Day #134: Keepin It To Myself

The Story:

I’ve got a story but I cannot speak it

I’ve got a secret but these lips are sealed

I want to dance for joy

But my moves might betray me

I want to stomp in jubilation

But the vibrations would rat me out

*

Today was a good day

And tomorrow will be better

Don’t ask me why

I cannot tell you

*

My cause for joy could be misconstrued

My elation might not be understood

So I’ll keep grinning and hide my smile

I’ll keep jumping and jiving, but only in my head

So don’t ask what the fuss is all about

I’ll only shrug and feign confusion

*

Just as some things demand to be told

And we will bare them out with jostling abandon

Some things must be revealed cautiously

And we will wrap them in tissue and put them away with cedar

Presenting them at a later hour, or not at all

*

But in the confines of my four walls

I will do a little jig

Cloaked within the folds of my confidants

I will laugh and giggle

*

Because I have a story that won’t get told

And I have a secret that shant be discovered

 

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      So a common problem I’ve come across since picking up this project, is experiencing something during my day that really bares revealing, but in light of the public nature of this format I dare not write about it. Sucky, I know. But I refuse to write about a subject that may run the risk, however small, of hurting someone I know or worse make me look like a jerk (which I sometimes can be, I fully acknowledge). Today was such a day. It marked something significant that happened, not to me, but it greatly affects me… if that makes a lick of sense. So this is my backhanded way of celebrating AND writing about it without actually… writing about it (see how that works?). Anywho, it was a good day, and like the poem said I expect the days to follow to be even better. And, if you are just dying to know what in tarnation I’m yappin about, feel free to message me on Facebook, I’ll let you in on it… maybe.

Ooooo.... sooo mysterious

Love & Squirrels.

Day #133: Yogaahhh!

The Story:

“Well, I think that should about do it,” Fern stood up, dusted off her hands and headed towards the locker room.

Looking up from downward dog, Gina watched her friend grab her yoga mat and walk out of the room. It had been all of three minutes since the class began.

YOGA: YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG

Thirty minutes later, Gina entered the locker room to find her friend combing her freshly washed and dried hair in front of one of the vanities in the dressing room. Wiping the sweat from her face, Gina sat down next to Fern and asked with no small amount of confusion, “Fern, what gives?”

Blinking her eyes in rapid succession Fern creased her brow into an expression that said, but whatever do you mean?

“Um, you were in class for like two minutes and then you just vamoosed. Are you ok? Did you hurt yourself or something?” Gina continued.

“Oh! Oh no, don’t be silly. It’s just that I only ever do anything for three minutes now. It’s this new “live in the moment” regiment I’m trying. So instead of wasting a bunch of time on one thing, I do something for three minutes and if I like it then I’ll keep going but if I don’t then I move on. It’s really been an eye-opening experience. I’d encourage you to try it,” Fern said a little too haughtily for Gina’s liking.

“So let me get this straight. You try something for three minutes, and then, if you don’t like it you just give up?” Gina asked, still a little bewildered. Fern had always been a little, ‘eccentric’, always willing to try the newest thing out there but this newest craze seemed a little crazy even for Fern.

Fern shook her head in sympathy at her friends’ misunderstanding. In the condescending tone she had recently acquired (about the same time she adopted her new ‘lifestyle’) Fern replied, “It’s not giving up, Gina. It’s living in the moment. Why waste my time, my life really, doing something I have no interest in? Scientific studies have shown that it only takes approximately three minutes to determine if you like or dislike and activity or new sensation. Once you know how you feel about something you are empowered to act. And when I decided I didn’t like yoga today, I acted. I left. It’s just that simple”.

“I see,” Gina replied, too stunned to say anything else. Man, Fern had really set sail on the whackadoo express this time. Taking a few more seconds to gather her wits, Gina continued, “So this ‘live in the moment’ thing, does it apply to people too?”.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Fern said as she put down her hair brush and tilted her head to the side as if to illustrate the authenticity of her bafflement.

“I just mean if you are spending time with someone, do you watch the clock and after three minutes do you decided whether or not you wish to stay in their company or are people exempt from this dogma?” Gina asked innocently.

“Oh Gina, nothing is exempt from the teaching. So I suppose that people also fall within the three minute rule. Honestly, Gina, I am learning so much about myself and life since adopting and apply this teaching. You really should give it a try,” Fern reached over and placed her hand on top of her friends’ in a way that felt rehearsed and not at all like the Fern that Gina knew.

“You know what. I think I might. I think I’ll try it right now,” Gina said and then, pulling her hand out from under Fern’s she checked her wristwatch for the time. Watching the seconds tick away for about 27 more seconds, Gina abruptly stood up, gathered her belongings and made to leave the locker room.

Confused by her friend’s strange and sudden behavior, Fern started after her and asked, “Gina, where are you going?”

Turning just as she reached the door, Gina pasted the same confused expression her friend had used just a few minutes earlier Gina replied matter-of-factly, “Well that conversation took exactly three minutes and I decided I didn’t like it. In fact, I didn’t like the ‘new’ you. So I decided to move on. Life’s too short, right?” and with that she let the door swing closed behind her.

“Crap,” Fern said as she sunk onto one of the benches in the locker room entryway. Tossing her head back in frustration, she began reading one of the flyers pinned to the cork board above her bench, “Change your life and the life of others through massage therapy! Your hands could be healing hands.”

“Hmm,” Fern thought, “massage therapy, I think that’s exactly what I am meant to do!”. And without another thought she ripped one of the tear-aways with contact info off of the flyer and happily trotted out of the locker room.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      I tried yoga today. Not real yoga, but the DVD kind where you stare at some lady in clingy clothing with a mesmerizing voice as she shows you have to stick your butt in the air AND breathe all at the same time. Well, I made it into the lesson about three minutes before deciding… this was for the birds. I really wanted to like yoga. Just like I really wanted to like swimming, running, tennis, volleyball…well you get the gist. And to be honest, it’s really not that I don’t like yoga. It’s that it hurts. I know, lame right? I agree. Unfortunately for some years now I have developed quite a weak wrist, I have a sneaking suspicion I have carpel tunnel syndrome from my years of computer work (she said as she typed on her laptop). I am reluctant to go to the doctor for this because A) I hate going to the doctor B) I don’t want to confirm that something is actually wrong with me C) I hate going to the doctor. Despite these very valid reasons, I may have to make an appointment seeing as I cannot put any pressure on the joint of my right wrist. Since almost all yoga poses seem to involve supporting your body weight on your hands in knees, I had to cut the session short.

My yoga instructor... at least for three minutes

TWO:    I included a little something about massage therapy because I really want a massage and I’m hoping le boyfriend will read this in short time and feel a sudden urge to rub his girlfriend’s shoulders (not holding my breath though).

Love & Squirrels.

 

Day #132: Day’s End

The Story:

Everyone remembers where they were. Everyone remembers what they were doing in the moments before. And everyone remembers what they did the following day- it was a Tuesday.

No one talks much about it much anymore. Of course there was the initial shock, the desperate cries of outrage and confusion, the demands for explanation and something (or someone) to blame. In those early days, the scientific and academic community manically set its jaws into rooting out the cause and the ‘why’ of it all. I believe they are still scratching their collective heads these twenty-five years later. The religious zealots qiuckly set upon the remnants left by science, gnawing away and proclaiming that it was all God’s will.

Left with the choice of Science’s ‘inconclusive results’ and Religion’s dogmatic certainty, the world collectively shrugged its shoulders and continued to spin. As the days became weeks and the weeks became months, we did what we always do, we moved on. We cut the crusts off of our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We complained about the traffic or how crowded the trains were becoming. We got our hair cut and left the sideburns a little too long. We focused on reestablishing our sense of normalcy,  honed in on the mundane. What else could we do?

Some of the old timers blame it on my generation. They say we grew complacent and complained too much. Maybe that’s true, but I don’t believe we were the reason. If I allow myself to drift down that road of thinking it will only take me to a dead end, a cul-de-sac of guilt, the kind that doesn’t wash off and stinks of the obliviousness of the self-entitled. I’ve traveled that road before, in the beginning (after all, didn’t I wish for what happened like so many others?). No, I can’t believe we were the reason. To be honest, I don’t believe there was a reason.

Things are almost back to normal now, or what my brain has tricked my memory into believing is normal (is there really a difference?). There are a few obvious changes, of course, no one denies that. For starters, everyone suffers from a tinge of vertigo from time to time. Most of us have grown accustomed to this after living with it for so long, the tunnel-vision and swaying are no more strange than blinking or sneezing. I do not envy new parents, however, as they struggle to prepare their bouncing bundles of joy for a world that will randomly pitch them forward or spin them round as it sees fit, but it appears the infants adapt quickly enough.

People don’t seem as concerned with time as they once did. I suspect they feel betrayed by it. I feel that way sometimes when I see an old advert for a wrist watch or alarm clock. I belive it only makes good sense to be wary of something that so carelessly misused the trust we all placedwillingly at its doorstep.

I suppose the most obvious change from the old days is the complete abandonment of the term ‘Monday’. Deleting this term fr0m our collective vocabulary was perhaps the first unanimous decision made by the entire citizenry of the world. If one were to consult a calendar in today’s world (if you could find one) you would read the days of the week as follows:

Sunday     First Tuesday      Second Tuesday       Wednesday     Thursday       Friday                Saturday

The memory of that day is still too potent to speak its name. I believe it will always be that way. We humans are a funny breed, when confronted with a global calamity we first try to understand it and if that fails, we ignore it. It simply didn’t happen.  I’m just pleased as punch to keep it that way too, what’s the point of taking something apart when you know you won’t be able to fit the pieces back together again? Well that’s how I feel about it, anyway.

Of course there are a few out there who are determined to stir the pot. I mostly ignore them, though. I don’t burden my mind with their propaganda. I have no use for it. I stock my pantry, boil my water and continue to try and forget. Forget that on a Monday, 25 years ago we lost more than half a day. Without explanation and without a trace of warning time skipped from 2:02pm EST Monday, August 29, 2011 to Tuesday, August 30, 2011 at 8:00am EST on the dot. Time literally fast-forwarded through half a day and picked up a little less than 18 hours later. And we still haven’t recovered.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Ever have one of those days that you wish would just end? Funny how they usually wind up landing on a Monday, eh? That was the kind of day I was having today. Finally, around 3:30 or so, it got to the point where I just had to close my door and pray for 5:00pm to come quickly. Boiling point. I even posted a status to Facebook to the tune of, “Day, isn’t it about time you ended?”. Even when the work day came to a close my ‘bad day’ seemed to follow me home. Note to self: Do not dye your hair on a Monday, or any other day when everything seems to be going against you. Honestly the hair isn’t that bad, it looks like a wasted half-hour and smells like Sally’s Beauty Supply, but whatevs. So as I’m rinsing the dye out of my hair (and wondering if there was any in there in the first place, seriously my hair looks exactly the same) I started to think about what would happen if I got my wish- what if the day just ended when I said so? Other than perhaps making a lot of other people happy (not a good day in Facebook land apparently) having a day come to a screeching halt and then everything just picking back up the following morning would be a major game changer, don’t ya think? What do you think would happen if time just fast-forwarded 18 hours? Would we notice? Mull that over while I go and actually end my day, the traditional way, with some Zzzz’s.

And how.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #131: By the Power of Zeus!

The Story:

“Zeus? Zeus, are you even listening to me?” Hera shook her head at her lackadaisical husband. After trying unsuccessfully to discuss how brazen their son Ares had become recently, Hera realized she’d get nowhere with him as long as he had that thing wrapped around his neck. Gathering the folds of her toga Hera left in a huff mumbling in agitation.

One could hardly blame the queen goddess for being a bit ‘put out’ with her husband. Suffering from a strained shoulder after a particularly busy afternoon tossing thunderbolts at mortals, a favorite pastime for the god, he had been even more insufferable than usual. Finally, unable to tolerate his whining any longer, Hera sought out Asclepius to produce a poultice for her achy husband. The god of healing whipped up something in no time and quickly delivered a soothing mixture of cinnamon, clove and eucalyptus sewn into a pouch of the softest velvet and silk. Asclepius instructed Hera to heat the healing pouch of medicinal herbs until it was warm to the touch and wrap it around the offending shoulder and back of the neck.

Thanking Asclepius for his quick work, Hera set out to deliver the wrap to Zeus immediately. A little wary at first, Zeus allowed his wife to wrap the heated pouch around his neck and shoulder. As the soothing aromas of the herbs and the heat of the wrap set in, Zeus began to feel the tension drain out of him. His entire body relaxed and soon he was drifting off to sleep.

That was a week ago and Zeus had hardly done a thing but sit with his medicinal pouch wrapped around his shoulder or neck. Hera was pretty sure the pain had left him some time ago, he was a god after all, but he flat out refused to be without that damnable herbal pouch slung around his neck. This of course meant that Zeus’ napping frequency had increased ten-fold, to the point that he was neglecting many of his duties as  father to the gods.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Zeus thought to himself as he suppressed a yawn. “If I want to catch a few winks, what’s it to her?” he thought contemptuously. Reclining a bit further on his chaise Zeus shifted his satchel of thunderbolts to his side, holding on to the strap with one free hand. Allowing his eyes to fall shut, he breathed in deeply the aromatic fragrance of clove, cinnamon and eucalyptus and let slip a contented sigh.

Soon, Zeus was fast asleep. As he slept, he turned on his side and in so doing let his satchel of thunderbolts go a bit slack. Slowly, as the god dreamt, one of his treasured thunderbolts began to slide loose.

 —

Meanwhile, on earth…

“Come on, baby. You know I love you,” Antony purred to the pretty but reluctant dairy maid he had somehow convinced to leave her cows and join him in the sun-soaked pasture. The milk-maid frowned at his over-zealous proclamation. Okay, so she wasn’t quite as dull-witted as her charges, Antony thought and quickly changed tactics. “How about this. What if I swear to Zeus himself that my intentions are honorable?” seeing that he had perked her interest, after all only the suicidal would break an oath with the father of all gods, Antony continued. “Dear girl, I swear to you and the father of us all- Zeus the powerful that my intentions are nothing but honorable. Should I be lying, let Zeus himself strike me where I stand with his most powerful thunderbolt!” and he raised his hands and face to the cloudless blue sky.

KA-BOOM!!!

Screaming in terror, the singed milk maid pulled up her skirts and fled past a pile of ash which had been Antony only seconds before.

—

“Zeus! You nincompoop! You did it again!” Hera was only a little disgruntled over the puny human’s death but saw it as an opportunity to nag her husband away from that annoying wrap once and for all.

Zeus only half heard his wife as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took stock of his satchel. Sure enough, he was missing one of his thunderbolts. He really should get a better clasp for that thing, this was the third ‘accidental’ lightning strike in as many days. Shrugging his shoulders, Zeus ignored his wife and rolled over offering only one word in his defense, “Oops”.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      A few days ago I acquired a strange soreness in my left shoulder right behind my shoulder blade. More than likely it is due to my constant sitting and terrible posture at work but it got bad enough for me to try a few things in an attempt to alleviate the pain. So yesterday I picked up a therapeutic neck shoulder wrap that can be heated up or frozen depending on what you need it for. It also is filled with lots of yummy smelling things like cinnamon, clove and eucalyptus that once heated fill the entire house with their soothing fragrance. I love this thing. It feels so nice, like a warm hug around my shoulders and neck. It immediately relaxes me, to the point that I just want to curl up and sleep each time I wrap it around my neck. Ahhh…

new favorite thing...

TWO:    It’s been a month of bizarre weather for the U.S. of A. and even though Orlando has been spared (so far) I experienced a bit of the willy-nilly nature of, well, Mother Nature today. Walking to my back doors to call Joey inside I see a flash of light and simultaneously, KABOOM! a crack of thunder so loud and so close it rattled me. Now usually I am not shaken by a boom of thunder or strike of lightning, these are somewhat of a commonality here. What was so striking (excuse the pun) about this one was it was a bright and sunny day, hardly a cloud to be seen. I immediately shooed the dogs inside and stood staring outside wondering where in the world that had come from. I realize I live in the lightning capital of the world, but even so I got spooked today… it was pretty dang freaky. It was like Zeus misplaced one of his thunderbolts, perhaps during a siesta brought on by a therapeutic wrap filled with cinnamon, clove and eucalyptus? You never know…

Love & Squirrels.

Day #130: Dust Bunny Blues

The Story:

Creative Uses for Dust Bunnies: 

1.            Knit together for a unique winter scarf. Dye it fun colors!

2.            Grab your camcorder and record as these little darlins tumble across your floors. To add some flair, place toy figurines of cowboys, horses, and other western themed toys. Play on a loop during your next child’s birthday party for a great Spaghetti Western theme.

3.            Gather up all dust bunnies over a period of several months in the late winter. In a solution of one parts water two parts bleach, soak dust bunnies until bleached white. Wring any extra moisture from dust bunnies and while still damp, form into a large bunny shaped dust bunny. Let set overnight. Tie a festive ribbon around the neck and you have a lovely centerpiece just in time for Easter!

4.            Does heat leak out from under old doors or windows in the winter? Not anymore! Just stuff those drafty doors and windows and you’ll stay warm all season!

5.            For beautiful Christmas ornaments, dye your dust bunnies in several festive shades and shape them into tightly packed balls. With a needle and fishing line, loop through the top of the dust bunny ball to make a hanger. For a different look, dip the dust bunny ball in Modge Podge and then roll in glitter. Great craft activity for kids!

For more great crafting ideas, check out this month’s Crafting with Crud on newsstands and in major retailers now.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Before I go into the details behind the story above, let me preface by saying I really really really hate housework. I mean hate it. Especially dusting. You would think, if you were to go by any of those commercials or old movies, that dusting was an activity that women enjoyed. There they were, in their tailored blouses with their Peter Pan collars, their A-line skirts perfectly pressed, up on tippy-toe in their sensible yet feminine heels gaily dusting what already appeared to be a pristine countertop or bookshelf with their immaculate feather duster. Yeah, either I’m doing it wrong (likely) or those advertisements/movies were the creation of a man (more likely).

Pep this...

So today, I decided it was high time I gave my bedroom a thorough cleaning- which primarily meant cleaning off the layer of dust that had settled on everything in there. Seriously, where does this crap come from (and no, I don’t really want to know)? It was everywhere, and in massive quantities. After what seemed like half a day of dusting my dresser, baseboards, cedar chest and window sills, I decided to tackle the space under my bed. Holy cow, it looked like something from a Sci-Fi movie under there. Everything was covered in grey gobblygook. Gross. For a second I wondered, what if I could just gather these things up and turn them into something useful, like a really itchy scarf or something? Man, I really entertain myself sometimes. Shaking my head at my momentary silliness, I hefted my Dust Buster high above my head and vowed these dust bunnies had finally met their match. Hours later (ok, it may have been less time, but who’s story is this?) the dust finally cleared and I emerged victorious. Those nasty critters didn’t have a chance. Of course I was sneezing and blowing grey stuff outta my nose for the rest of the day, but I consider it a small price to pay to finally be rid of the monsters living under my bed- dust bunnies.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #129: Sofia’s Soundtrack

The Story:

“What are you talking about? I’ve never even spoken to him before, how could he possibly be in love with me?” Sofia whispered across the cubicle partition to her ‘cube mate’ Daria. After three years of working within five feet of each other, separated only by the recycled particle board and plastic panel lovingly referred to as the “Berlin Wall”, Sofia and Daria had grown to be quite close. So it can as quite a shock when Daria let fly that William, the dark-haired enigma located in the corner cubicle, chose to break his monkish silence last week to confess to her his unrequited adulation of none other than Sofia.

“I swear, Sofia, he was quite adamant. It was actually very touching,” Daria whispered to her friend who had yet to pick her jaw up off of the floor.

“What I can’t understand is how you got him to talk at all, let alone profess his love for me,” Sofia stole a glance over to the corner cubicle that, thankfully, was empty at the moment.

“That’s actually kind of a funny story,” Daria admitted raising her voice a bit. “I was in the mood for sushi, so I went up to that little place around the corner and who should I see but William. There he was, sitting all alone at the sushi bar so I figured I’d grace him with my presence,” Daria batted her eyes and gave a pin-up pout- a show of self-mockery at her usual brazenness. “So there we were me and Mr. I-probably-don’t-know-the-sound-of-my-own-voice. Well you know me I couldn’t shut up, poor man. Even if he had wanted to I doubt he could have gotten a word in. All my chattering must have made him nervous though because before you could break a pair of chopsticks he flagged down the little girl serving us and ordered a bottle of Sake. Well that stuff certainly loosens the lips, boy howdy! It wasn’t fifteen minutes before he told me about his crush on you. He was actually a little surprised that you didn’t know actually,” Daria continued.

“He was? But how would I have known? I pass his cubicle every time I need to visit the Ladies Room and he’s not said word one to me in three years,” Sofia said with obvious confusion, after all she had noticed him right away and even tried to flirt in the early days. When her signals went unanswered she chalked it up to disinterest and stopped trying.

“Well I don’t know about all that, but he did say something like if she would only listen or something weird like that; I don’t really remember all the details, on account of the Sake. But I tell you what, once I got that boy atalkin’, OOO EEE! He practically talked my ear clean off!” Daria said with a flourish causing the other members of the office to pop their heads up over their cubicle walls like disgruntled prairie dogs.

“I don’t know, Daria. It looks like both of your ears are still tightly secured to your head from here,” a voice like cool water said from behind the women. William allowed a playful smirk to wander into the corner of his mouth as he looked from Daria to Sofia and said, “Good morning, Sofia”. Smiling again at the stunned women, William continued on to his corner cubicle.

“Oh my God!” Daria whispered through the Berlin Wall. “Can you believe that just happened? You have to go over there and talk to him, Sofia,” Daria basically yelled through the particle board.

But Sofia was not there.

“Hi William,” Sofia released each syllable as if it were a precious gift she was unsure of bequeathing.

William turned slowly in his ergonomic chair and blinked a few times before trusting his eyes that yes, in fact, there stood Sofia, speaking to him. Cripplingly shy his entire existence, it had only been a few short months since he had begun a regiment to prepare him for this moment. Smiling (a sensation that still felt foreign on his face) William held up one finger and with his other hand turned up the song that was playing from his computer speakers.

With a single prompt, something as subtle as a forefinger touching an ear, Sofia understood that William had asked her to listen. And so she did, even allowing her eyes to drift closed. With the noisy florescent lights now dimmed to a red glow behind her eyelids, the words almost leaped out at her,

“…I know it’s kind of strange

But every time I’m near you

I just run out of things to say

I know you’d understand

Every time I tried to tell you

The words just came out wrong

So I’ll have to say I love you in a song…”

Opening her eyes in wonder, Sofia would have sworn up and down that the lyrics sung by Jim Croce through those staticy little speakers were spoken lovingly by William himself.

Seeing that she understood, William felt emboldened and spoke to the object of his affection for the first time, “I played that every day, hoping you would hear it. Well, actually I played that and some other songs too, but they all were speaking directly to you”.

Thinking for a minute, Sofia began to recall all those trips to the Ladies Room and sure enough, there was a soundtrack to go along with it. “Did you by chance play Junk of the Heart, by the Kooks?” Sofia asked, her voice taking on an ‘other-world’ quality.

Letting a chuckle of released tension and relief escape, William nodded excitedly.

“That’s one of my absolute favorite songs,” Sofia said in somewhat disbelief. “Would you like to… that is if you wanted to- would like to go to lunch with me?” Sofia half expected him to decline thanks to her obliviousness for the last three years.

“I’d love to,” William smiled, noting that his facial muscles might as well get used to the sensation… he had a suspicion they’d be getting a lot more use in the future.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      So this one kind of took on a life of its own (that seems to be happening a lot lately, hmm). Anywho, while counting down the minutes to the weekend and finishing up some things in my office, a song came on my 8tracks.com mix that got me really jazzed. I was bobbing my head, bouncing in my chair and really a-tapping my toes. Then another, equally fantastical tune came on, a little joint called “Junk of the Heart” by the Kooks. As some students walked by the lyrics “I just want to make you happy” danced out of my speakers and for some reason that gave really struck me as funny. I don’t know, somehow my brain took that incident and spun it into the story of a shy cubicle worker using song lyrics to profess his love for a fellow worker, unable to get up the nerve or find the right words to tell her himself. I really liked that idea, talking through someone else, using music to literally communicate with someone, not a far stretch if you ask me- music speaks to us all in a way, doesn’t it?

Love & Squirrels.

Day #128: Buzz Off!

The Story:

The Line:                             “You want to BEE my queen?”

The Response:                 “BEEat it, loser!”

*

The Line:                             “You must taste like honey, cause you’re so sweet.”

The Response:                  “You must BEE buzzed if you think you have a chance.”

*

The Line:                             “Will you BEE mine?”

The Response:                  “Get away, you’re giving me hives.”

The Line:                             “Lady, you are the bees knees!”

The Response:                  “Seriously? You must be one of those bumbling bees…”

*

The Line:                             “Hello, honey!”

The Response:                  “Buzz off!”

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      On my short walk from my building to the parking lot, I picked up an unusual admirer today. The minute I stepped outside I was greeted with a very persistent honey bee. With every step forward he would buzz right along with me, mere inches from my face. I tried to ignore him at first, expecting he would realize I was no flower and be on his way. Well, either his sniffer was off or I smelled a lot better than I realized because he would not let up. Even with I juked left and then jived right he was right in sync with me. His hounding was beginning to grate on my nerves, as I didn’t want him for a passenger on the trip home and I was beginning to feel a little ridiculous at this point, dancing with a bee. Finally, in my haste to rid myself of this buzzing suitor and to be left to myself I might have, kinda lost it a teensy lil bit. “Seriously?!?!” I yelled at the poor winged-critter. I’m not proud of it, but he was really starting to BEE annoying. Well, I must have hurt his feelings because he flew off after that, to assault the next unsuspecting human I imagine. This brief encounter reminded me of other encounters I’ve had in the past, in my younger (thinner) days when I’d be approached by the opposite sex while out on the town. Those ‘men’, sometimes referred to as another type of insect (bar flies) amongst other things were equally persistent and lacking in fashion sense (horizontal stripes? Really?) as my bee-man today. The lines were about as lame as those above and I’d like to think the rebuff from yours truly was much wittier (though I doubt it) although I hold that I am no flower.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #127: Plant Your Pineapple

The Story:

“Remember people, aim low; you can only go up from there,” Herbert the ‘motivational speaker’ looked around at his audience of 106 eight graders, smiled and let the microphone drop to the floor. Well, that went well, he thought to himself sarcastically as he headed for the backstage exit of the school gymnasium.

After twenty-six years of similar engagements, Herbert could confidently say that things had officially hit ‘rock bottom’ in the school systems. For years and years Herbert’s message had been a simple one, work hard, don’t expect anything to be handed to you and stay away from people who try to bring you down. He stressed the importance of believing in one’s self as the core principle, encouraging students to use their creativity and intelligence to obtain their dreams.

There had been many success stories, students who took special inspiration from Herbert’s heartfelt words and used them to change their lives. Doctors, humanitarians, a few teachers-of-the-year and one Senator could all look back and point to Herbert’s presentation as the moment they knew they could do great things.

Herbert was fond of using a particular analogy during those early days- the story of growing a pineapple. Using this analogy he would compare the fruit to the cultivation of one’s self. That a person could enjoy the benefits of the fruit once and then dispose of it or they could replant the top and with a lot of patience and a willingness to nurture the slow-growing fruit they could have pineapple over and over. Herbert thought of the pineapple as kind of a fruity manifestation of what could happen if someone were to nurture their goals and motivation. They, like a pineapple, could be a one-time indulgence- a flash of possibility, or with work, time and stick-to-it-iveness they could be rewarded with a bounty of the fruits of their labor- a lifetime of achievement.

Then, slowly things began to change in the schools and for their students. Tests became the hallmark of the education system and creativity was soon squeezed out of the curriculum. But Herbert kept on delivering his message, hoping it would fall on at least a few ears that hadn’t been stuffed to the brim with another message- you’re only as good as this test says you are.

Little by little, nervous administrators began to ask Herbert to ‘alter’ his message ever so slightly, after all, filling students with the impossible hope that they could do anything if they worked hard enough was not really all that possible, now was it Mr. Herbert?

And now, finally, having whittled down his message according to the insistence of these administrators, Herbert was left with, aim within your reach, anything above that is impossible. He had stopped using the pineapple analogy years ago when he realized that the students’ spirit had been pummeled so systematically that a can of processed pineapple bits in high fructose corn syrup was as high as they were interested in striving.

Herbert walked to his beat-up station wagon and just sat in the driver’s seat, wondering if he had it in him to continue on or if it was finally time to hang up his hat. Sighing in defeat, Herbert reached to turn the ignition when he noticed something on his windshield. Heaving himself out of the car, Herbert walked to the front of his car (making a mental note to take it through the car wash on the way home) and removed what turned out to be a photo from beneath his windshield wiper. Adjusting his glasses, Herbert couldn’t help but grin at the image of a smiling girl of about sixteen holding up a small, golden pineapple. On the back, written in neat cursive he read:

Dear Mr. Herbert, I just wanted to say a small thank you for speaking to my class two years ago. I’ve never been excited about anything but when you spoke about growing our goals like pineapples I really wanted to try. It’s been two years since that day, and I finally see the ‘fruit’ of my labor. My own pineapple! Something I did all by myself! In addition to my pineapple I now grow lavender, sage, sunflowers and even grafted my own herb which I call “Herbert” in honor of you (it’s great with grilled pineapple!) So thank you for planting that seed of excitement, because of you I found my goal and plan on exploring a career in botany.

Sincerely,
Amelia Rodriguez

Amelia had found her ‘pineapple’ and in so doing had reminded Herbert that he still possessed his.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

Enjoying the fruit of my labor, delish...

ONE:      I love when I start a story with no stinkin’ idea which direction it will take. And then, as I hammer out the words, hoping that they make some kind of sense, I find myself at the end of the story and everything has somehow come together. It may not be the best story in the world, hell, it may be one of the worst, but the experience of writing and ‘watching’ the different components of the story fall into place on their own accord is really fascinating (to me anyway). I started writing tonight with one goal, write about pineapple, and BAM! a story busts out. Neato cheeto. After a long day at work, I really only wanted to accomplish one thing when I got home- cut up the pineapple that has been sitting on my countertop for the last few days and plant the top. You see, I’ve got it into my head that I would like to grow my own pineapple, a two-year endeavor mind you, but for some reason it’s something I feel inclined to do. I know, slow down Sam, you’re shooting for the stars on that one! Thinking about my ‘big goal’ for the day made me wonder about setting the bar low, which inevitably led me to thinking about our pathetic education system in this state. That’s a whole other story that my current good mood will not allow me to delve.

The effects of too much sugar before bed...

Love & Squirrels.

Day #126: Old Enough

The Story:

“I’m still in a bit of shock,” Lizzy said breathlessly as she stared wide-eyed at Vicki.

“I mean to call me that? ME??? Can you imagine? I mean who does she think she is, anyway?” Lizzy went on, shock growing to outrage.

“In all my life, to be referred to as that? Of all the four-letter words, I think that is the most offensive. No I’m serious, Vicki,” Lizzy said as Vicki made signs of protesting. “I’ve been called a lot of things, a lot of not-nice things, but I have never felt more insulted then I did today,” Lizzy leaned back as if she meant to catalog aloud all the ‘not-nice’ things she’d been called in the past.

“I totally understand what you mean,” Vicki quickly interjected before Lizzy could continue her rant. Taking a sip from her Diet Coke, Vicki continued, “I almost lost it on one of the interns at work today for something similar”.

Putting down her beverage, Vicki scooted to the edge of her chair, “So there I was, finishing up some emails I’d been putting off, when in waltzes “lil miss I-think-I’m-too-cute-to-work-but-my-dad-thinks-its-good-experience” in her best “Business Barbie” get-up. I swear, Lizzy, I thought I was going to puke,” Vicki made a retching sound before grabbing for her Diet Coke. “So she’s asking me all these questions about what I do, blah, blah, blah, and as I’m listing off some of my main responsibilities her eyes get all wide and she interrupts me and says, get this… Oh wow, you do all that? That’s so much responsibility and you look so young? You must feel really lucky to have been asked to do all that and stuff, right? I mean you even have your own office and everything! Can you believe the nerve of that twit?!?” Vicki looked like her eyes were about to bulge out of her head as she took a reflexive pull from her Splenda-enhanced drink. “It was if she didn’t believe I was capable of doing my job! Like there had been some sort of mistake down in Human Resources and somehow I had been awarded this “sweet gig” as she called it,” Vicki rattled the remnants of her soda and peeked through the mouth of the can to confirm that she had in fact drained every last drop.

“You think that’s bad? That’s nothing compared to what that nitwit called me today,” Lizzy said, jumping at the opportunity to commiserate. “Like I was saying, I was just getting out of my car, heading to class and I see this blonde chick out of the corner of my eye coming up behind me from the bus stop. Before I know it, she’s yelling that word at the top of her lungs. Naturally, I didn’t think she was referring to me, why would I, so I just kept walking happy as you please. Well the chick wouldn’t stop so I finally turned to see what deaf person she was trying to grab the attention of, and would you believe it? She was talking to me,” Lizzy was overcome by a visible shudder.

“What did she say, exactly?” Vicki wanted to know. Now that her Diet Coke had expired, Vicki was giving Lizzy her full attention.

“Oh I’ll tell you. Those words will be burned into my memory forever. Her exact words were, Excuse me ma’am? Could you tell me where Engineering II is?  Imagine it! Calling me ma’am?!?! I mean, do I look like a ma’am? Seriously, I couldn’t have been more than a few years older than this chick. And to assume I’m old enough to be a ma’am?” Lizzy held out her hands as if there were no more words in the English language that could properly illustrate her bafflement.

The two girls sat and stewed over their individual assaults, each wondering if what they beheld in the mirror each day was the same visage the rest of the world saw.

“I’m old enough!” Vicki thought contemptuously.

“I’m still young!” Lizzy screamed silently, willing it to be the truth.

Neither of the twins dared to think of tomorrow, the day they would ‘celebrate’ their 30^th birthdays.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      I’m just going to say it- being a thirty-year-old woman-child is really confusing. I don’t feel old enough for many of the responsibilities I find at my doorstep (I still keep thinking someone older and wiser will pop in and give me advice before scurrying on to the next thirty-something in need) and for other things, I feel as if I have completely outgrown then or at the very least paid my dues to deserve them. Part of me was hoping that once the bell tolled ‘thirty’ I would magically feel more competent and confident… eh, not so much. I’m definitely crankier though. This conflict of I’m old enough/I’m too young manifested itself today in such a way that I had to laugh a little. First, as I’m walking from the parking lot to my building on campus, I’m stopped by a student who was in need of directions. “Ma’am, can you tell me where Engineering II is?” I was so disoriented by being addressed in such a way, all I managed to do was mumble something and point at the giant campus map not two yards in front of us. I remember thinking, “how does she know I’m not a student?” and “do I really look that old?”. Very demoralizing. I mean, I kind of pride myself on looking younger than my years. Then, later this afternoon, still not quite over the ma’am incident, a student I’m advising keeps making comments about how young I look, and she can’t believe I have my own office, and how lucky I was to have such an important job and such a young age, blah, blah, blah. I found myself puffing up life a defensive peacock and told her with much pomp that I was older than I looked and I’ve had responsibilities like these before, yada, yada, yada. So first I’m upset because a student thinks I’m old and then I’m all faklempt because a different student thinks I’m too young! There is no making me happy I guess… of course, had either of these students had had the foresight to offer me a Coke or a piece of chocolate they could have called me anything in the book. Just sayin…

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Love & Squirrels.

Day #125: What a Pickle

The Story:

Dave Pickle was in a bit of a pickle. Trying his best to act naturally, he slowly pushed the bite of cucumber, spinach and carrot to the side of his mouth with his tongue. “That’s a great question, I’m so glad you asked,” he managed to say, thankfully, without spraying his interviewer with bits of salad. Dave then went on to describe a few of the highlights of his previous position, all while working diligently to keep his half-chewed food safely tucked in the recess behind his left molar.

Man, he hated job interviews. Even worse, job interviews over lunch. Who on earth had come up with that idea, anyway? Here he was, ready to illustrate how professional, hard-working, intelligent and capable he was but all he could think about was the possibility of a spinach leaf the size of a Subaru becoming lodged in his front teeth. Finishing his response, Dave worked to swallow the impacted cud his salad had morphed into before they moved on to the next question. Concentrating hard on not up-chucking, Dave finally got it to go down.

“So Dave, your resume spoke to your experience supervising several other members of your team. Could you go into a little detail about your supervising style and philosophy?” the interviewer asked without looking up from his own plate (that was now almost completely devoid of food despite Dave’s inability to make a dent in his lunch).

“Well this is unfair,” Dave thought to himself as he began to answer the question. “Here this guy gets to chow down while I basically starve to death answering these damn questions! I swear if I don’t get to take another bite soon, I think I might just lose it,” Dave managed to contain these thoughts as he talked about the demoralizing effect of micro-managing. His stomach let out a demonic growl of protest.

“Maybe this was a test? Maybe the lunch was part of the interview?” Dave began to think. “Maybe how I balance the social awkwardness of trying to eat while speaking about leadership or how many accounts I landed is how this place weeds out the candidates who can’t hack it?” That thought sent a shockwave up Dave’s spine causing him to sit up a little straighter. “Well heck if I don’t get this job because of a dumb salad!” he thought defiantly.

For the remainder of the interview, Dave Pickle attacked the interviewer’s questions (and his salad) with renewed vigor, and, if he said so himself, he was knocking it out of the park. “I’d be surprised if he didn’t offer me the job on the spot!” Dave thought excitedly.

“Well Mr. Pickle, it really has been a pleasure meeting you and getting to know you a little better. I thank you for meeting me over lunch and taking time out of your schedule. We have a few candidates left to interview and expect to have a decision by the middle of next week. But between the two of us, I think it’s safe to say you are at the top of the heap,” the interviewer said as he shook Dave’s hand and gave him a little wink.

After such a shaky start, Dave left the restaurant with a swing in his step and started to whistle as he reached his car. “I think I just got a job!” he thought to himself as he began to back his Toyota out of the restaurant’s parking space.

CRUNNNCH!!!

Wincing from the sound more than the actual impact, Dave was afraid to see what the damage looked like, “Where had that guy even come from?” he thought. Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Dave slowly walked around the back of his car to see a very dinged up black Cadillac and… his interviewer looking very unhappy. Letting out an uncomfortable laugh, Dave said, “Hope this doesn’t hurt my chances?” with as much good humor as he could muster.

Looking at the damage to his practically new Cadillac before casting his gaze at Dave the irate man answered, “Mr. Pickle, I believe it’s safe to say the dill is off”.

Don't worry, Mr. Pickle landed on his feet...

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Today marked the first day of school at my lovely university, bringing bright-eyed freshmen, disillusioned upper-classmen and seen-it-all faculty & staff all together once again after a summer apart. It also marked the first time yours truly was requested by a student for an interview to learn more about my work at the university and to provide guidance as she begins to map out her future. Offering to buy me lunch for my trouble, we met up today at one of the buffet-style eateries on campus. The interview itself went fine, save for one element- I couldn’t really eat anything. First off, I didn’t want to look like an oinker by loading up my tray with a bunch of food, so I opted to make a very ‘adult’ selection- a small salad of spinach, carrots, cucumbers, black olives and vinaigrette. While the bunny food was pretty tasty, I had every intention of getting up for something else once that had been inhaled. Yeah, that didn’t happen. The student had so many questions, (and admittedly I was a bit excited to be at the center of these questions causing my answers to go on way too long) before I knew it, the hour was up and it was time to part ways. I didn’t even get dessert!!! The inability to talk and eat gracefully struck me as pretty comical (especially at one point when food actually flew out of my mouth as I began to talk about my graduate school… real smooth Sam).

Wish I had a steak...

TWO:    The name Mr. Pickle comes from an email I received today, and no it wasn’t one of those delightful forwards (enough already!) but an actual email from a gentleman named Mr. Pickle (I can’t recall what his first name was). The name was too good to pass up and demanded to be used.

THREE:  The phrase, “Spinach the size of a Subaru” refers to Andy’s ongoing quest to find a decent car for not a lot of mullah. We went and looked at a few today, just to see if they were even something he’d like and I guess they passed the ‘sniff test’ cause it looks like that’s what he’s determined to get (praying to the car gods that we can find one that won’t break the bank).

Love & Squirrels.