Wild, sweet fragrance

Wild honeysuckle cascades down the wood fence south of my front porch. Every time I open the door, the nectar-drunk scent hits me bodily; I feel enveloped in its honeysuckle cloud. I inhale honeysuckle with my nose, my mouth, my eyes, and my arms, as it exhales through the soles of my feet. I feel the pure essence of wild honeysuckle deep in my lungs, inspiring my limbs to breathe in the scent too. My chest fills with the lightness of invisible clouds.

Our wild honeysuckle is technically an invasive weed. In the two years we’ve lived here, I’ve seen the vine quadruple in breadth, overwhelming the cultivated ivy below it. But we’re poor renters here. Our landlords would never spend enough time at our homes to notice their weed-choked flower beds filling with honeysuckle, so why should we bother?

I bank on cultivar indifference. Every year when I smell honeysuckle I am reminded of how homesick for the scent I was during its absence. I yearned for its deep fragrance even though I had forgotten it was missing.

This year, for whatever wild, fanciful reason, I am even more in love with the honeysuckle vine than usual. Quentin Compson taught me a deep power of honeysuckle’s role in our memories, and I feel reverberation of his knowledge every spring. Each breath I take, I pray, “Please don’t let anyone notice this weed and wish it harm. This year, please, let the sacred scent linger longer in my body. This year, let me breath deeper.”

Next year, surprise me again with your wild blossom.

Wiki-fiti

I love finding graffiti in Wikipedia. Behold:

In 1559, Spanish Pensacola was sam so fine following year.

I italicized "sam so fine" for emphasis. Love it.

Footie--not futbol

My feet hurt. I have really bad arthritis in my subtalar joint, droopy arches, and pronation. I like my new podiatrist, but her voodoo isn’t working on my right foot.

I want to go to South Africa.

In college, I somehow ended up friends with the long distance track team. And somehow they were almost all from South Africa. The South Africans told a story of a foot guru who could fix anything.

Way out in the bush, a place where there were no roads and you’d bust your car’s oil pan in a minute, there lived a man who was a master of feet. He analyzed feet and just from looking could make any orthotic to custom fit your footie needs.

The weird part of the foot guru? He used phone books. He cut pages of phone books and stacked the leaves to fit the arch.

His phone book supports were always perfect. The runners expressed reverence for his skill and spoke of him with awe. The grueling trip through the bush was worth it all.

I want that. I want to go the bush country of South Africa and have the most perfect arch supports ever. Bye-bye subtalar joint pain! Bye-bye pronation! Hello strong arches!

I’m jealous. There must be a foot guru in the United States, right? I’ll take phone book supports—no problem.

Creep-o's in my closet

Actual e-mail to my boss:

Boss, I’ve decided my office is haunted. I hear strange irregular tapping sounds coming from behind me all day. It’s always been like this, but I thought it was a bathroom noise—people coming in and out. I no longer think that. The sound comes from behind me where there’s a maintenance closet.

Rather than call a priest, I propose that I need a noise cancelling radio system next to the noise or those fancy Bose aircraft worker silencer headphones.

I used to just ignore the noise, but now I am thoroughly creeped out.

Sincerely freaked,
Christine Wy

Actual response:

How about I call Bose and ask for an exorcist?

-Boss

The lady condescends

I’m talkin to a guy who obviously has an accent. Somehow the accent comes up in conversation, and he says, “Besides, no one can understand me.”

I could understand him clearly, but whatev. I asked, “Where are you from?”

“Sierra Leone.”

Brain wheels start churning badly, and fortunately my Thought Filter was semi-functional that day.

“Blood diamonds!” Brain shouted.

“Shh!” via Filter.

“Forced child labor!” Brain again.

“Quiet!” Filter says.

“Civil war!”

“I’m getting tired of this,” Filter exhales.

“Ooh! The fighting, is your family OK?” Actual mouth says. “D’oh!” Filter says. “That’s some nicely condescending National Geographic crap--assuming he considers himself lucky to escape some horror.”

Polite gentleman: “It’s safe. There hasn’t been fighting in years.”

Brain: “Yeah, like two, right?”

Filter: “Shut the fark up already!”

Random thing that pisses me off

Wanna know what really grinds my gears? Semi-pro singers who grab-up karaoke spotlights. Don’t you get enough attention singing on your own that you can let us Plebes have a little fun and not be intimidated by you? Like, what’s up with that?

So, Matthew and I were at a party. This party boasted karaoke and 80’s music—perfect! But, no, awesomeness was not to be had. First, no one at the party but us was into the 80’s music part. Second, some woman jumped up the second the karaoke book was passed around and instantly had her smug little face in front of the microphone. I didn’t think about it too much until she opened her mouth and belted out an amazing pitch-perfect rendition of a Janis Joplin song.

Dood. Give the rest of us a chance—you just took a little piece of my heart.