NOT A JERK

I took three of my four environmental science classes to a nearby park today so I could talk about the many pressing issues surrounding urban ecology. Only Kidding! I took them out because it was fucking brilliant outside today and an excellent excuse to not be indoors. My last class saw some interesting wildlife in the shape of a homeless man napping in the cattails and my student T, just wouldn't let it go. He was all, why don't they take a shower this and why don't they quit smoking crack and get a job that until I finally said, "You didn't grow up in the city did you?" Of course the answer was no. He kicked a stone from the path and said, "You probably think I'm some kind of jerk." I replied, "No no! Not at all!" but then in my head I continued, "Just young, ignorant and judgmental."

WRONG SIDE OF THE BED

Some days I wake up and look in the mirror and see a huge, steamy, wren shaped pile of shit instead of the expected flesh and keratin. I cannot explain how or why this change takes place over the course of a single night, but it makes me want to shrink back to bed like some kind swamp beast. That was me Tuesday morning: Swamp Beast. I couldn't seem to get my ugly webbed fins and lumpy scales to fit into my clothes right.

Tuesday afternoon was beautiful, and after work I walked to a local cafe slash wine bar to read The Human Zoo by Desmond Morris. The coffee buzzed pleasantly about my head. After a few hours of reading and scribbling odd notes, I decided to walk to the co-op to buy an apple and soup for dinner. I think at this point I was still kind of hating on myself, but I was also completely distracted by a saucy tart, better known as spring. She was all sunny and breezy and warm. She made the birds cry out in unison, "Mamacita! Ie-ie-ie!" Spanish birds. It's the neighborhood, you know.

Anyways, as I waited in line to pay for my goods (turkey chili, as though you cared) I noticed this woman a couple lanes down. She was probably around my age, wearing a fitted print shirt sans bra. I wasn't staring at her, but I did borrow enough glances to notice the similarities between her physique and mine. She looked strong, only slightly saggy from the elements of work and gravity and it appeared as though she was hiding a tiny bag of Frito-lays just under her belt. It may sound stupid, but I was relieved to see this woman. It was not the way she was shaped, but the way she stood that smoothed the crease in my brow. Her body obviously deviated from the 'American Ideal' but she moved like she didn't give a shit. It inspired me. I thought to myself as I walked home: I can do that. I can do that.

NERVOUS HABITS

I have masking tape on my right hand (index finger and middle finger) and left hand (thumb and index finger). I look like Jeremy Fisher after he wrassled the stickleback. The tape is meant to discourage my busy bully teeth from gnashing my digits to nubs.

HEAD LIKE A GONG

I said the following things in class last week and the words still resonate in my head like a gong.

1. College Ecology
2. Thesis Is

THE CHURCH'S BITCH

I just biked through downtown stopping only for meandering tumbleweeds, agog at the calm void. What could make Super Target close their doors? What could make Crate and Barrel dim their track lighting? What could make The Gap silence their insufferable music? What force could possibly make capitalism bow its mighty head? Certainly not two thousand seven hundred people killed in New York City. Certainly not fifteen hundred Americans killed or the nineteen thousand Iraqis killed in the last two years.

But, a Christian holiday? Sure.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!

Happy two year war! Now why don’t you get off your duff and go buy your mom a barrel of oil already.

But truly. Today reminds me of the one year anniversary. I was not long back in the country when I attended the antiwar rally with my Da and Pit Pat. It was a good turn out for my folk's hometown and the news coverage was decent. Before we marched to the government building in the center of downtown, we were accosted by a rather zealous war supporter who raved and spat and called us names. I think he was trying to say something about our being small minded when he asked if any of us had ever been out of the country. I chimed like a bell, "Oh Yes! Me! Yes I have!" He narrowed his eyes at me and wiped the drool from his chin as it was starting to soak his patriotic American flag Old Navy t-shirt. "I just returned from China a few weeks ago. I was working there because I was laid off from the state university just as this war was getting started. I lost my job and my benefits because the university was getting its state funding cut while the Bush administration was spending billions in Iraq. And you know what I noticed while I was in China? You can't voice dissent there because it's a dictatorship run by the CP. But I can protest here. That's my right as an American. So step outta my way meathead. I've got some catching up to do." That was the jist of it anyway. I don't think I actually called him a meathead. I'm not all that witty.

COLOR ME NERDY

Has it come to this? Has it really come to this? Am I really that kind of person to get excited about four color transparencies depicting the Carbon cycle? Transparencies with great big fat orange arrows?

Oh hell yes.

GREASE BURN

I was carelessly flipping Chinese pancakes this evening when I burned my right hand on a tsunami of bacon grease that was trying to fly from the pan. A rather serious pain ensued. A hot, searing pain that would only find solace in an ice pack and continuous mouthfuls of angle food cake (you know, like a morphine drip). So I gripped one of those mysterious blue gelly bags as I went about my business. I was preparing myself while in the laundry room, that if someone were to pass though and inquire about the ice, I would tell them that I had punched someone and was icing it to keep the swelling down. Unfortunately nobody passed and I was forced to keep my embellishments to myself.

MILK LIP SPEAKS

This morning I asked Crooked to conjugate the verb, meow. This she did so promptly and with poise. What a good kitten.

CHEATER CHEATER PUMPKIN EATER

I found out yesterday that one of my students plagiarized his final paper. I suspected this upon my first reading because very few of my students use words like 'circumspect,' or 'amenable,' or 'their/there,' correctly. I Googled a few sentences and within seconds I was connected to the site from which he conducted his "research." How this moment brings me back. I am remembering my dad whenever he caught Pit Pat and I trying to get away with something. He'd get really close to our faces. So close I could see the gap in his front teeth and he'd say with a sort of maniacal smile on his face, "I'm not as stupid as I look."

TREMORS FROM THE FAULT LINE

I was about to step out of my apartment this morning when my mother called. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have taken a reading of the family seismograph. I should have sensed the hot magma of insecurity bubbling just below a thin crust of tight lipped smiles. You see, RS and I are going to visit my parents next weekend. This may be a bit tricky because A) I am recently divorced and B) my mom is still hung up on my ex husband. That’s my perception in any case.

Calm indoor voices quickly changed in pitch and volume. Our words were heated water molecules screaming as they tried to escape through the small holes in the receiver like steam rushing through the spout of a tea kettle. At one point my mom was saying in her best abandon child voice how she was going to have to deal with her problems all by her poor, lonesome self. “Tough shit.” My cold response chilled even me. “Because that is exactly what I had to endure this past year as I was going through separation and divorce by myself with no support from you and dad.” She told me she lives in the past, like it’s an element of her personality that she can’t help. I told her that if she continues to live in the past, she is going to miss out on what is going on right now. When the decibels died down I told her how much I love and admire her and the reason that we confront and challenge one another is because we care for each other. We want to work things out. Human relationships are some of the most complex, difficult things we are going to have face on this planet. If you just stop communicating with someone you are just giving up. And that’s truly sad. (Hello, I'm Jerry Springer, and this is my closing thought.)

After I hung up the phone, I wiped the salt crystals from my cheeks and recited the family mantra: fucking shit, cock sucking mother fucking bullshit! Then I biked to the Y and had a manic swim because nothing fuels exercise like a pocketful of white hot anger.

MONEY AND THE SQUIRREL THAT CACHED IT

Okay. So I have money issues. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I have trust issues. My life experiences so far have taught me that the universe is a spinning roulette table and the world, a blue green marble skipping capriciously as a stone on water. As a result, I have learned to save for not only for a rainy day, but for a rainy decade. I have been saving money for the past five years. And since I lead such a boring -errrp I mean, modest lifestyle, I have this pretty little speckled nest egg in the bank. I suppose I could just scramble the motherfucker, but instead I am saving it for graduate school and a cozy red weathered wooded house on the beach. In any case, it’s in the bank and I shouldn't worry about it. I shouldn’t even think about it. But I do. Especially when it’s taken from me.

Don’t misunderstand what I'm saying. I am not a stingy person. I totally enjoy buying the finest for those I love and I always tip twenty percent. I guess it’s a perceived value thing. For example, I am willing to shell two hundred dollars for a small set of fancy pants designer knives that will probably outlive me but when a menu prices a plate of vegetarian Pad Thai at fifteen dollars, I can’t help kick up a fuss. I mean, the ambiance is nice. I like the carved wooden elephants especially. But eggs and bean sprouts do not cost fifteen friggin dollars.

Listen to me! I sound like a crotchety old penny pincher! Get any closer Bub, and I’ll pinch you too.

BIDING TIME

This afternoon I made an audio recording of me eating a small bowl of Rice Krispies cereal. It sounds more like sizzle than snap, crackle or pop. See what happens when I’m given free time? See how I spend it? Oh lordy, I need to get one of those fancy boom mikes that look like someone glued a chinchilla to a stick.

MUST BAD BEHAVIOR BE JUSTIFIED?

I find I am slowly easing myself into spring break, the same way one might ease oneself into an extremely hot tub of bathwater. Today I slept in until eight o'clock! Then I just sort of thrashed around in bed for about half an hour before I got up and made coffee. Then I returned to bed and knitted 24 rows of a sock heal while talking with my mother on the telephone. She was telling me about "ear dropping" on someone. I think she meant eaves dropping, but I didn't correct her because I selfishly enjoy her English-as-a-second-language poetry. Then I read a chapter from John Steinbeck's East of Eden. This inspired me to write. Which is what I'm doing now.

I don't want to be one of those people who writes about their cat, but Crooked* is doing some unspeakably cute shit. She's sleeping on her side with her paws over her eyes and her little pink tongue is sticking out of her mouth like a tiny bubble tape dispenser.

*Her name has been changed to protect her true identity.

MY BABY LEFT ON A JET PLANE

Today I saw RS to the airport. He’s going to Texas for two days with a dance troupe he’s involved in. We rode the train together and talked and laughed and kissed like a pair of high school kids. Alone on the way home, I saw a sign in a window that read: Stress Reduction, Help Wanted.

Don’t that just say it all, though?

STITCH N' BITCH

Please allow me a moment of pettiness but I started knitting long before it became trendy, long before hipster girls in clunky glasses gathered at local coffee shops with their yarn and angst in political pin covered tote bags. I learned from my mom when I was just a little chicken, but started doing it on my own during college. I was far too anxious. I needed something to meditate around and nothing beats the soft rhythmic clicking of needles. I have knitted various hats, mittens and wrist cozies. I even made a pair of leg warmers when I was in China. Yeah, I know but fashion on the mainland is about twenty years behind, so it seemed appropriate at the time. Anyway, I have been working on a pair of socks for the past two years. It’s fucking ridiculous, that. But I’m going to finish them. In fact, I vow to finish them over spring break. Or at least, I’ll finish one. He he, let's not get all crazy.

TOUGH LOVE?

RS is half way through his first of four semesters in a wood working program at the community and technical college downtown. It's all very exciting and new for him and I'm rather impressed by his self motivation (he's often drafting projects and studying from his textbook) and ambition (his first project had an elaborate pattern of wood inlays). Unfortunately, he's experienced some serious clashes with his two "instructors" and their respective "style" of "teaching." I don't want to get into all the messy details because it is rather complex and I'm not even sure I understand it all completely. But I know it's big, because more often than not he comes home with a look of defeat burned into his face.

At first I'd just sit and listen to him, knitting my eyebrows together in sympathy. Sometimes I would offer up suggestions or make a few remarks, but now I find myself challenging him more and more. "Like, okay, your situation is like this, but now what can you do to make it better? What action can you take to improve things? Other people will be condescending or lazy, but that's their problem. Only you can be responsible for yourself." And that's when I usually stop, totally creeped out because I sound just like my dad. Is this what tough love is? Because without the love part, I just sound like an insensitive asshole.

I don't know what to do. And I'm having these curious sensations just under my sternum. Like my heart is trying to make a run for it. Flee from the cage of my ribs. Run away! Run away!

THINK OF ME

I just farted and it sort of smells like potato chips. The next time you rip into a bag of ruffles, think of me.

LESSONS IN TRAFFIC

Last week a police woman in a squad car stopped RS and I as we biked to the whole foods co-op for groceries. She got out of her vehicle and scolded us for running a red light. She said it's illegal even on bicycles, and subject to fines. She squared her shoulders and adjusted the heavy utility belt laced through ill fitted uniform pants and informed us that she was going to show clemency this time. I pretended to be surprised and sorry because I was hungry and wanted to get to the store so we could buy things for dinner already. However, thinking back, I wish I had taken the chance to chat with her. I mean, if I have to mind every sign and streetlight that an automobile does, than I should get to enjoy all the benefits too, right? I should get to run the yellow lights and make rolling stops and be an aggressive righteous asshole, right? So now I ride in the middle of the street. And hold up traffic, just like a car would when I make left hand turns. It's great.

I feel as though I learned a great many things from this experience. For example, the next time you run a red light, do a quick scan for the po-po first.

FANTASY FOR FREE

Sometimes when I look at RS, I feel like he and I are the subjects of a glossy magazine ad. You know the ones, flawlessly lit and so surreal. The ones that reach out from the magazine and grab you firmly by the shirt collar and pull you close and whisper loudly “Look here. Your life could be so perfect. This could be you in your bed and your designer sheets and your dog and your coffee and your Sunday paper and your sexy lounging spouse. All you need to make this fantasy complete are a set of penthouse suite deluxe bath towels!”

Only, in real life we don't have the bath towels. Or the designer sheets or the dog or even the paper. We do have a bed, though. And the light is perfect. And RS is soooooo saucy.

GOOD ENOUGH

Today, one of my colleagues asked me if I would be interested in co-authoring a research article about misconceptions in ozone shield thinning and greenhouse gas emission at our school. We discussed it for about twenty minutes, and as I stood and conversed with this person, half of my brain was all over a question like a hamster on wheat. It said: “Wren, however did you manage to fool this poor person into thinking you are smart enough and capable enough to be considered for such a project?”

I SMELL LIKE CHLORINE

Sometimes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, if I don't have any serious pressing work, I will sneak out of school for an hour and go swimming at the YWCA. Oh how I love the Y, all those pretty gay boys in their tight shorts toting yoga mats. And you gotta love the plump little Russian ladies with their red lipstick and their old world perfume. Before getting in the water last Tuesday, I noticed a chart on the wall that said 32 laps = 1 mile. This was a pleasant surprise because up until that point, I thought 36 laps made a mile. I was wondering why I couldn't get my mile under 35 minutes. Now I know.

MOBILE PHONE

Ever since cellular phones hit the masses, I have taken it upon myself to conduct an informal mental inventory of unusual places I have heard them ring and/or answered. My two favorites so far are as follows: A) live, on National Public Radio and B) in a women's bathroom stall at work.

A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME

I spoke with my ma on the phone last night. She had a conversation with my ex husband over the weekend where she picked up two interesting morsels of information and fed them to me. And I ate them up like a baby bird. One, he has been dating. This makes me happy-sad. Like 87% happy and 13% sad. Two, the youngest of his two younger sisters recently separated from her husband and is headed for divorce. The older younger sister completed her divorce a few years ago. That means they're three for three. Three children married and divorced all in the span of ten years. I think about his parents, fundamental Lutherans who conceived their first child on a pile of coats at a college party after knowing each other for about three months. They were married before she started to show. I saw the pictures. My mind has been working on the implications of this like a dog on a chew toy all night long. Families are such curious things.