One day I'll be infected

My adventures with toxoplasmosis gondii effing continue. Why can’t I get away from this germy-virus thing?

Our neighborhood is a veritable dog buffet of cat shit since all the feral and “outdoor” cats poop willy-nilly in the sandy soil. Joy to Blanche DuBois, champion of munching all things disgusting!

I do try to keep her away from cat poop, but she’s so low to the ground that it’s hard to tell when she’s sniffing to mark her territory or sniffing to snatch a turd. She’s eaten many a cat turd on my watch, but yesterday I snapped.

Blanche found herself a whopper of a poop fest, and I flipped out. I wrenched her mouth open and started to pull the poo from her mouth. Ever tried this particular maneuver? The poo is slimy and doesn’t want to come out—it’s not like grasping a twig or something reasonably solid. She had worked it down pretty far, so as I held her mouth open with one hand and yanked with the other, she gagged and tried to twist away.

Successful in extracting the turd, I didn’t feel vindicated. I looked at my right hand and thought, “What have I done?” My right hand was covered in semi-moist cat shit. It was my turn to gag. I nearly did vomit, and I held my hand as far from my face as I could. I choked, walking to a palm tree to wipe my hand on its leaves, but this didn’t really cure the waves of nausea.

I yanked the dog leash and wrestled Blanche home, her own necessities be damned. New dilemma: my house key was in my right pocket, and my right hand was covered in gritty shit. I banged on the front door with my left elbow. Twice. Finally Matthew acted goofy and looked through the curtains at me. “Open the damn door!” He obliged and walked away.

“My hand is covered in cat shit. Take the dog. I have to clean up.”

“What?” he asked.

“I got mad at her for always eating cat turds so I reached in her mouth and pulled one out,” I explained. “Now I regret it because I’m absolutely disgusting.”

I let go of her leash and headed for the sink. I used the dish scrubber, dish soap, and a follow-up of bleach. I still felt unclean, though I was probably technically sanitized. I felt I could never use my right hand again because it would always be tainted by that notorious toxoplasmosis carrier, cat feces.

Unhelpfully, Matthew didn’t come to the rescue. I was so mad at the dog I could barely look at her, but he didn’t help. He left her leash on her and didn’t feed her, leaving me to finish the dog walk routine, even though I yelled at him to take care of her.

I didn’t want to touch her, didn’t want to get near her mouth, didn’t want her to belch after dinner, didn’t want her to fart—didn’t want to be anywhere near the organism that reminded me of my terrible fear of infection by toxoplasmosis. But, I did it. If Matthew wasn’t helping, it didn’t mean that her care wasn’t over.

Her sit and stay routine before being rewarded with access to her food was harsher than normal, but what was I supposed to do? Overlook the fact that I had just scrubbed gooey cat shit from under my fingernails?

I still haven’t forgiven her, and this morning I pushed her face away from me every time she got too close. I felt a twinge of guilt for being mad at her for doing something that comes naturally to dogs, but I just couldn’t deal with my emotional connection to her mouth.

I am resolved to be nice to her tonight, but I am not particularly pleased. That mouth still represents colossal horror.

Asshole's revenge

I have a large proboscis. I’m OK with it now, but I really had to grow into my nose, both physically and emotionally.

As a pre-teen, I was teased mercilessly by my peers. They made my life at school a terrible hell, but I obviously survived their cruelty.

My best friend toward the end of middle school was Gretta. She had one of those super cool older sisters that even though she was still in high school; she only hung out with college-age guys. The guys didn’t like me, but they mostly ignored me.

One dreadful sunny day, the college guys turned on me. “Chris ‘nose’ everything,” they taunted. I couldn’t believe adults would be so awful—I thought they were supposed to be mature. “Get it, Chris ‘nose’ everything,” they said over and over.

I played dumb to protect my broken ego—I pretended they said “knows.” Over and over I politely defended myself. “I don’t know everything.”

“No, no, get it? Chris ‘nose’ everything.” Laughter.

I stubbornly continued to protest until they eventually gave up their game—which took them way too long to tire of.

I haven’t heard anyone comment on my nose in years, though it’s still a rudder on my face. I will try to say I outgrew caring, but I know that if someone taunted me again, I’d cry on the inside.

Those jerk-wads have their revenge now. I have a dog that “nose” everything. Blanche must touch everything with her nose. Whether it’s your hand she’s sliming with her wet nose as you type, your laptop, the software I tried to peacefully install this morning, she must give it a good sniff.

Those ass-hats may have been totally out of line, but I kind of ‘know’ what they felt now. My nose my have irrationally irritated them or have just provided jockstrap humor, but now my “nose of the south,” Miss Blanche DuBois, noses all over everything.

I’m not in a dog nose mood today after an incident happened between me and her yesterday afternoon, and I’ve pushed her face away every time she’s gotten in my business. I feel mean, but I just can’t do nose right now, I say as my allergies kick in and my own nose feels like a time bomb.

Blanche ‘nose’ everything.

There are but seven plots in the world

I just realized that Bridget Jones's Diary is Pride and Prejudice. I feel ripped off.

Do you want to save changes to Document 1?

I normally write my posts in Word then copy them to the little Blogger box. It's just easier that way since Word tends to make me look smarter when it prevents me from making grammatical errors. Today, however, I'm freestyling and microblogging the little things on my mind straight into that Blogger box. We'll see what happens next.

I experimented with wearing no panties. My crotch has this amazing ability to sweat like armpits, and I haven't figured out what to do about it. I tried no undies. To summarize results: no underwear good for social occasions involving standing; no underwear very bad at work.

I bet I've blogged this before, this exact issue: Matthew wants a condo; I want a house. Matthew wants to ensure someone else mows the lawn; I want to live in a neighborhood. I hate this fight. We've had it before. I think I'm right, and he thinks he's right. It's too bad he's wrong, but he's the major financial backer. Sorry, Blanche, you probably won't get a real yard to play in.

I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice. I've never said this before, but I'm saying it now: the movie versions are better. I didn't remember it being this way, but the novel is so tediously bent on absolute precision. Movie concoctions distill the emotions from ten pages of internal strife to a couple of minutes of cringing in disbelief. I freakin love Jane Austen, but Pride and Prejudice, better on film. Sorry doll.

I feel like my life is all screwy--big surprise! Things are topsy-turvy: I want this; I have this goal; is it the right goal; is something else better? I am planning to start an associates degree in computer networking this summer. On the one hand, it seems like a good career move. On the other, it seems like I'm awfully over-educated as it is. My best guess is to start the program and see if I hate it or not. I just have to try.

I'm "dieting." I did great for a few weeks, then bad habits unconsciously picked up. I have to be very mindful. I want to starve myself into anorexia, but I know it's stupid and my body will never do it. I've considered that laproscopic band thing, but then you lose weight so fast that you need cosmetic surgery to remove all your flappy skin. No easy choices. I guess that's a pretty concise summary of life though: no easy choices.

I tried to adopt a pitbull today. It's supposed to be a real lover, but Matthew reminded me of my vow. It took my cat four years to get used to our dog. My precious cat probably has about four years left, and I don't want the remainder of his life to be spent cowering in terror of the new family member. Plus the pitbull will probably eat the cat before they can reach any amicable settlement. Our family is fine the way it is. I have to believe in the things in my life that are precious.

The list will never end

I just thought of another awesome Christine Wy song lyric:

"Yeah, I fought the four leaf clover and always win."

Gibberish and mumbles--and my reward

I got some good karma today. I went to sit on the back steps at the library to eat an apple. There was already a guy there, and from behind he looked like a student. I said, “Do you mind if I join you?” And then I realized he was a homeless dude chillin on private property and that he might get in royal trouble with the campus police.

I sat with him anyway. He talked to me a little, but mostly he talked nonsense to himself. I really liked his sweater though, and I kind of wished I could trade him something for it. That’s a tangent.

So generous Christine kicked in (I know, you totally didn’t know that side existed). I said, “Hang out for a minute, and I’ll be right back.” I took him the grapes from my lunch. I couldn’t tell if he cared.

He asked, “Do you have a book I can read? I need something to read.”

I went to the discarded book cart that was on its way to be free books for students, and I found him a book of short essays and poetry. I still couldn’t tell if he cared.

I didn’t mind that I couldn’t understand him; I knew I’d done all I could to make his life a little better. That’s all I can do. All I can expect to give. Now I feel a little lighter.

Staples in my skin

Short staple cotton. I loathe short staple cotton. Like, I don’t know if I can use words to describe all this without using swears and visual aids. Unfortunately, I don’t have a camera with me, so you will probably get swearing without visual aids.

You know those nice, crisp, fresh sheets that stay soft without feeling limp? Those are good old-fashioned long staple cotton sheets. They don’t get pilly, they stay smooth, and they feel the most refreshing on your skin.

“100% cotton” sheets that get pilly where you sleep on them, seem stringy and kind of chunky, feel velvety at first but turn on you and feel disappointing—those are short staple cotton sheets. You have them. I know you do. You probably got them at a deep discount (or got fleeced) at Target or Bed Bath and Beyond. You were probably sucked in by the term “Egyptian Cotton.”

First off, “Egyptian Cotton” is a shit term that means nothing. Sure, cotton from Egypt *can* be nicer, but that’s long staple cotton, not the leftover fluff from the carding of the longer fibers. Short staple cotton is cheaper and more widely available. If you want those nice, crisp sheets, you have to shell out bucks for long staple cotton. This is extreme, but one year someone wanted to spend $200 on me for Christmas. What did I want? A $200 set of sheets (minimum 200 thread count per square inch, but that’s a completely different rant). Nothing else. She was incredulous. She didn’t know there could be $200 sheets. You don’t *have* to pay $200 for long staple cotton sheets, but I didn’t want her bargain hunting for the wrong thing because she didn’t know what to look for.

Short staple cotton looks tired in clothes. Ever washed something and it dried bedraggled and droopy after one wear and wash? Short staple cotton. For example, it’s used in shirts designed specifically for discount stores like Dress Barn or Gap Outlet. I’m a frequent Gap Outlet-er because we have one two miles away, but I know I’m paying for shite. I know they’re lulling me in with their brand name but that the collar and wrists are going to stretch and that the width is going to bulge. I know I will look disheveled and poor. Yeah, that’s right, poor, I said it. Short staple cotton doesn’t flatter you and makes you *look* like you paid less.

And the sheets, oh the sheets. I’ve been fooled. Beautifully sheened cotton machine folded into a perfect cube—oh, heart’s delight! But, inside that zippered vinyl bag--lies and broken promises. You wash, and you realize there are little fibers poking out loose all over looking like soft fuzz. First you think the sheets are downy soft, but, after a couple of washes, the sheet begins to distort and not cover your body correctly.

Short staple cotton. Bane of my existence. And cheap cashmere. Don’t get me started on the farming practices of cheap cashmere and its global impact. Sheesh.

Weird Al Yankovic (re: "I'm Fat")

I have discovered that I am fat. This was not an overnight sensation, but last night I realized that the mirror ain’t lyin.

I wore something that turned out to be seriously unflattering last night. I caught a look at my butt in the mirror, and, gasp! It was huge! I turned this way and that to see if any view made my wide load look any smaller, and, no, it didn’t. Not at all. In fact, it seemed to be mocking me and looked larger every time I shifted my perspective.

I turned from looking at my enormous ass to look at my profile in the mirror. Counterbalancing the rear, my belly looked huge and distended. No wonder people in Chicago who saw me infrequently asked me if I were pregnant: I looked more like a house every time they saw me.

Five pounds here, ten pounds there: I climbed the weight to height ratio in the stratosphere. I typed in my data in the Mayo Clinic health calculator, and I’m obese. I tried another calculator, and it too said I was obese.

WTF? Why did I let this happen to me? I remember all the brownies and the cookie dough and the carrot cake, and now I think, “what the hell was I doing to myself?” I don’t know. I was just so unhappy that sugar was the only thing that made it feel better, even if it were just a temporary release.

As one of my doctors glibly stated, “It’s a lot easier to put it on than it is to take it off.” I let that be my mantra for a while, my excuse. “Oh well, if it’s so hard to do, then I’ll just live like this.”

But living like this led to more brownies and more ice cream, and now I have to put the brakes on it all. My regular breakfast of cereal and coffee. Lunch is now salad with some protein and an orange. Dinner is home cooked lean meat. Snacks are yogurt and popcorn.

“Diet.” What does that mean? The food you eat, the dining habits you break, the grueling trek up the stair climber? I don’t want to drink the Weight Watcher’s Koolaid, but my friend is right: “diet” is a mean word with all its connotations of deprivation. “Lifestyle change” is the right combo. I am remembering not to order all that bacon and sausage at IHOP. I am going to eat spinach omelets. I am going to get protein from avocados and olives. I am going to learn to eat sardines.

I don’t own a scale. Presumably I’m “lifestyle changing” by the way my pants fit. Lemme tell ya, they ain’t no better yet.

I’m a fattie boombalattie. Until Sunday, I had fat pride. “This is my body, deal with it.” I don’t know what happened to my ass in that mirror on Sunday night, but my body composition is totally transformed: this is not how I want to be. I don’t want to look pregnant forever.

And husband? He makes fun of fat people when we’re out in public. When will that be me? When will he look at me and say, “Jeez, put down that cupcake already”? I don’t want my belly to see that day.

Lifehack: Mission Dinner

Just in case you haven't received one of my whiny e-mails, you may not know that I am allergic to the top most common food products: wheat, chicken, and peanut. (There are others, but they're more arcane.)

Having the general yuckies, I wondered what to do for dinner tonight. No chicken soup. No beef soup with noodles. Ah! Beef broth and rice!

I cooked some short grain brown rice, heated up some beef broth, poured the former into the latter, and voila! Anti-allergen-under-the-weather soup.

However, this beef broth doesn't look like the stuff that comes from beef noodle soup. We'll see how mystery soup turns out.

***Update. It wasn't quite "right," but it was edible.

Darwin and me

Today we celebrate the bicentennial of the birth of Charles Darwin. Here’s a quote from him that Google found for me:

I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created parasitic wasps with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of Caterpillars.

I admire Darwin immensely, and I use a personalized version of this quote for expressing my disbelief in a higher power.

I am a devoted atheist. I don’t know the exact word for what I am, but I often use Existentialist—ultimately, we are individually responsible for the destiny we create for ourselves. (TonyN should find that statement a pleasant visitation to the past.)

I believe in the sanctity and beauty of life, that there is no reason that the world couldn’t have evolved to create such beauty in ourselves and nature. As Darwin stated, why would a super-being have created complex symbiotic predatory relationships when they seem generated of necessity to adapt to one’s environment? And why isn’t that scientific rationalization beautiful enough to say there is no god? Isn’t there beauty in belief that the universe can create itself in all its complex iterations?

OK, I can’t write more on my dissertation for atheism. I have a bad case of the yuckies, and I’m feeling sort of vertiginous.

Overheard on campus

"If I were to get hit by a bus, it would be like ..."

"You mean there's nothing you would regret?"

"Not a thing."

***So, now wait, are they too young to have regrets, or just too young to realize they have regrets?

What does that even mean?

"She had a crush on me. She was really into Robert Palmer. Went to one of his concerts. Do you know who Robert Palmer is?"

"Yeah."

"I guess she was addicted to love."

"Did I ever tell you what I used to think that song said?"

"No."

"'Bite his little face and you're addicted to love!'"

Behold teh awesome

I am diggin this so hard.

Death or glory?

Sometimes I weigh the consequence of death versus my freedom. I’m not being morbid, it’s just that there are so many restrictions in my life that I often wonder, “Would I really die if…”

I’m allergic to the most common things you can find around. Chicken. Wheat. Peanuts. Chicken and wheat cause me anaphylactic shock (death by un-breathing). Every time I drive by Chick-fil-a, I wonder, “Is it worth it for that golden delicious fried nugget?” My place of employment has doughnut Wednesdays. “I want. I want that doughnut so badly I’m wondering if I could die with heaven in my mouth.”

Of course not. Of course the tang of the pull is terrible—I cried today in the grocery store when I looked at all the things I couldn’t eat—but somehow I find the resolve to resist. Evidently, my life force is stronger than my death wish. Reassuring to know, but no closer to doughnut covered peanut sauce chicken.

It's not about fuel consumption

I have this major problem with song lyrics. If I’m not really sure what they are, I kinda make up random words that sound right.

I have the uber ipod now that I got for Christmas, and I’m putting everything on there I can think of. In the mix: my husband’s Buzzcocks CD.

The first thing I realized was how many live songs I had heard and loved in my life that were actually Buzzcocks covers. Second thing? Lyrics. Now that I can see song titles, a whole world of understanding has opened to me.

My version: “All gas-matic.”

Actual version: “Orgasm addict.”

Their way sure makes a lot more sense. I always wondered why that song was about cars….

Strangers in a strange bar

My roommate in college found a new bar: “Come on! It’s great! Dollar beers!”

I was skeptical. If this dollar beer place was so awesome, why hadn’t we learned about it from our peers? But, she talked enough of us into going that I went along too.

“Dollar beers” turned out to be 5 ounce Dixie Cups of watery Pabst. No one but myself and my friend Jason seemed to mind this place, so we played along. “Yeah, dollar beers, Becky. This is great,” we smiled disingenuously. Jason and I scanned the barroom for threats. The local patrons were all true-blooded rednecks and proud of it. We were the college kids. While my friends laughed loudly, only Jason and I saw the glowering looks from the other clientele.

“Let’s go play pool,” I suggested, thinking it would lighten our wariness of the dive.

We went and laid our stack of quarters on the nearest table. Jason and I kept an eye out, and the two players finished their game, but they started racking up the balls again. We didn’t want to lose our turn, so the two of us walked over. “Hey, um, you skipped us. We had quarters down for next game.

The two players were a short, rotund man with thinning brown hair and a thicker mustache, and a tall woman who had kept her figure despite the fact that all the best efforts of this bar were trying to bring her down. She smiled benignly, warmly, and stretched out her arm to hand me her pool cue. I started to reach toward her.

“Hell no you can’t play pool on this table!” the suddenly red-faced round man shouted at us.

Me: “But, we put our money down.”

Lathering-up redneck slams his hands against the table: “This is Bob’s table!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nobody plays pool on this table but Bob!” He screamed at me and Jason. Completely at odds, his smiling female companion said, “Go ahead and let them play.” For a second, it looked like we might get the table. But, no.

The short man started shaking his head furiously and getting so red he was starting to turn purple, and he seemed to be puffing up somehow: “You wanna play pool on this table? You gotta ask Bob! This is Bob’s table!”

Jason and I were thoroughly confused. As far as we could tell, only Bob was allowed to use the table, so who were these two?

“Are you Bob?” I asked.

Whoa-ho! The angry redneck looked like he might have an aneurism. “Of course I’m not Bob!” He started shouting even louder, but no one looked our way or made any attempt to intervene. “Do I look like Bob to you?” he screamed at us.

“Who’s Bob?”

“Well Bob’s the one over there!” If you can shout and sound exasperated at the same time, that’s what he did.

“Um, over where?”

“At the end of the bar! Where Bob always sits! Everyone knows Bob!”

Jason and I turned to look. There, at the end of the bar, a tall, well-dressed cowboy wearing the latest Garth Brooks style color-block shirt smiled smirkingly at us and took a pull from his brown bottle of beer. We figured we’d gone this far with angry dude and the oddly smiling pool partner, so Jason and I might as well see it through. We walked over to Bob.

“Can we play pool on your table?”

The cowboy waited, still smirking a cock-eyed malicious grin. “Sure,” he said, really slow. “Soon as they’re finished with their game, y’all can play.”

Jason and I sat back down. Somehow, none of our friends had noticed any of this happening even though it all occurred within a ten foot radius of their table. We were pretty spooked and drank our “dollar beers” grimly. “I’m gonna piss. I’ll be back in a minute,” Jason told me. I sat fidgeting while he was gone. I was rattled by this scary, foreign place, but my friends were all laughing and pounding back their Dixie Cups of beer. Each time the bartender got a tip, she rang one of those brass maritime bells with a bitter vehemence, as if announcing, “Yeah, fucker, I know you didn’t tip me enough.” Each of her clangs shot through me while I waited for my friend.

Finally, at my side, Jason started handing me my coat: “We’re leaving. Now,” he said. After the confrontation we’d just had with Bob and not-Bob, I didn’t question his judgment that something else had gone horribly wrong in Dollar Beer Bar.

“What happened?” I asked as soon as we had shuffled into our coats and left with a few hasty goodbyes to our friends.

“I was standing at the urinal, and when I looked up, right at eye level was the sentence, ‘If you was a nigger you’d be dead now.’”

We were silent for the rest of our walk home to the apartment complex. Jason and I never went back for dollar beers again.

Go Green on the brain

I read in the New York Times online that workers who can see greenery from their office space are happier. I looked at my completely drab and overwhelming (maybe underwhelming) office and thought, “Yeah, I do need some green.”

I set Operation Green Office into motion. Phase One: not tell Matthew because he usually points out that my ideas are hare-brained. Phase Two: requisition a spectrum lamp for my future plants since I have no windows. Phase Three: actually get plants.

Phase One broke down when my mail-ordered spectrum lamp arrived at home. I had to explain why on earth I needed a new lamp. I hedged. I get nervous when I have to answer direct questions so I did the “Hey! Look over there!” approach to conversation dodging. Phase Two was eventually accomplished, but I did finally reveal to Matthew my Office Greenspace Scheme. He turned out to be ambivalent but not unsupportive.

Phase Three was, I don’t know, the most peculiar? I decided I wanted to buy my office greens from the local farmer’s market to support local merchants. Those weeks I sweated alongside my fellow merchants peddling my hula hoops, I developed significant respect for just how hard they work. Phase Three—off to the farmer’s market!

For some reason, anxiety drive kicked in when we arrived. Must. Get. Potted. Plant. Now. WTF? Why did the super fun fair of fares kick in desperation overdrive?

“Here’s a plant vendor! What does he have? Orchids. Can’t do orchids. Where’s the other guy?”

Matthew, calmly: “There’s someone else west of here.”

“Where? Trees. He’s got hibiscus trees. And ewe. POTTED PLANTS???” I was nuts.

Further west, “There’s potted plant guy! I want a pony tail tree. Hi [potted plant guy], I’ll take that pony tail tree. And that cactus. Yeah, I want that cactus. Wait, how much are they? Cool. I’ll take the pony tail and the cactus thank you goodbye.”

Matthew sort of lounged vertically, looking cool as I lost my shit over the farmer’s market.

“Now let’s get fruit. That guy has salad greens. Get the salad greens. That girl has avocadoes as big as my head. Get an avocado. That girl has Satsuma oranges. Get six.”

Running, dashing, sprinting blindly all over the market. I saw nothing. All was a blur to me as I zeroed in on that one thing I thought I wanted. I took no joy from the trip. Greening my office became some sort of psycho spiral that had me swirling in the pony tail plant and pinched by the cactus.

At last. Lamp in place, green plants in pots, and … the worry’s not gone! Now my office seems to be slowly killing the cactus, which I didn’t think was possible. I always tell people that my office is so uncomfortable it makes me physically ill. Now I have evidence. My office is killing a freaking cactus. The verdict’s out on the pony tail plant, but I’m not persuaded that it’s rockin’ out with me to the beat of my ipod. I think it’s more choking desperately, begging for more spectrum light and water.

Thank you for the “inspiration” New York Times. Greening my office has become a source of serious stress for me. Phase Four: detox brain and strategize extrication of plants—mission aborted.

So fickle

How is it that Resolutions never last? Cease fires. Peace treaties. Border agreements. And, most dreaded of all, New Year’s.

I resolved to lose weight and cut back on caffeine this year. Losing weight is only partly for vanity. My mom was just diagnosed as being on the slippery slope to Type II diabetes, so, I thought, hey, maybe it would be good for me to not even have to go there at all. And the caffeine always seems to make me feel worse in the long run, so why do it for the short-term? Noble, indeed.

Today was the day of the inevitable. My bodily border disputes flared up again, and I ate chocolate covered popcorn, and I’m currently drinking my second cup of coffee. Yeesh.

I know that I am not supposed to look at this as the fatal flaw, but instead see it as a little stumble in my progression, but it’s been like a week since I actually started this whole shenanigans, and already I’m facing road blocks.

Everyone else falling down on their resolutions? I usually don’t make any just so that I can’t fail at anything, but this year it just seemed so necessary and poignant.

OK. Tomorrow is another day, and I’ll get it right.

On a bed of final glory

When I was a little girl, we lived in a huge five bedroom house on an acre of land. Our neighbor had a plantation house and probably an acre and a half, filled with crumbling gazebos and detached garages with ancient cars. I lived in a magic place, where I could run free and imagine anything, like all the pretend horses that lived in the stable I imagined under the pine trees. And I had an obsession with the neighbor’s garden shed, and I was convinced gnomes lived there.

But this is not the story I’m telling.

When I was a little girl, a neighbor’s cat killed birds in our yard. I have vivid memories of running to my daddy and shouting that there was another dead bird in the yard. They looked so horrible and beautiful at the same time. A mangled corpse, but all the feathers spread on the ground, more stunning in death than in life, laying like an exotic fan. I was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed.

My father thought dead birds too grim for a little girl, and I was not allowed to watch him dispose of the body. He would pick up a shovel, serious-faced, and march to the dead bird. “No, you can’t come Christine.” (It was always “Christine” when the moment was serious, though I ardently went by “Chris” as a child.) Daddy earnestly marched the dead bird to the garbage can, conveyed by a shovel and laid to rest on a bed of refuse.

I never went to the garbage can to look, which is weird because it seems like something I would have done. Instead, I looked at the feathers that were left on the ground and thought of the sacrifice the bird made for a last glorious beauty.

(Written in response to this.)

Steam valve

I am like, I mean I'm just so like... Ugh! Could I be more like?