SOMETIMES WHEN THE words are jumbled and stuck and my chest is tight and I’m short of breath, I have to close my laptop and go do something else.
I have some unpleasant neighbors to blame for this — for today’s bout of anxiety, anyway — and as soon as good fortune falls on my shoulders and I’m able to buy some land and build a teeny cabin and relocate, I’ll tackle the gritty details and post them here, because this needs to be discussed and often it’s not.
Adults who bully and cop wives who road rage out your front door — lots to say about that.
But on a very happy note, I’m thrilled to report that the something else I’m going to go do today is chicken peck some Bach on my piano. That’s kind of funny because if you say Bach several times really fast, you sound like a chicken.
And then I’m going to spend the rest of the soggy day digging holes in the wet clay and throwing rocks. I love rain and clouds and would do well in a rainforest — preferably one without chicken buses and armed geurillas and a toothless man with a machete, who quite graciously escorted me and a friend through a swamp and a banana plantation that never seemed to end, totally wrecking any love I had for bananas.
I just mentioned chickens three times and now I’m having a flashback to this essay. Anyway, before I go here’s a quick roundup of odds and ends that hardly deserves to be called an essay.
A FEW NIGHTS ago, my husband found a teeny but vibrant bit of florescent green glowing from the base of a large black oak tree just off the back deck. He ran inside to tell me, and in slippers and not much else (I’ll spare you the details) I followed him to the tree and there she was: a darling pink glowworm, glowing for all she was worth in a pocket of shade under an almost full moon.
Glowworms are one of the sweetest creatures I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I love them so much I’m even writing a tender little story about them called Glow. And if you are a literary agent and want to see more of my book, please do say hello. You can find the first chapter embedded in an essay from two weeks ago.
This precious beetle is very alone in her teeny insect world, a solitary sojourner who faithfully turns on her lantern every night with the hope of being found.
She and I are kind of the same, and whenever I stare at my piano but my feet are leaden and I’m unable to make myself move closer and sit down and play, I think about glowworms and how these beacons of hope hold steadfast in their glow night after night and embrace the vulnerability of doing something they know they must do.
That’s where my Godfather reference and “Go to the mattresses” came from last week.
TWO YEARS AGO, as I was just about to turn into Target’s parking lot so I could stock up on several gallons of vinegar, I looked across the street and saw Walmart, and suddenly my truck jumped three lanes of traffic and pulled into America’s love orgy. It was such an odd thing to have happened because of how much I despise that darn store.
Vinegar and salt is a cheap and very effective poison oak annilator, by the way. Just ignore the folks who think they know best and claim it’ll sterilize the soil and kill everything in a two-mile radius. Here, take a sip of this. It’s called Roundup, the other poison oak killer. The fumes are enough to shrivel up your testicles and make them fall off.
So as it turns out, I had nothing to worry about at DeathMart, because I never made it inside. An old couple from the mountains had set up fencing around a tree in the parking lot for some puppies they were giving away for free. I walked over to pick one up to help socialize it — something I always do for large breed puppies — and kept on holding her. Before I made it back to the truck, her name dropped down out of the sky and Meesha, a Queensland heeler and chocolate lab mix and truly the most delightful doggy I’ve ever known, came home with me.
And today she got new balls, and she’s happy and I’m happy and she’s got a paw on my shoulder right now, begging me to take her outside in the pouring rain — because the other ten times I’ve already played with her hardly put any dirt on them.
I’M HUNGRY, COLD and have to goto the bathroom, and yet I’m frozen to my chair and can’t seem to make myself get up and take care of my business so I can take care of Meesha’s business.
That sounds familiar. Ha, just what I thought. Here you go: You’ll see what I mean when you read “An ode to a commode in the woods.”
And on that rather urgent note, I bid you adieu for now and will see you next Sunday, folks.