Nudist Colony

My office building was constructed over an empty field several years ago. In the cooler months, I have heard “tails” of field mice getting into desk drawers and whatnot. I don’t keep food at my desk and I’ve never encountered a scurrying visitor. One of my friends squeaks and squeals and jumps atop her desk whenever she so much as thinks she sees something in the corner of her eye, however. 

I have determined in all my armchair psychology brilliance that it isn’t the rodent that offends her, but rather it is the mouse’s nakedness. My friend does not appreciate the suggestion that she is a mouse-prude, but just think about it for a moment. 

If mice scampered about in jumpers, bonnets, waistcoats and top hats, would anyone be rattled or would everyone be charmed? 

Discuss amongst yourselves. 

Let freedom…sing?

Yesterday evening, the 4th of July, found us in the car, driving home from a tiring day of kayaking under the unrelenting sun. Nick pondered why the radio wasn’t playing more festive tunes and immediately I held up my left index finger as I started searching my iTunes account. 

Me: “Hmmm. I know I have it, I’m sure of it, but it’s not coming up in my search. ”

Nick: “What?”

Me: “Proud to be an American. I know, I’ll see if it’s on YouTube and play it there.” 

I did a figurative forehead slap upon my search, for I discovered the name of the song is actually God Bless the USA. Admitting my folly aloud, I easily found the song in my iTunes Library. 

Nick: “Why didn’t you just search for ‘Lee Greenwood?'” 

I pause. Deep sigh. I hate it when he makes sense. It gets old, I tell ya. 

Me: “Your logic has no place in my life, Nicholas.” 

After God Bless the USA concluded (and we both wiped away tears because it’s just that kind of song), I searched my songs library for America because my road companion demanded patriotic anthems to carry us home. Simon and Garfunkel’s America came next. I found American Pie and American Woman…a bit of a reach there though. 

Mr Know-it-all: “Why don’t you Google ‘patriotic songs?’ Maybe you have something else that doesn’t start with the word ‘America.'” 

(That last bit sounded a little sarcastic.)

Reading through a list, I squeal upon finding a song I overlooked. I turned the volume up in time for The Boss to start singing Born in the USA. 

I return to Google, searching for This Land is Your Land in time to realize that I already own a whole album (I was searching songs-only before) by the name of American Patriot…by Lee Greenwood. 

Me: “Hmm. Maybe I should have just searched by ‘Lee Greenwood’ from the beginning.”

Nick: … 


Halloween at Work

I’m not a big fan of Halloween, and I never really have been (even as a child). I really wish I could figure out precisely what my hangup is, but I have no clue. I feel like crying dramatically—maybe on my knees, in the rain, like Stanley Kowalski a la A Streetcar Named Desire—”STOP PRETENDING TO BE SOMETHING YOU’RE NOT!”

Also, I’m quite passionate (read: nerdy) about some subjects, one of them being theology. I think Halloween is a pretty crappy way to celebrate the Protestant Reformation. Much like my “I want to be a philosopher when I grow up” musings, I did not see my future as a theologian as a means to sustain my physical needs…you know, like food and shelter. Good news is that a person can be a philosopher/theologian in an unofficial capacity too.

Anyway, I’m veering. In the interest of being a good sport, I went to work as one of three blind mice. I liked the costume because I’m in at least three meetings a day, and the parts were easy to remove if I wanted to be able to look like a person instead of a mouse.

My first meeting of the morning was one of those meetings wherein I wanted to look like I person. I stripped myself of the headband, bow tie, and nose to attend. Later in the day, I had another meeting with some of the same people, but by that time I had removed the stick from my [ahem] and decided to embrace my inner rodent.

“Very cute!” someone said as I took my seat. “You weren’t a mouse this morning, were you?” she asked. I explained my my intent, the stick, everything. She nodded, taking it all in, before continuing her thought.

“You know, when you walked off the elevator [that we rode on together after the meeting that I went to as a person] ahead of me this morning, I thought it was kind of quirky that you had a tail. Makes more sense now.”

The devil is in the details.

Not quite as jumbled as I thought

  • I was looking for a post about my aunts to link from Sophie Sunday, and I stumbled upon this exchange. Tears of mirth gathered in my eyes as I fought to control my laughter…that conversation was SO Mom, and I’m glad that I captured it. Good Lord, she was a delight to know.
  • Nick was saying the other day that a lot of people don’t know about the golden birthday thing when he tells them about going to Disney World to celebrate mine on August 31. They ask if the “golden” part means the 50th birthday—feeling ill, I squeaked, “Do I look like I could be 50!?!?” I’m barely accepting my 30s!
  • I’m exaggerating. (I know, surprising.) I think I accepted my 30s when I was in my teens…I went straight from nervous student to way-too-serious adult. Every now and then, I feel bereft that I did not have a normal 20-something decade to do stupid things that are expected of that age—yet, the thought of doing those stupid things leaves an awful taste in my mouth (walking contradiction). I feel like I’m too serious sometimes, but I don’t really know how to fix that since it’s my comfort zone and all.
  • I myself have become more vocal telling people that I have my golden birthday at the end of next month. I usually don’t make a huge deal over my birthday, so I’m thinking it’s just a last ditch effort to let people know that I’m still young enough to be able to have a golden birthday (of course, that all changes after this year, but they don’t need to know that).
  • I was taking pictures the other day, and Nick snickered at my shots. I admit, a few were snicker-worthy. There was a series of shots where I must have been woozy or something. The first picture was framed perfectly. However, the next picture cut off legs, the next got the legs but cut off the heads, the next got the head and one leg but cut off the left side of the body, the next got the right side, and the last was out of focus and a complete fail (looking ever so much like I just gave up). When he pointed it out to me, I shrugged and boasted that I could piece it together if I had to. That’s the beauty of getting in right the first time: I’m allowed to be sub-par the rest of the time.
  • We went to the Train (and Kelly Clarkson, but I was there for Train) concert at Summerfest just over a week ago. I love Train, and I listen to them quite a lot as Nick can attest (with a snarl). It’s somewhat the sound of Pat Monahan’s voice, but it’s mostly the lyrics. I love his writing, so much so that I even started following his blog. He just seems like “good people” to me, and I like the honesty.
  • So, as you probably gathered by the “snarl” comment above, you might have interpreted that Nick isn’t a huge Train fan. (Just look at you! SO smart!) I think he would have more patience for their music if I didn’t play it so much, but he was still sweet enough to find out about the concert and point it out to me. That’s Nick you see wrapped around my little finger.
  • Pat Monahan introduced a song “from another San Fransisco band” and started singing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey (of course). Nick piped up and got all pogo-sticky in his excitement. I think he sang that song as loud as he possibly could. Afterwards, he asked if it was bad that he went to a Train concert and didn’t get into it until they sang Journey—I told him that it was bad, but I was enjoying myself too much to let anything bring me down.
  • When I was telling a coworker about the Train/Journey incident, she told me that I should have played the age card and acted dumb. Journey? Is that what this is? Oh, that explains it…they were way before my time.
  • We saw Kelly Clarkson on TV last week, and she was in a wheelchair with an ankle injury. As she was leaving the stage at our concert, she tripped over something. She got up on her own, but apparently she was really hurt. I felt inexplicably guilty that she got hurt performing for me…I feel like I should send flowers and a note of apology. Messed up, Laura, way messed up.
  • Humorously, I started a post with bullets because I didn’t think I had enough material from any one subject to write about, but the last several bullets were about the concert, so…see the title.


So, we played Yahtzee yesterday…

I love this game…I love that it’s based on chance instead of skill. If I deign to game play, I want something that will give my poor, tired brain leave from being teased.

I do not fully understand the reasons why I shy away from games, but something tells me that it has to do with that competitive nature of mine that strains against the leash. I do not like being competitive, but the natural tendency exists. I envision myself in Lennon’s Imagine world, where I can happily coexist with everybody else without thought of rank. Of course, this is a dreamworld: this Utopia does not exist. I try to keep my competitiveness subdued, and I am successful most of the time.

MOST of the time.

Sometimes, something happens that is just so wonderful that I have to let the beast run around with his tongue lolling, rolling to his belly and kicking his legs in the air. Sometimes, gloating just feels too darn good to be an adult about it. You know, something like rolling four (FOUR!) Yahtzee rolls in one game. Nick, disbelieving my luck (read: absolute awesomeness), happened to catch my fourth Yahtzee, and the sad little display of arrogance that followed.

I want to be ashamed at my poor sportsmanship, I do. It’s just that, well…

I rock.

(Also: this series of pictures makes me laugh at myself…and I need to do that more.)