s odd, but we do that to the sound of a cat’s meow, much more than a dog’s bark, I think: we personify it. It just sounds too “of the depth”, too doleful, too Mahalia Jackson.

I care for animals sometimes more than I do for people. I have yet, however, to trace that root down. I think it must have happened when I decided to love animals more than people.

Sometimes.

I searched forever, and I couldn’t find it, that poor kitten. We decided to leave it food, water, and a lantern for a more fine dining atmosphere. It seems to have done the trick. At least, it’s grown quiet.

And, so, I’ll do my best to do the same as soon as I get these cobwebs and dead crickets out of my hair. I’ll just run another bath, quickly, and say a little prayer.

That’s right, Annelle, I pray.

II: Addendum

I came back from class, today, and as promised, went outside to check on that kitten, I’ve named him Houdini Pip, both for his disappearing act and also because poor Pip, in Great Expectations, just couldn’t stay out of trouble, could he?  Also, I wasn’t against using a file and a pork pie to lure my shackled robber out of the fog of the house foundation. It is plain filthy under there.

I peered under the house, and the lantern was gone. I stood silently in the dead heat of 92 degrees, but I heard no mewing issue forth when I called for him.

The water had been touched, though, and some of the food had been eaten. I was elated. Let him stay under there if he wants, I used to crawl under the house all the time when I was a little kid, much to the chagrin of everyone else. So long as he eats, he’ll be fine. And that’s what it appeared he’d done: eaten, at least a little of the food.

Amanda, ironically, I realized then, had not asked me to meet her anywhere for lunch. That’s when I g0t a little worried.

I ain't no Ingrid Bergman.

What if she’s taken to eating cat food? I fear that would not bode well for the future of groceries in our home.

This is how I stress: What if she’s just moving the food around in that bowl because she knows how neurotic I am about stray animals and someone loving them, and by so moving the food, she’ll think that I’ll assume the kitten’s being taken care of, because that’s exactly what I’d think.

If any of that’s true, then all I can say is this: that’s one hell of a gaslight.

But, I know better. After all, the lantern we used takes batteries.

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