A Trip to the Grocery Store

The other night I was in the grocery store and I spotted a large yellow banner hanging over the fish department. In capital black letters were the words "SALMON SALE." "SALMON SALE?!" I thought, having no real interest in salmon but being caught up in the boldness of the sign and the urgency implied by the capital letters.

Turns out I didn't just think it. I must have said it out loud. And not with my "inside voice." Those nearby pivoted to face me as if I had just yelled, "Hey you! Over here!" A slight feeling of embarrassment caused me to shrug my shoulders and point to the sign. "Salmon," I half-whispered. "It's for sale." Awkward silence. "Right over there."

As I slinked my way along the row of wrapped meaty parts, it occurred to me that the non-stop chatter I hear in my head while at the grocery store may actually be coming out. You know. Into the ears of other shoppers. About 50 years too soon, I have become the crazy lady who talks to herself from the store entrance to the checkout lane. How could I not have realized this before?

I decided to not let my thoughts know I was onto them, but rather just listen to them the next time I went shopping at my local grocery store. I'd just kind of go about my shopping business and hear what, if anything, comes out. Maybe the salmon sign produced a surge of excitement that my normal thoughts don't do. Maybe most of the thoughts stay in. Maybe I'm a thought whisperer.

I've observed other teachers and students and know how to record just the facts. I'd probably be a pretty good police officer. Just during the "just the facts, ma'am" parts of their police officeriness. The other parts I'd suck pretty bad at, but I can take down some facts. Below are the facts as I observed them:

Wheels cart towards the produce section. Stops in front of bananas. 

"Okay.....nanners. I need some nanners. Hi, little nanner bunch. Want to go home with me? Of course you do."

Puts bunch of bananas into cart. 

 Wheels over one aisle to the croutons.

"Croutons. Croutons. Croutons. I see you whole grain croutons!" 

Wheels back towards the wall of produce.

"Yellow peeeeeper. Peeeeper. You a squooshy peeeeeeper. No, no, no. Here's one. Oh, aren't you a pretty little peeper? I cut you up, you little peeeeeper. I cut you up and put you in a- oh, look! Beets. I like it, the beets. Why you all tied together, beets? I will eat one of you and set two free."

Seems to forget about yellow peppers altogether and plops a bundle of beets into the cart. Rolls cart over to the apples.

"Foooooo-geeee. I'm gonna eat you up, fuji apples." 

Picks up an apple and squeezes it.

"Girl! You all mushy and shit! You nasty! You know you are. Don't act like you ain't."

Puts apple down. Picks up another.

"That's better. I'll take you! And you! And you!"

Puts three apples in a plastic bag, ties it up, and places in the cart. Wheels cart past the salad bar, through the liquor aisle. Thinks about the time she drank some Malibu Rum with a friend in high school and afterwards thought it might be a good idea to remove the friend's father's antique sword from the wall and run around the house with it. Remembers getting busted. Feels like her choice of not drinking is a good one. Heads past the magazines, and takes a right at the soup aisle.

"Soup. Soup-PAH. Soupy-soup-soup. Where are you zesty chicken? CHEEEEE-kin. Cheeky-cheeky-cheekin. Cheeeeekin soup-PAH. Oh, you funny soup. I see you behind your buddy. Move over buddy, I'm comin' for the cheeckin." 

Does a u-turn in the aisle. Nearly runs into another shopper. Stands on the back of her cart for the final roll

"Wheeeeeeee!"

and makes it to the cereal aisle.

"Gruh-NOLA! I'm gonna get me some gruh-NOLA! Granola in the brown package. Coooome to me! Ah! I see you! You can't hide from me! Get on over here, you little sucker."

 Puts granola in the cart. Wheels down the aisle and turns left towards the dairy section.

"Small package of eggies. A lil' bitty package. Naw, naw, naw. Don't need that big ol' package of eggs. Who eats those many eggs, anyway? Where aaaaare you, little eggs? No little eggs? Okay. No eggs for me!"

Smiles at a woman who was inspecting a carton of eggs.  Heads over to the yogurt.

"I like it the vah-NEELA. Two-a-those, please. One! Two! Okay...next. Let's see. Dog treats. Dog treats. Dog treats. Par-DONE!"

Says, "pardon" to a woman in the yogurt aisle. Zips right over to the pet aisle.

"Someone's in the kitchen with dooooog treats. Someone's in the kitchen I knoooooooow. Someone's in the kitchen with- what the hell are these? Lil' bacon bits? Uhn. Those look nasty. Narsty. Narsty bits. No narsty bits for my dog!"

Picks up a box of dog treats and plops it into the cart. Continues down the aisle. Passes light bulbs and display of pink breast cancer awareness merchandise. 

"Light bulbs? No, don't need 'em. Buh-REST cancer pinky stuff. I see y'alls display of Buh-REST cancer stuff. No need. No needy. Sorry, cancer peeps. No needy the bag or the water bottle. Oh! Look at those fuzzy pink socks, though. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to....WEAR 'EM! But I don't need them. No need."

 Turns left and left again to the snack aisle.

"Get me some almonds. Comin' for you, almonds. There you are! And-uh-one. I gots ya, almonds. I gots your almond backs. Your little almond backs."

Makes a u-turn and left again in the frozen foods aisle.

"Okay....veggies for the stir fry. Gon' stir it up. Steer it up! Little darlin', steer it up! Schteer. Shhhhteer. Shtir-fry. I said shtir fry. I like me the water chestnuts, oh yes, I do. I'm gonna crunch you up, little crunchy watery disks of goodness. Come to me!"

Catches the glance of a fellow shopper who appears to be staring at her in an odd way.

"Got some veggies," she announces to the shopper. "For some stir fry." 
The shopper nods her head slowly and back her cart up a few inches.
"Stir fry and veggies," she continues. "Veg-uh-tuh-buhls."

Another u-turn and she's headed towards the check-out, past the magazines and candy.
"Okay. To the check out. Hello, Demi Moore! I see you. I see you, gum. Don't need it.  Don't need your gum. Don't need your fuzzy socks. Gummy socks. Socksy gum. Gummy-"

She's interrupted by the cashier who says, "Hello, ma'am, and how are you today?"

"Pretty good," she replies, piling her items on the conveyer belt. She refrains from saying "Pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE good," ala Curb Your Enthusiasm, because, let's face it. That would be weird and she wouldn't want the cashier to look at her in a funny way.  That would be embarrassing.

It's Gettin' Hot in Herrrrr

NOTE: After an iliotibial band injury caused me to give up running for a bit, I agreed to try out "bikram yoga," a form of intense yoga that takes place in a room heated to 105 degrees. The class is 90 minutes long and runs through 26 different postures. I am assured that you need not be skilled at yoga to try this. Below are a few initial thoughts after this morning's class. 

*****************************************************

"I haven't been this scantily clad in public since the 1980s."

I know you're supposed to wear, like, next to nothing when doing this type of yoga, but it's just weird to be wearing that little around strangers. I mean, I'm more covered up when a stranger is looking at my hoo-ha, what with that paper dress and all. This morning, as I put on my black I'm-a-boy-swimmer-in-the-1940s shorts and my bright green you-know-as-well-as-I-do-that-this-really-is-just-a-training-bra looking top, I had a moment of doubt.

A few actually, but the one I could identify was this: Remember when it was "Wacky Wednesday" or something of the sort when you were in middle school? And you'd get all dressed up in wacky clothing? And then, as you walked out the door toward the bus with your dad's shirt on backwards and your mom's pantyhose dangling from your head, you'd have this sudden panic, like- "Oh, no. What if I got the date wrong? What if there's not even a Wacky Wednesday and I made the whole thing up in my head?" A million what-ifs that all end in you showing up at school looking like the jackass you've suspected you are all along.

That's how I felt, standing in my kitchen in my boy trunks and training bra and knowing soon I'd be in a room full of strangers in the very same outfit. But I threw on some sweats and headed out the door just the same. It can't be any weirder than a bike meet with all of those clippity-cloppy shoes and spandex shorts and helmets that look like penises. Right?

"Oh, man! I forgot my yoga mat at home! I'm going back for it."

Now, here's the truth. I never imagined I'd ever be one to own a yoga mat. I mean, I'm just not yoga-y. At all. For one, I have hamstrings the size of a toddler in legs the size of a grown woman. This is to say when I bend over, I consider it a great stretch if my palms reach my knees. So, the only thing a yoga mat would do is sit under my bed and mock me each night as I went to sleep.

The one and only time I did yoga was with my beautiful friend Maud. She's yoga-y. And she had her own mat. And while I unrolled my loaner mat and attempted a downward dog to mask the fact that I was sniffing it for foreign and unpleasant odors, Maud rolled her mat out and confidently got right on it. Because it only had a Maud smell. Which she, on some level, identified as her own and kept her from recoiling and choking the vomit back each time a position brought her nostrils to the mat's surface.

I bought my own mat.

Which I left at home, unrolled across my kitchen counter to get rid of the overwhelming scent of paint fumes that I discovered after pulling it out of the package.

"Don't be a mat-snob," I thought to myself as I pulled into my parking space at the yoga studio. "Just rent one. It's, like, $2. Big deal." The $2 wasn't the big deal. It was the fact that I suddenly imagined Ron Jeremy and his hairy, sweaty butt dripping Ron Jeremy sweat all over a mat and then hanging it up for the next person to use. And that next person being me.

I threw my car into reverse and went to retrieve my mat much in the way Nicholas Cage's character went back for the diapers in "Raising Arizona." It was epic.

"Hey. It's not so bad in here. In fact, it kind of feels good."

I made it back in time for the 10:00 a.m. class. I registered, tossed my things in a little cubby, shed my sweats and walked into the studio like it was perfectly normal for me to be walking around in my skivvies with other adults who were also walking around in their skivvies.

The studio itself is a rectangular carpeted room, large mirrors running the length of the long wall in front, and a little mini-raised stage for the instructor. Already there were a good 25 people laying with their backs on their mats, staring at the ceiling. Talking's a no-no in the studio, so it was completely silent. Had there been an ocean nearby and a bright sun overhead, I would have just taken the mat-layers for a group of anti-social tanners, but as it were, they were just adults laying in a room together in their skivvies. I unrolled my mat and joined them.

The heat was...nice, actually. "I'm not sure what everybody's talking about," I thought. "This isn't bad at all. It's like a nice summer day. My friends must be heat-sissies."

10 minutes later:
"Okay. I guess it is a bit warm. But this is totally do-able. No problem."

15 minutes into class:
"Um. Okay. Wait a second, here. This doesn't seem right. Did somebody turn up the heat?"

30 minutes into class:
"I can't...think...straight...mouth dry...fire in lungs...eyes burning...me die now..."

At this point I am totally drenched. Sweat rolling into my eyes. Sweat dripping on the towel under my feet, which is now completely soaked in sweat. Salty sweat rolling down my arms as they're pointed toward the ceiling and sweat making its way into my mouth each time I turn my head. I can't believe my body had this much water to lose. "Well, just get a drink of water, dummy," you might be saying to me through the computer screen.

I would. But we were instructed to only drink water when the instructor says, "Party Time!" which was once. Other than that, we could take a sip in between poses, which amounted to about a millisecond of time. I'd reach for the bottle and..."LIFT YOUR ARMS ABOVE YOUR HEAD AND LOCK YOUR FINGERS..." Dang it. Missed my chance. Next break in directions and I'd reach for the bottle again. "GRIP YOUR ANKLES AND LOCK YOUR KNEES..." My fingers would just touch my pink Camelback water bottle (now filled with warm water) and I'd be directed back into a pose. If I were a yogi, I'd invent the "water pose" which would just look like holding a bottle of water and drinking from it. But, as it were, there was water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.

"You want me to put my what? Where?"

I think it is interesting, if not a little impressive, that some people can contort themselves into a shape not unlike a bowl of wet noodles. I really do. And if you can bend over backwards and then grab your ankles and, oh, I don't know, walk up the side of the wall with your super-yoga strength, I will think that's pretty neat.

I'm just not made like that.

So when the yoga lady said, "Get into tree position," and then folded her leg over the front of herself and grabbed onto her ankle, I thought two things: (1) I've never seen a fucking tree hold onto its foot like that, and (2) There's no way in God's green earth I can get my body to do that.

But I'm determined. And I don't want to be the only tree in the room not holding its foot, so I give it a go.

Grabbing hold of my super-sweaty limbs proved as easy as trying to catch a hyper-active baby that you just lathered in vegetable oil. I might get a toe or part of a heel, but I couldn't get a good grip on any part of my body. Everything was slipping and sliding and begging for mercy. "Well, why didn't you just wipe the sweat off of yourself, dummy?" you might ask.

Good question. But we were told not to do that. You see, the sweat, which at this point is making everyone look like dejected losers in a hillbilly wet t-shirt contest, is supposed to cool us off. No wiping the sweat off. I cheat and use my fingers like a squeegee a couple of times. Other than that, I grab at my toes and ankles and heels the best I can, as instructed. When I finally get a hold of, say, my toe, it's all I can do not to yell, "I GOT IT!" And then like the pop sound in the Chordette's song "Lollipop," my toe slides from my grip once again.


"Savasana= sanskrit for "Haha! Just kidding suckas! You don't get to rest!"

So, picture this: You've been forcing your body to stand in the most unnatural of poses in stifling heat. It's like you went into your granny's attic in the summer- your granny who has no air conditioning- and then stayed up there for over an hour trying to dislodge your arms and legs by wrapping them around your body. No. Let's say someone was forcing you to do this. Like you're in prison or something. A yoga prison.

Then, just when you think you're actually going to die, the prison guard says, "Oh, just kidding. You can lay down and rest." This is called "savasana," you're told. The resting pose. 

It takes about 3 seconds for you to lay down and about 5 seconds later you're snapped out of it with instructions to do a quick sit up and immediately get into another pose. I guess we could all mutiny. We could just lay there and refuse to get up, like when your mom would tell you to go up for a nap and then you'd fall to the floor and weave your arms through the dining room chair and then she'd drag you up the stairs with your arms still woven through that chair and it would thump thump thump all the way up the stairs but, by golly, you were not going to give up.

You could do that.


But you don't. And neither does anyone else. We're all slaves. Slaves to the yoga. And these little "savasana" periods only show us what resting people do. We are not resting people.


"My last thoughts before I (almost) died."

About two-thirds of the way through, I thought about dying. I mean to say if I could have chosen to do it right then and there, I might have. A quick look around the room told me I wasn't alone. Several people were down for the count, sprawled across their mats like bodies on a Civil War field. Chests rising and falling in rapid succession and looks of defeat on their faces. 

We were told we could sit out a pose if we absolutely needed to. Many people absolutely needed to. And I wasn't far behind them. 

But, hell. I ran a half-marathon two weeks ago and found it a delightful experience. "If you can run a half-marathon," my friends assured me, "you can definitely do bikram yoga." Really? Because the half-marathon was no test of endurance like this 90 minutes was. I've had kidney stones. Twice. I tried to think about that as I was in my final leg-wobbling, sweat-producing, dignity-stealing poses. This can't be as bad as kidney stones, can it? It was. I've never had a baby, but I imagined giving babies might be more unpleasant and a greater test of endurance. I began to imagine I was giving birth. To a little sweat baby. That seemed to help.

When finally the last pose ended and we were told to get into the non-restful resting pose for the last time, I crossed my arms over my chest and felt my heart pounding in its cage. I swear I could hear my heated blood swooshing through my veins. Every part of me was covered in sweat and had the world tilted slightly, I imagined I could just slide my way down Clayton Road to my home, without any trouble. My lungs took in the hot air in shallow breaths, not unlike what it feels like to wake up in the middle of the night to find you've accidentally wrapped your head in all of your blankets and have been gasping for air for God knows how long. Others began stepping over me and making their way out of the room. I could feel the cool air rush in and slap the bottoms of my exposed feet each time the studio door opened.

"I did it," I thought. "I did it."

I'll be back.

How to Dance at 6 a.m.

It's best to wake up with a crabby attitude. Trust me. It will make the transformation even more amazing.

Upon getting out of bed, stub your toe on your bed frame, if you can. Utter something like, "Fucking bed frame!" and as you bend down to inspect the damage to your foot, look up to the ceiling and wonder what God has against you. A little victimization will go a long way in preparing for your 6 a.m. dance session.

Take your dog outside to pee and unleash your short temper when your dog gets too sidetracked by a squirrel. "Oh, for chrissake! Just pee, already! Fucking squirrel!" Look over at your neighbor's house and judge them a bit. For anything. It doesn't really matter what. "Seriously. How the fuck can you stand to have curtains like that in your windows?" Use the word "fuck" a lot. And feel superior. Feel superior for using the word "fuck" three times before 5:40 a.m. Briefly look up at the sky and feel God judging you for your bad language. "What? What?! Well, if you didn't want me using foul language, you should have made me a bird. Or a fish. Or something." Consider for a short moment that God may have heard you and is currently planning on sending you back as a bird or a fish. Become angry about that. Feel a little picked on by God. "Stupid fucking fish."

Take your dog back inside and feed it. You may want to say something like, "I don't know how you eat this shit every morning" as you deposit a scoop of dog food into your dog's dish. Remember for a split second how you, too, ate dog food once when you were about nine. You ate a lot of it. Pick up one of the pieces of dog food and sniff it. Scowl and drop it back into the dish with a clink!

5:46 a.m. Hop in the shower. While in there, read the text on your shampoo bottle: "Hello Hydration," "I'll have a moisture-tini," "Drinks on me!" Become irritated that your shampoo is trying to get you drunk. Feel superior to the shampoo because you no longer drink and it's too dumb to realize that. "Stupid fucking shampoo." Briefly picture the advertisers for this company in a board room, high-fiving each other for their clever use of words. Curl your lip in disgust. Accidentally get the taste of shampoo in your mouth.  Spit it out while shouting "Are you fucking kidding me?!" only it will sound more like, "Ah you fuhk-uh kihh me?!"

Drop the soap on the same toe you stubbed and gauge it with your toenail. Pick it up only to find hair wrapped around it. "Oh, that is just fucking gross." Look up at the ceiling and picture God laughing at you. With a group of famous dead people who are also laughing at you. "I'm in the shower, for chrissake! A little privacy, PLEASE?!"

Nick yourself with your razor a few times. On the ankles, if you can.

5:52. Dry off. Battle with your contact lenses and they flip inside out and leap from your fingers onto the sink. Brush your teeth with such a frenzy that you accidentally jab yourself in the gum with the end of your toothbrush. Entertain your resentment about having to brush your teeth each and every morning. "Being a human is stupid. Stupid fucking teeth." Dress yourself if you're up to it.

Grab your hairbrush and head into the kitchen where your portable cd player sits on your kitchen counter. Hair dripping wet and face like a pasty zombie, hit play.*

*Note: While there are many appropriate song choices, the following have been proven to work for the purpose of this how-to:

-You Should Be Dancing (Bee Gees)
-I Wish (Stevie Wonder)
-That's Not My Name (Ting-Tings)
-Everybody (Rock Your Body)- (Backstreet Boys)
-Root Down (Beastie Boys)
-Girls and Boys (Blur)
-Harder Better Faster Stronger (Daft Punk)
-Rio (Duran Duran)
-Shining Star (Earth Wind & Fire)
-Breakout (Foo Fighters)
-Been Caught Stealing (Jane's Addiction)

For the purpose of a shared experience, let's use the Stevie Wonder tune.
I'd suggest pausing here to open a new window on your computer. Search the song. Begin to play it. Continue reading.

Okay. Back in the kitchen. Still crabby.
Silence.
Hit play.
Click.
Quick bass-like notes introduce the beat: bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum.
Stand still, but let your eyebrows bob up and down to this part. For the first 16 notes.

Unmistakably, feel the energy of the bobbing eyebrows travel down your cheeks, around your neck to the top of your spine, down the spine to your now wiggling backside. The music has reached your backside. At the same time your shoulders begin a back and forth counter-movement to your hips and your toes, even the very one that was stubbed, begin their own little individual dance moves.

All of this happens very quickly.

By the time Stevie Wonder starts to sing, your hairbrush is raised to your mouth. You've dramatically looked this way and that. Your number is about to begin You're ready.

"Lookin' back on when I- was a little nappy headed boy!"
You fling your wet hair back and forth.
"And my only worry- was for Christmas what would be my toy!"
This, you direct to the refrigerator.
"Even though we sometimes- would not get a thaaaang,"
Your toaster is pointed at.
"We were happy with the- joy the day with bring!"
Your hands (and hairbrush) are raised to the ceiling.

The next verse has you really cutting loose. Perhaps you circle through the house, the building joy too much to contain to one single room. See your dog curled up on the couch. Sing a line or two to him:

"Tryin' your best to bring the- water to your eyes. Thinking it might stop her- from whoopin' your behind!"
Playfully pat your dog's butt. Kiss him on the head. Oh, you love this dog!

By the time the chorus comes, feel free to hop onto the couch. You may find that with the continued hopping, it's hard to catch your breath and sing at the same time, but it's totally worth it. Sing. Sing at loudly as you can:

"I WISH THOSE DAYS" (hip shake/head turn) "COULD" (hip shake/head turn) "COME BACK ONCE MORE! WHY DID THOSE DAYS" (hip shake/head turn) "EH-" (hip shake/head turn) "-VER HAVE TO GO?"

Continue in this manner, picking up your dog at one point and bounce-dancing him around the house. If you'd rather continue jumping on the couch for the entire song because it feels good and it's making your stomach feel fluttery, do that. If you feel compelled to try out some robot moves or even drop to the floor to see about spinning on your back, well, you can do this, too. Maybe you'll want to experiment with different frozen facial expressions every 4 beats of the song. This you may do while stopping in front of the mirror in your front room. This will make you love having a face that moves and you will be happy for your face.

Look up to the ceiling and manage to think "Thank you God for my movable face!" while continuing to sing the lyrics. "Thank you, Stevie Wonder, for this awesome song!" Continue dancing. "Wheeee! I have my own house to sing and dance in at 6 in the morning! Thank you, Universe!" Dance and sing. Sing and dance. Feel the sting of your earlier razor blade nicks and look down at your ankles. "Wheeee! My ankles are making me dance! Dance ankles! Dance!" Thank God for giving you ankles. Ankles are cute. You never noticed that before.

This song has a fade-out, as opposed to an abrupt ending, so you will most likely find yourself giggling and dancing and spinning and out of breath before you notice the song is over.

Look up to the ceiling, and past it. Up and up and up, where you picture God looking down on you. Smiling. Laughing. High-fiving a group of famous dead people. And non-famous ones that you once knew and loved. "Hey, everybody!" The next song starts. "Welcome to my 6 a.m. dance party!" The beat begins and off you go again.  

It's going to be a great day.

Chances Are Good

 I used to like baseball.

Back when Ozzie did back flips. And Keith Hernandez was dreamy. And large red "#1" foam hands were fun to slip over my own tiny hands and wave around. And Fredbird was hilarious.

Now, no one does flips. And if they did, I'd be that person twisting the bottom of my t-shirt and scrunching my face in worry, pleading for him to stop "before you really hurt yourself!"

And I google-imaged Keith Hernandez recently. What I crush I had on him! Let's just type this name in and.....WHAT? Oh, no! That can't be right! This guy is sporting a 1970s pornstar mustache. That's him? Really. Um. Ew.

And those foam hands make my own hands sweat. And they're itchy. And there's nowhere to put them when you get home.

And Fredbird pisses me off. Not as much as Matthew McConaughey. But pretty close.

 So, sitting through nine or more innings of a baseball game has become a challenge.

Around the second inning or so, the game loses my attention. I've eaten my hot dog and am now waiting, on cue, to do my little human tricks, like clapping along with the Anheuser-Busch Clydesdale song. For a minute, I'm reanimated, clapping with glee. "Look! Look what I can do! Oh, indeed! You are clapping, too, fellow monkeys!" We are trained well. We are proud of ourselves. Spit glistens from the corners of our mouth, so wide are our smiles.

Once the song is over, however, I'm back to using my binoculars to spot odd hairdos. Then, even that loses its charm after awhile. Here's where I start thinking of the odds.

First, thoughts like, "I wonder how many people have upset stomachs right now. You know. Like, they'll have to leave their seats to rush to the bathroom." Things like this. And it usually starts with something diarrhea-related. Or "I wonder how many people were late to the game because of diarrhea."

From there, it takes off.  With a seating capacity of over 46,000 the odds seem pretty good.

Somebody in this crowd has a venereal disease and doesn't know it yet. 

Someone cut their legs shaving while getting ready for the game.

Someone is keeping a secret from the person they're with.

Somebody once ate dog food from a bag on their neighbor's porch, and liked it. And they ate more of it. And a little more. And then they went home and said to their mom, "Mom? What would happen if someone ate dog food?" And their mom said, "Well, I guess they'd feel a little sick." And then they assessed how they felt, which was not sick at all, but they figured they should feel sick because their mom said so, so they wailed, "I FEEL SIIIIIICK!"

I know that one's true. Because that was me. But probably other people in the stadium ate dog food, too.

It's not that I'm comforted by these thoughts. It's more of a "I know something you don't know" although I don't know who the "you" is, so really it's "I know something one of you, and I don't know who, don't know, so this really does neither of us any good, but man, people are fun to think about."

The larger the crowd, the more satisfying the thoughts are. Lessen the numbers, lessen the odds. On an elevator of 6 people, it's possible someone didn't fart at work that day and hope no one attributed the foul odor to him/her. Take 46,000 people, and the chances are pretty darned good that this did, indeed, happen to at least one of them.

At least one person is missing one of their toenails, and there's a good story to go with it.

Someone is getting close to breaking up with the person they're with, but that person doesn't know it yet.

Someone accidentally killed a family pet sometime in their life.

Someone is waiting to get their period.

Someone hit something with their car this year.

Someone will come home to some very bad news. Someone will come home to some fantastic news.

Someone won't go home.

I don't have to match a face with a thought. In fact, it's better if I scan the crowd until everyone is a tiny blurry dot of a whole image. A close up view of a Chuck Close painting. Here, I keep the anonymity of others intact.

I wouldn't want to intrude.

Unwinding the Strings

Your stuff was already gone: the clothes you wore that were in the closet, including the tan linen suit, crisp white shirt, and dark blue tie that you wore on our wedding day; the computer where you filled out your invoices (but not the desk and the chair- those were still here for me); the leather sofa and chair we had moved from the house we owned, to the apartment we didn’t want to move into, to the house we were now renting; the tools that cluttered up our small garage and made it hard for me to park; the silverware (my grandmother has extra); the plates (my sister has a spare set); all of the glasses except for 4 (I don’t need much); your shaving cream and razor (although there were still a few bits of stubble around the edge of the sink); your shampoo; your soap (I always insisted on having separate soap bars); the television we couldn’t afford when we lived in the house we owned; the artwork I was willing to part with; the dining table and chairs that your mother bought for you as a birthday present before we married; the boxy and modern lamp set; tubs of various knick-knacks and belongings that were packed up moves ago and never unpacked.

This was my last night in what was our house.

Standing in the middle of the living room, which would be completely empty except for a stack of framed prints and a single bench, I wondered how we had gotten to this place. It was like moving day in reverse. Everything had an uncomfortable echo to it- the clock ticking in the kitchen (had it always been that loud?), the sound of the air forcing itself through the vents, the rhythmic beating of my heart.

It was late, and I needed to get some sleep. For me, moving day would be in less than 12 hours. For you it had been the day before.

I walked into the bedroom and studied the bare queen-sized mattress (I had agreed to letting you take the bedding) and the small sofa that we had to cut the legs off of to get it to fit through the bedroom doorway. (Where had we put those, anyway?) I dug through one of the three plastic tubs sitting in the middle of the room until I came up with several towels. (That would have to do for now.) I fashioned one into a makeshift pillow and spread the others out for a blanket. (How long had it been since we had both slept in this bed? How long had it been when, so much heat being generated from two bodies, we’d had to pull back the blankets altogether?)

I flipped the overhead light off and flopped down on the bed, reaching for one of the towels as a cover. (This isn’t so bad. It’s kind of like camping, somehow. Only quieter. Much quieter. So quiet that the noise is almost unbearable.)

My mind drifts to you sleeping for the first night in your new apartment. Will you wake up in the middle of the night and, for a moment, think you are back here? Back and back and back before now, the time when we learn to unwind ourselves from ourselves. Undo the knots that years have made. Take turns working on the stubborn parts while the other fills out new address forms at the post office or announces the news to a friend not seen in months or shops for a new spatula.

Here we will begin the process of getting to un-know each other.

Photos in piles: Keep. Keep but look at later. Put in the mail in a padded envelope addressed to an apartment you will call home and I will most likely never see. Throw away.

Photos in frames are switched out.  A tiny you and me on our wedding day for my new dog in the backyard of my new place. Our trip out west for my trip out east.  This frame I'll keep empty.

Back in my bed our bed your old bed, I am watching the blades of the ceiling fan whirl. If I move my eyes quickly to the left and the right, I can- for a brief moment- see each blade clearly. I can even see the lines of dust and the cracks in the paint. I make myself look for longer than I want to.

And my mind goes back and back and back to-freeze- when we were getting to know one another. Banking the memories for the un-knowing. Tying the knots and making patterns of our messiness. To this moment here, when everything I said was funny and everything you did was endearing. And here, when we drank in each other's lives and our bellies felt full and we had visions of being old. At the same time. At the same place.

I unwind slowly at times. Quickly at others. I skip over some of the knots and leave them there. But, here. Here is the thread loose and ready to be wound up with another's. I give it back to you.

With love.

What the poo?

Some people collect salt and pepper shakers. Some like to listen to talk radio in the morning. Some people like the way it feels to close their eyes and rub on their eyelids really hard and then watch the little yellow floaty things go round and round until they disappear.

I like to talk about poop.

I don't know why. It's not like I'm obsessed with actual poo. (Note: I will interchange the words "poop" and "poo" because they are both equally fun to say.) I don't have t-shirts with little cartoon poos on them or cross-stitch "I heart poo" lids on jam jars in my kitchen. I abhor the smell of poo and would rather look at my grandparents making out than actually look at poop. But, hot damn if I don't find myself bringing up poop-related topics. Often. Even when my higher-self tells me it's not such a good idea.

Here's an example. A few years ago, I was on a run around Forest Park. (Insert "oh no! she's not going to...is she?" comments from those familiar with the Forest Park running story.) Okay. So, I was on a run. And runners, you will no doubt have a similar story. If not, keep running. It will happen to you. Here I am, at about mile 5, just a bouncin' and a hoppin' down Skinker Blvd, when a sudden cramping attack led me to replicate Jamie Lee Curtis's frantic front-door-knocking scene from Halloween, only instead of trying to escape a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, I was desperately trying to get to a bathroom.

No luck, and moments later I found myself squatting in broad daylight behind the Missouri History Museum Library and Research Center. A failed attempt at turning nearby crunchy leaves into toilet paper led me to a painful walk of shame for the 1 mile back to my car, swearing I would NEVER tell anyone about this as long as I live.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I had called two different people. They listened in awkward silence, and then encouraged me not to share it anymore. Once was enough. Twice was two times too many.

But, I keep bringing it up. To my mother. At social gatherings. To a friend's wife. To someone who is a runner or used to be a runner or knew a runner once. I can't stop. "This one time, I was running around Forest Park..." Those nearby who know the story get wide-eyed. "Noooooo!" I can almost hear them saying in slow-motion. But by the time the last "oooo" of "noooo!" is out of their mouth, the room is already pin-drop silent and I'm continuing to dip my ridged Ruffle chips into some sour cream n' onion dip and commenting on how good and salty it is.

In college, I developed a nice case of IBS. Irritable bowel syndrome, or "Gee, we're sorry you keep nearly shitting yourself in public and after ruling out Crohns disease, we're not really sure what's going on there, so we'll just tell you that your bowel is irritable." Yeah. That's helpful.

So, about 3 years of always having an exit strategy, always knowing where the bathrooms are, nodding my head during dinner conversation on a nice date but really thinking, "Get to the end of the story, fella. Little lady's about to blow! *(And not in the way you want.), running red lights to fly into a gas station and pray to the good Lord above that no one was in the nasty-ass bathroom stall,- the end result is I became, understandably, a bit poo-preoccupied.

Today if my bowel were cast on the Muppet Show, it would be less Statler and Waldorf, as crabby old balcony dwellers, and more Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, as precise and in charge. But still, my reoccurring question when travelling somewhere new or thinking about nearly any activity is, "What if I have to poop?" Getting onto a bus with 80 middle schoolers? "What if I have to poop?" Doing a back flip off of a boat attached to scuba gear? "What if I have to poop down there?" Getting buckled into a death-defying ride at an amusement park? "What if I'm at the top of the ride and I have to poop?" Lacing my shoes for a long run with a friend? "What if we're 5 miles in and I have to poop?"

It's one thing if I thought these questions to myself. Seems normal. Even appropriate. But I tend to vocalize them to my company. "Well..." they usually say, "then you just...poop." Really? Seriously?

This also happens when I'm watching others. Say I'm at a baseball game. I may, while watching the pitcher, lean over and say, "What if he has to poop when he's out there?" Or while watching a talented Russian pair ice skating on tv, "What if one of them has to poop in the middle of their routine?" Or while watching the president address the union. "What if he has to poop right now? Like, an emergency-poop? What is he going to do?"

"Um. I've never given that much thought," is another response I tend to get. I think this is polite-talk for "Will you PLEASE stop talking about poop?"

And then I try to stop. Really, I do. But the trying seems to bring about even more poop scenarios, and I find these, too, must be said out loud.

It's amazing I still have friends. And I have a lot of them. Really, I do. Real ones who seem to like me a lot, despite my poo talk. Then there are the little related poo things.

I giggle each and every time I hear the name "Pujols."

I like when someone says "do" followed by the word "do," as in, "These seemingly useless contraptions shouldn't be thrown away. They do do something."

I like the way the automated voice on dictionary.com says "poop" with a little exhale of air after the last "p"- "poo-puh."

I think a dog pooping is funny, with its back all hunched over and its eyes darting around in doggy shame, like, "Oh, for pete's sake. Do I really have to do this in front of everyone again?"

The dung beetle fascinates me.

The idea of dingleberries, especially on rodents, is entertaining.

I don't think I'm alone in being entertained by most-things-poo, but, quite honestly, as Groucho Marx and Woody Allen both said, "I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." Poo-talking clubs, that is. Although, I come by it naturally, I guess. Among other things clipped to a wire crossing the length of my grandfather's bathroom was a daily log about, well, his daily logs.

And that's really gross.

I mean, a girl has to have some standards, right?

Um...Can I Ask You Something?

If you've recently had a baby, I'm going to ask you about it.  (Did you poop on the table? I heard you poop on the table.) Vasectomy? I've got questions for you. (So, like-it's a totally different tube than the pee tube, right? But, it's all in the same spot. Right? So do you pee yourself for a little bit during recovery?) Monitor your glucose with one of those blood pricker things? (So, do you ever just poke it in random places to see what it would do? I mean, like not on your finger, but say, your elbow?) Glass eye? (Can you take it out? Can I see it? Can I tap on it with my fork?)

If it's related to the body, and I haven't experienced it, I'm deeply fascinated by it. My exploratory and sometimes socially awkward/seemingly insensitive/crowd-gasping questions are really just an indication of my curiosity. To a gay friend: "So, um, I totally get what goes on with a man and a woman, you know- with sex and all that business, but when you're on a date with a guy, and things seem to be going in that direction, do you just come out and ask who's going to be in what position, or like, do you both kind of charge and see what happens?" To someone with dentures: "So, do you really put your teeth in a glass next to your bed, or is that some horrible stereotype? Do you brush them? In or out of your mouth? Flossing? Yes? No?"

Perhaps I ask the questions other people are already thinking, but have too much tact to verbalize. I can't be the only one thinking these things. Or maybe I am. Either way, I'm fascinated.

The other night I was at a party and was seated next to a young, attractive woman who had a clear IV tube leading from the top of her shirt down to a brown purse on the floor. I'm guessing most people kind of do this: "Hi, lady. I'm going to totally NOT look at the plastic tube sticking out of your shirt and pretend like it's not there. See how accepting I can be of people with plastic tubes attached to their chest? I don't even NOTICE it!" I do notice it. Not in a bad way. In a I'd like to know more about what's going on there way.

I've been told that a gentler approach to my line of questioning might make others feel less- I don't know- like they want the ground to open up and swallow them whole. After a polite exchange of names I said, "So, do you mind if I ask about what's going on there? With the tube?" She seemed surprised, in a shy way. But willing to answer. Her body can't take in water and she has to be given IV fluids through a port in her chest throughout the day. And night, I guess. I didn't ask about that. Damn.

"So," (I'm beginning to notice that all of my questions begin with a sing-songy "Soooo.") "So, you have an IV bag right there in your purse?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can I see it?"

"Um. Okay." She rummages through her brown leather purse like she's looking for car keys or a lone stick of gum, and comes out with a nearly depleted plastic bag of clear liquid. "It's almost out," she says.

"So, you have to change it?"

"Yep."

"And, where do you buy them? The bags, that is."

"I go down there and they give me a few at a time." I forgot to ask where there is. The hospital? The IV Shoppe?


Questioning went on in this manner. "So, do you sweat? What happens to all that water? Do you just pee it out? Can you exercise?" Somehow I ended up asking if it was possible to put solid things into the port on her chest. Pills. Or small pieces of food. "No. Um. Just liquids." Although she did tell me that drug addicts with ports have used them as a place to inject drugs right into the bloodstream.

Which reminds me about a line of questioning to an ex-heroin using acquaintance that ended up with him telling me how he used his drug stuff to crush up aspirin and cook/shoot into to his kitty when it was sick once. See? Even drug addicts have a soft spot.

Back to my IV friend.

"Well," I concluded, "I think it's nice. Not that you have it, I mean. Just like. It's like having a puppy. Only not as cute. Well, right now I'm picturing a little face on the bag in your purse, and that's kind of cute. But, you know what I mean. It's something to talk about with strangers."

"I hadn't really thought of it that way," she replied. "I'm kind of shy, so, yes- I guess it does give me something to talk about. If people ask me about it. Which doesn't happen that often."

Maybe I made the last line up. I don't remember. I was picturing the clear tube protruding from her bag to be wagging like a dog's tail.

She was a great sport.

I left the party shortly thereafter and felt like I made a new friend. I have no idea what she does for a living, what her last name is, if she is married/ever been married/has kids, if she grew up in St. Louis. But I know that it was about time to change the bag of fluids that was making her able to be out of a hospital and socialize with the rest of us.  And I liked knowing this.

If I'm thinking about it, I'm probably going to ask it. "Are you afraid to die? Do you think about it?" I've asked those questions to my grandma (since deceased) and my Great Uncle Joe- Joe was in his 80s when I asked and my grandma was over 90.

I've talked about it with my fabulous Aunt Patty, after her breast cancer came back with a vengeance. Sprawled out across her bed, noticing how her once comfortably doughy frame was now small and bird-like, I asked her about it. I mean- it was there. In the room with us. Not asking her about it wasn't going to make it not happen.  We weren't on her bed because she was having a sleepover. I didn't wake her up from a normal nap. She was dying, and everyone knew it at this point. I asked. "Are you afraid to die, Aunt Patty?"

"Hell, yeah, I'm afraid to die, Bridge!" Not what I expected. For once I didn't have any follow-up questions. Not "Where do you think you'll go?" or "Can you come back and do things like make my curtains move?" or "If you really do go to heaven and see famous people, who will you look for first?"

Instead, this is what happened: Our faces on the same pillow, inches apart, we stared at each other in the truth of what she had just said.  We held hands and let our fat tears fall into the fabric of her new pillowcase. My questions, normally swirling around in my head, fell to the floor like a box of pins and I only had one left.

And I kept it in.