I have, thankfully, never flown often enough to consider it a mundane experience. As a result, I love nearly everything about being on a plane. Packing... waiting at the airport... take-offs and landings... Mostly, I love looking out the window. Even when it's too foggy to see past the wing or too dark to see the wing itself, I'm a kid, all giddy with my face constantly pressed close against the pane for the best possible look. Inevitably, excitement will overcome me and I'll turn to my seatmate and say something very six-year-old sounding like HOLY CRAP! HEY, LOOK AT THIS! DON'T YOU WANNA PEEK? And - even when that person is my very own husband - the seatmate will inevitably respond with a slow shake of their head, all the while gazing at me as though I deserve a time out or require medication...
I love baseball. I love nearly everything about the sport.* But - no offense intended - I don't think there's any way you can call MLB players athletes. Sure, they're skilled and talented, but not even close to the same physical caliber as, say, a gymnast or soccer player. The problem with making this point is that it's highly argumentative. Why? Because no one's ever really come up with a plausible way to differentiate an athelete from a sportsplayer. You can't even rely on the freaking Olympics for a definition: those kooks actually think table tennis players are athletes! For years, I've wondered about this... pondered it... endlessly Googled it... had fistfights over it... But I never discovered a suitable interpretation. And then one night, I was jolted awake with the answer: if the pants of your uniform have pockets, you are not an athelete. If you're wearing a belt around those pants, even more so. And if shit is sticking outta those pockets, that's a triple whammy.
Last month while at a doctor's office, I bided my time with a woman's magazine from the waiting room's limited (and elderly) selection of reading material. I usually bring my own book, but had forgotten - and some swine had already circled every stinking item on the Hidden Pictures page of the one and only Highlights magazine. Anyhow, I'm fanning through this pathetic rag, chortling at hideous articles like How To Be Amazing Before Dinner or What Your Cell Phone Color Says to Him or Lose Ten Pounds Eating Deep-Fried Paint, when I come across a piece about women who are having fat from their asses injected into their face. The result, the article claims, is a more healthy and youthful look. I'm sitting there looking at those before-and-after pics, when it suddenly occurs to me that these women literally have butt cheeks. Are you freaking kidding me??
It wasn't meant to be an entire year. Or even a good one. Still the same, it was. The position would be based in upper state New York, which would mean we'd only see each other on weekends... but we'd done this before and knew it would work. So Rick took the job, which began with a few months of training in San Diego. And in short time, two months became four months, then six and - before we even realized - twelve months. These delays were unforeseen, not intended, and - alas - typical of the intricacies of marrying cutting-edge technology with customer expectations. Rick's role in the process fell victim to slipped deadlines, and everyone worked hard to accommodate the situation... us included.
The other day while out for drinks, I was telling my chum Claire about all the fun I had in my recent travels to the Jersey shore. She asked if I took pics, and I pointed to my iPod on the table as I got up to pee. When I returned from the Ladies room, I noticed Claire peeking at my photos with an increasingly alarmed expression on her face. Sooze, she slowly asked as I sat back down... what's with all the pictures of your ears? There must be at least a hundred of them...
I've had several nights in my life (alright, maybe only about three) where I've been jolted from the deepest of sleeps by an idea of such magnitude and brilliance, it's awed me. The solution to a problem, the answer to a nagging question, the marketing idea I'd been seeking, the location of where I left my lucky pen... Whatever it was at that moment, I was tickled enough to toss flowers at myself. Sadly, most of the time I awaken in the middle of night, it's due to either canine gas or a thought of such absurdity, I can only attribute it to bad Polynesian food - which, oddly, may have also caused the canine gas... Anyhow, it's thoughts like these ones that constantly clog my brain and keep me up at night. None are worth my losing any sleep over, but - as is the case with the thoughts listed in Parts One and Two of this article - I do:
For the past few months, I've been on an organization kick. I'm making my way from room to room throughout my house and analyzing the use or necessity of every stinking thing. Throughout the process, I'm following two rules in a take-no-hostages, vigilante fashion - the first of which is that any item not having been used for more than two years is automatically sentenced to death by trash or Salvation Army bin. The second rule: if it's to be spared, it must have an assigned location and be efficiently organized. Oh, there is a third rule: don't buy any bins or containers that are cruelly sold as organizers: they're a waste of money and no more helpful than a shoe box. Unless they're really pretty. And on sale. Or maybe just pretty...
You may not know this about me, but I suffer from pomfretphobia. In layman's terms, I fear monkeys. Although I've had it since childhood, the origin of this phobia eludes me. It may likely be rooted in The Wizard of Oz since, even in my adult years, I need to fast-forward through those flying-monkey scenes. Which means that I also suffer from aeropomfretphobia, or a fear of flying monkeys.
One year to the date, we sit in a restaurant, celebrating. Paying homage to the very day, exactly 365 prior to this one, when her mammogram revealed the cancer in her left breast. I’d brought balloons tonight, bearing messages appropriate to the occasion... CONGRATULATIONS! and WAY TO GO! We catch up over pints of Guinness, although there's not much to catch up on, as we’d been together only a few weeks before.
I have long maintained that the level of my creativity is directly proportional to the number of cocktails I consume. Not that I intentionally drink to think (hey, that saying would make a great bumper sticker...), but my aptitude for solving a problem, my capacity for unleashing a keen idea, my wit in conjuring humorous rhetoric all dramatically increase with each libation I ingest. It's amazing! I used to call this a superpower, but have recently learned that research confirms this as fact for many humans. And you sure can't argue with science (unless, of course, they were drinking while having made this discovery...)