This morning Flint decided he was dog enough to take on the vacuum. Dog, that vacuum – usually it makes him cower on the couch with his sister. They hear it fire up, and shoooom: they dart to the other side of the room or to some safe corner of the house. But today, today doggonit he was going to show that vacuum what he was made of.
That rat bastard vacuum, the humans just make way for it, pick up our toys, move furniture, fold up our pillows and blankies, flip over cushions… pulling that crazy hose out, waving it, and shoving it into every crevice. How invasive! And that sucking errrrrrrrring noise! It drives me crazy! Crazy.
Have you seen the way the humans just push it around? That vacuum can’t be more powerful than me! Humans have to push it on its leash. Me, I do the pulling when I am on a leash. I know it. I know it. I can do it. Today I am going to bark back at that vacuum.
Let me just get into position… it’s under the dining room table now – dog, look at the way it just gets EVerything in its path shoved aside to make way… elitist jerk... dog, this sucks! Okay, okay, focus, focus. Easy now. Con-cen-trate. NOW!
“Woof! Woof Woof!” Stay low, now; keep the crouch. “Woof ! Woof!” Okay, show some teeth now! Keep crouching! “Woof! Woof!” Goshdoggit, I said Woof! Is that thing deaf?
“Flint! Go on! Leave the vacuum alone!”
Dog… stupid Vacuum, always gets its way. I’ll just go back here to the couch and glower at it for awhile, keep Rosetta company, keep an eye on my toys. That’s it; if it messes with my toys… it’s game on again! Last week when Vacuum came out, Rosetta and I hung back on the couch, cowering, fearing for the life of our poor turtle toy in the middle of the room. Thankfully we were smarter than Vacuum. When it was on the other side of the room, Rosetta made a dash for the turtle, snapped it up, and brought it back to the couch. Saved! She saved our turtle! That rare act of bravery gave me the strength and determination to go jowel to jowel with that doggone vacuum this week.
We see where that got me. It got me yelled at. Next time, Vacuum, next time… I’ll be ready!
To be continued…
31 August 2008
29 August 2008
Goings on at the National Polygon (Episode 1)
Just when I had started to get things down to a routine and believe that I might actually earn my paycheck again, this happens.
There are many moments in my day that remind me of a Steven Wright joke. When he was a kid, his grandfather would lock Steven and himself in a closet and they would just stand there, staring at the wall. Eventually Steven the little boy would get impatient and ask his grandfather what they were doing. He grandfather would drily answer, “elevator practice.” In a later joke, Steven spoke about one day he took the elevator in his hotel and after the doors closed and the elevator started moving, he looked over at the person to his left and said, “Your grandfather made you do this too?”
So my friend Michele also works at the Pentagon, down in the J1 (Manpower Administration). Everyone in her office comes to work at 0700, sits down in front of their computers, stares straight ahead, and types or does something all day; at 1800, they all get up and go home. It is not as bad where I “work,” but I still have yet to figure out what I am supposed to do everyday, let alone what anybody else around me does.
Up until this morning, I would catch the 0620 bus near my house; there I would sit quietly and patiently, making eye contact with no one, keeping to myself as I futzed on my Blackberry or read a book about the Crisis of Islam. The trip took about 40 minutes and when we arrived at Pentagon station, we would all dutifully file off, like we learned how to do in grade school. Come to think of it, a school bus is really an ingenious way to force kids to stay in line. No matter how small you are, there is really no way to walk two abreast; I suppose if you were small enough to achieve that, then the seats on either side would look too high and scary and you may as well just sit down and start crying for help.
Anyway, after getting off the bus, I would go through security to get me into the building, then I would peel off to the left to get a VISITORS badge – as to why I am still a VISITOR, I will get to that in a minute; I'd then show my two forms of ID, thank the kind gentleman, go through a set of turnstiles, up an escalator, then wend my way through the corridors, like a trained rat in a maze. Keeping to the right, I would make my way to floor 2 to corridors 6,7,8,9. This would spit me out in the Anzus corridor (please don’t ask for further amplification on the name), past static displays from wars past, and eventually come to an open area with up and down escalators where I would keep to the right again and head towards the Food Court. My office is located directly across from the Food Court – like pubs in a small English town, this Food Court is a handy landmark for giving people directions. Maybe someday I will be so gregarious and important that I will have to give someone directions to my office. I can’t actually get in to my office just yet, though, so I dutifully wait outside and call for someone to open the door and sign me in.
There are 23,000 people who come to "work" in the Pentagon, so this system of corridors, wedges, boxes and cubicles are really the best way to keep us all straight and organized. It is bureaucratic genius really. All of the people are properly pigeonholed until it is time to address their project or idea.
To make the dull grey cubicles, stiff carpet, and drab faces seem more exciting, when I entered that office, I would imagine that I was entering a forest. I would follow the beaten path back deep into the woods, occasionally glancing at the furry woodland creatures (the Army & Marine Corps LtCols) on either side, smiling slightly to seem pleasant, unassuming and unthreatening; I would make my way back to the far right hand corner of the room to a little hovel known as my desk – or the desk adjacent to Jeff’s (the guy I am to relieve). My hovel is just forward of a meeting table and a group of other desks inhabited by Col. Winters and a large man known as Tony Galasso (I think there are more letters in his name, but you get the picture; his name is pronounced as you would slowly pronounce a drinking receptacle in made up Italian: GA-LASS-OH). Tony is a civilian who works on metrics with Col. Winters (whom, by the way I have only seen once in my eight days reporting to work). Tony is daunted by the fact that to go anywhere in the Pentagon, he would have to decipher a long address and probably take a few wrong turns before arriving at his chosen destination. So, this particular rat just doesn’t go anywhere. I am sure he is very nice, though. He umps Little League Baseball, and his daughter who lives in England is expecting. The other day he was telling a story about his daughter. She and her husband, who is in the Air Force, have recently moved to England. Tony asked her for her address and she said that she didn’t know it, that the base was in some town (I can’t remember the name), but she isn’t sure that that was the name of the town that one might put on an envelope as a proper address. Tony was aghast, so to speak, that she hadn’t bothered to go out and get the proper information. The way I see it, she is not too much different from her father who can’t be bothered to leave his desk to explore the world outside of his cubicle. I am sure that Tony knows his own address, though, so perhaps a couple of skills have been lost in a generation.
At this desk, I would sit and read all kinds of electronic and printed word about countering extremist ideologies, how to win the favor of the mainstream Muslims, with the ultimate goal of winning the War on Terror. So this is what I would do until it was time to run some errands, listen to people talk about a meeting, or gather small tidbits of what Jeff does on a daily basis. I can’t really get anywhere important or do anything real because there are issues with my security clearance. When I checked in, the security folks made it sound like the clearance that I needed had lapsed and that it would take a week or so before they would be able to grant me the requisite level of access so I could start “working.” Well, yesterday had been a week and I found out that I don’t have any clearance at all; that I shouldn’t have had one since 2005. They told me to go home and come back on Tuesday. Maybe then they will have figured out where to put me. I have to find a new, unclassified pigeonhole. I feel like a pariah, a turd. I have essentially been excommunicated from the National Polygon.
There are many moments in my day that remind me of a Steven Wright joke. When he was a kid, his grandfather would lock Steven and himself in a closet and they would just stand there, staring at the wall. Eventually Steven the little boy would get impatient and ask his grandfather what they were doing. He grandfather would drily answer, “elevator practice.” In a later joke, Steven spoke about one day he took the elevator in his hotel and after the doors closed and the elevator started moving, he looked over at the person to his left and said, “Your grandfather made you do this too?”
So my friend Michele also works at the Pentagon, down in the J1 (Manpower Administration). Everyone in her office comes to work at 0700, sits down in front of their computers, stares straight ahead, and types or does something all day; at 1800, they all get up and go home. It is not as bad where I “work,” but I still have yet to figure out what I am supposed to do everyday, let alone what anybody else around me does.
Up until this morning, I would catch the 0620 bus near my house; there I would sit quietly and patiently, making eye contact with no one, keeping to myself as I futzed on my Blackberry or read a book about the Crisis of Islam. The trip took about 40 minutes and when we arrived at Pentagon station, we would all dutifully file off, like we learned how to do in grade school. Come to think of it, a school bus is really an ingenious way to force kids to stay in line. No matter how small you are, there is really no way to walk two abreast; I suppose if you were small enough to achieve that, then the seats on either side would look too high and scary and you may as well just sit down and start crying for help.
Anyway, after getting off the bus, I would go through security to get me into the building, then I would peel off to the left to get a VISITORS badge – as to why I am still a VISITOR, I will get to that in a minute; I'd then show my two forms of ID, thank the kind gentleman, go through a set of turnstiles, up an escalator, then wend my way through the corridors, like a trained rat in a maze. Keeping to the right, I would make my way to floor 2 to corridors 6,7,8,9. This would spit me out in the Anzus corridor (please don’t ask for further amplification on the name), past static displays from wars past, and eventually come to an open area with up and down escalators where I would keep to the right again and head towards the Food Court. My office is located directly across from the Food Court – like pubs in a small English town, this Food Court is a handy landmark for giving people directions. Maybe someday I will be so gregarious and important that I will have to give someone directions to my office. I can’t actually get in to my office just yet, though, so I dutifully wait outside and call for someone to open the door and sign me in.
There are 23,000 people who come to "work" in the Pentagon, so this system of corridors, wedges, boxes and cubicles are really the best way to keep us all straight and organized. It is bureaucratic genius really. All of the people are properly pigeonholed until it is time to address their project or idea.
To make the dull grey cubicles, stiff carpet, and drab faces seem more exciting, when I entered that office, I would imagine that I was entering a forest. I would follow the beaten path back deep into the woods, occasionally glancing at the furry woodland creatures (the Army & Marine Corps LtCols) on either side, smiling slightly to seem pleasant, unassuming and unthreatening; I would make my way back to the far right hand corner of the room to a little hovel known as my desk – or the desk adjacent to Jeff’s (the guy I am to relieve). My hovel is just forward of a meeting table and a group of other desks inhabited by Col. Winters and a large man known as Tony Galasso (I think there are more letters in his name, but you get the picture; his name is pronounced as you would slowly pronounce a drinking receptacle in made up Italian: GA-LASS-OH). Tony is a civilian who works on metrics with Col. Winters (whom, by the way I have only seen once in my eight days reporting to work). Tony is daunted by the fact that to go anywhere in the Pentagon, he would have to decipher a long address and probably take a few wrong turns before arriving at his chosen destination. So, this particular rat just doesn’t go anywhere. I am sure he is very nice, though. He umps Little League Baseball, and his daughter who lives in England is expecting. The other day he was telling a story about his daughter. She and her husband, who is in the Air Force, have recently moved to England. Tony asked her for her address and she said that she didn’t know it, that the base was in some town (I can’t remember the name), but she isn’t sure that that was the name of the town that one might put on an envelope as a proper address. Tony was aghast, so to speak, that she hadn’t bothered to go out and get the proper information. The way I see it, she is not too much different from her father who can’t be bothered to leave his desk to explore the world outside of his cubicle. I am sure that Tony knows his own address, though, so perhaps a couple of skills have been lost in a generation.
At this desk, I would sit and read all kinds of electronic and printed word about countering extremist ideologies, how to win the favor of the mainstream Muslims, with the ultimate goal of winning the War on Terror. So this is what I would do until it was time to run some errands, listen to people talk about a meeting, or gather small tidbits of what Jeff does on a daily basis. I can’t really get anywhere important or do anything real because there are issues with my security clearance. When I checked in, the security folks made it sound like the clearance that I needed had lapsed and that it would take a week or so before they would be able to grant me the requisite level of access so I could start “working.” Well, yesterday had been a week and I found out that I don’t have any clearance at all; that I shouldn’t have had one since 2005. They told me to go home and come back on Tuesday. Maybe then they will have figured out where to put me. I have to find a new, unclassified pigeonhole. I feel like a pariah, a turd. I have essentially been excommunicated from the National Polygon.
21 August 2008
Simple Amusements
Yesterday I had my first experience shopping at the Army PX at Fort Belvior. After eventually finding what we needed, Russ and I went to check out. We were third in line behind a pair of soldiers buying about six or seven items and another guy buying some photo printer paper and a pack of Twizzlers that he picked up while discovering he had some time on his hands here in line. When we first got in line, there were a couple of other options, but this one I deemed this one to be the best one – the timeless misconception of someone like me who truly believes she can use reason or math to choose the faster line (rule #1: never do math in public).
So we’re waiting, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. What on earth is so complicated about this checkout process? What crap is on these magazines? Oooh, men can get the best bodies of their lives back? Someone famous has twin princesses, one of whom is destitute but a free spirit, the other has everything she could ever want but is a brat? News flash. Ooooh, look at that cool new packaging for Eclipse gum. I am intrigued. I will get some. How exciting! New treats! What is that grunting noise? Something about being ready? Okay now I am bored. Where can I occupy my imagination? People in line behind me seem to be shifting with impatience. Am I doing the same thing? Voice of a woman who sounds like she is chewing comes over the PA system: “Mervin please hang up your phone, I am trying to call you. Mervin please hang up your phone, I am trying to call you!” That cracks me up and I start laughing out loud and laugh a little harder when I see that the soldier in front of me is trying not to show that it cracked him up too. Well, I guess that is one way to get someone’s attention – AND EVERYONE ELSE’S IN THE STORE! Oooh, great, the soldier in front of me is now up to be checked out.
“Are you ready guys?” the checkout man says, “Here we go…” and I watched somewhat quizzically as ALVIN dramatically swiped the package of printer paper and then the Twizzlers across the bar code reader, took the soldier’s money and sent the him on his way. Now we were up!
“Are you ready guys? Here we GO!” I feel like we were just welcomed to an amusement park ride. In ALVIN’s world, things are about to start moving, and he wants to make sure we are ready, so I nod and play along because I too believe in the land of makebelieve; I have just never encountered it through the mind of a man in his sixties at a military department store.
“Here’s your bag! Are you ready?”
“I am ready,” I respond enthusiastically, looking around for my seatbelt to fasten. Instead, I dutifully grab my plastic bag. ALVIN picks my first item off of the belt and ceremoniously waves the bar code across the scanner like the item is some magic wand and he wants to cast a spell over the magical mystical bar code reader! “Beep!” Ah ha! The spell works!
“Here you go!” he announces as he holds my first item over his head like a newly anointed baby whom he is about to throw as a bomb pass down field to Jerry Rice. A dutiful receiver who’ll just have to do, I hold up my hands because I am the only one open downfield. He follows his fake throw through all the way to my hands and I safely place the item in the bag.
“Next one!” I am entranced by this checkout magician! This process continues, each item receives the same magical, ceremonious treatment as the last (as it should!) until it is time to pay. Aw Man, too bad we only had six items! Russ swiped the credit card, pressed “cancel” on the debit screen, and then we waited for the transaction to come through. The woman in line behind us knowitally said, ”Press CANCEL!”
“I did,” Russ said. “I can figure out that much.” We may not know just what alternate universe we just entered and exited, but he can follow a touchpad screen. I think she was a little impatient. Well, just you wait lady, you are in for the ride of your life!
So we’re waiting, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. What on earth is so complicated about this checkout process? What crap is on these magazines? Oooh, men can get the best bodies of their lives back? Someone famous has twin princesses, one of whom is destitute but a free spirit, the other has everything she could ever want but is a brat? News flash. Ooooh, look at that cool new packaging for Eclipse gum. I am intrigued. I will get some. How exciting! New treats! What is that grunting noise? Something about being ready? Okay now I am bored. Where can I occupy my imagination? People in line behind me seem to be shifting with impatience. Am I doing the same thing? Voice of a woman who sounds like she is chewing comes over the PA system: “Mervin please hang up your phone, I am trying to call you. Mervin please hang up your phone, I am trying to call you!” That cracks me up and I start laughing out loud and laugh a little harder when I see that the soldier in front of me is trying not to show that it cracked him up too. Well, I guess that is one way to get someone’s attention – AND EVERYONE ELSE’S IN THE STORE! Oooh, great, the soldier in front of me is now up to be checked out.
“Are you ready guys?” the checkout man says, “Here we go…” and I watched somewhat quizzically as ALVIN dramatically swiped the package of printer paper and then the Twizzlers across the bar code reader, took the soldier’s money and sent the him on his way. Now we were up!
“Are you ready guys? Here we GO!” I feel like we were just welcomed to an amusement park ride. In ALVIN’s world, things are about to start moving, and he wants to make sure we are ready, so I nod and play along because I too believe in the land of makebelieve; I have just never encountered it through the mind of a man in his sixties at a military department store.
“Here’s your bag! Are you ready?”
“I am ready,” I respond enthusiastically, looking around for my seatbelt to fasten. Instead, I dutifully grab my plastic bag. ALVIN picks my first item off of the belt and ceremoniously waves the bar code across the scanner like the item is some magic wand and he wants to cast a spell over the magical mystical bar code reader! “Beep!” Ah ha! The spell works!
“Here you go!” he announces as he holds my first item over his head like a newly anointed baby whom he is about to throw as a bomb pass down field to Jerry Rice. A dutiful receiver who’ll just have to do, I hold up my hands because I am the only one open downfield. He follows his fake throw through all the way to my hands and I safely place the item in the bag.
“Next one!” I am entranced by this checkout magician! This process continues, each item receives the same magical, ceremonious treatment as the last (as it should!) until it is time to pay. Aw Man, too bad we only had six items! Russ swiped the credit card, pressed “cancel” on the debit screen, and then we waited for the transaction to come through. The woman in line behind us knowitally said, ”Press CANCEL!”
“I did,” Russ said. “I can figure out that much.” We may not know just what alternate universe we just entered and exited, but he can follow a touchpad screen. I think she was a little impatient. Well, just you wait lady, you are in for the ride of your life!
18 August 2008
Unhoppiness Can Be So Nice
If a beer is really has lots of hops (which is to say “hoppy”) it is wholly unpleasant to me. It makes me want to vacuum my tongue. And who wants to do that?? But, ah, a beer that is not hoppy – I daresay “unhoppy" – is oh so pleasant…
That First Beer. There is nothing like my First Beer of the evening (or day or night… and, on a rare occasion, the morning). It makes me so excited to open it or to have it brought to me. The smell, the head, the slippery coolness in my hand and then, when it touches my lips… makes me feel like Will Farrell on Old School “It feels so good when it touches your lips!” Drinking that first beer, somehow my mouth seems bigger – and I have a pretty small mouth, only 24 teeth – my throat seems wider, and my stomach seems bottomless. I get so excited; I just want to drink it really fast, but yet I also want to savor every morsel as one savors a really good long kiss. I have been known to lose focus on everything else around me but that beloved beer that is rocking my world.
Once when we pulled in to Hong Kong, Russ and my friend’s wife Tori came to visit and the second day we were there, we had been walking around all day seeing the sights and later in the afternoon we came upon what appeared to be a good watering hole, a German pub. This place offered a variety of beers in two fun sizes: a half-liter and a liter. Tori ordered a mojito and Erik and Russ ordered a liter of beer. I was about to, but I paused for a moment, like a child about to say a bad word or take the last cookie from the jar; so Russ stepped in and said, “She’ll have the half-liter.” He then looked at me, shook his head and said, “You don’t need a liter of beer.” Fine, I thought.
So the beers came and man was mine DE-licious! I can just taste it now, and it makes me smile (even though it is 5:30 am as I write this). Everyone was talking and I would chime in occasionally, but I was ever fixated on my beer. Ah, that beer, that beer! My sips were gulppy mouthfuls and as I was nearing my last couple of swallows, I said to Russ and Erik, “I will show you motherfuckers. I am going to finish this one even before you are half-way done with yours. See, I could have handled the liter!” As they shook their heads and laughed, the attentive waitress – let’s call her my faithful accomplice or culpable assistant – came by and asked if I would like another. I told her, “Yes, I would, but this time may I have a liter?” It came before long and I aimed to finish it before Russ and Erik had finished their beloved liter. I think I did. So there.
After that and some snacks I think we left that place, or maybe I even had another… but my memory is kind of foggy about the details. I do recall in a general way, though, that that was a glorious afternoon.
That First Beer. There is nothing like my First Beer of the evening (or day or night… and, on a rare occasion, the morning). It makes me so excited to open it or to have it brought to me. The smell, the head, the slippery coolness in my hand and then, when it touches my lips… makes me feel like Will Farrell on Old School “It feels so good when it touches your lips!” Drinking that first beer, somehow my mouth seems bigger – and I have a pretty small mouth, only 24 teeth – my throat seems wider, and my stomach seems bottomless. I get so excited; I just want to drink it really fast, but yet I also want to savor every morsel as one savors a really good long kiss. I have been known to lose focus on everything else around me but that beloved beer that is rocking my world.
Once when we pulled in to Hong Kong, Russ and my friend’s wife Tori came to visit and the second day we were there, we had been walking around all day seeing the sights and later in the afternoon we came upon what appeared to be a good watering hole, a German pub. This place offered a variety of beers in two fun sizes: a half-liter and a liter. Tori ordered a mojito and Erik and Russ ordered a liter of beer. I was about to, but I paused for a moment, like a child about to say a bad word or take the last cookie from the jar; so Russ stepped in and said, “She’ll have the half-liter.” He then looked at me, shook his head and said, “You don’t need a liter of beer.” Fine, I thought.
So the beers came and man was mine DE-licious! I can just taste it now, and it makes me smile (even though it is 5:30 am as I write this). Everyone was talking and I would chime in occasionally, but I was ever fixated on my beer. Ah, that beer, that beer! My sips were gulppy mouthfuls and as I was nearing my last couple of swallows, I said to Russ and Erik, “I will show you motherfuckers. I am going to finish this one even before you are half-way done with yours. See, I could have handled the liter!” As they shook their heads and laughed, the attentive waitress – let’s call her my faithful accomplice or culpable assistant – came by and asked if I would like another. I told her, “Yes, I would, but this time may I have a liter?” It came before long and I aimed to finish it before Russ and Erik had finished their beloved liter. I think I did. So there.
After that and some snacks I think we left that place, or maybe I even had another… but my memory is kind of foggy about the details. I do recall in a general way, though, that that was a glorious afternoon.
15 August 2008
Free Verse Drinking
When I have been drinkin' I have thoughts I have no business thinkin'.
Like I think the person driving should step a little harder on the accelerator,
I should speak a little louder to get someone's attention,
Hills seem a little steeper,
Yet everything is a little more conquerable...
Like I think the person driving should step a little harder on the accelerator,
I should speak a little louder to get someone's attention,
Hills seem a little steeper,
Yet everything is a little more conquerable...
Signs
I saw some signs on the side of the road saying "Take Farm Road" and "Take Pond Road," and, being in Maine, I thought that maybe there was a lake around here named "Take Lake." But when I saw another sign that said "Take Third Right," even I, despite my open-mindedness, thought something was a little fishy. So I pointed out these peculiar place names to Russ, and he matteroffactly pointed out the next cross street "Pond Road" and said that the other signs were merely giving directions. How boring.
14 August 2008
A Story of Freedom
08-09-08: When I was getting out of the car yesterday, the strangest thing happened to me.
The back hook from the bra that was in my front pants pocket caught on the upholstery of the seat and was literally pinning me down.
What??!!
I know, I know, it flummoxed me too.
Here are some questions you may have; the answers to which may clarify the situation, but unfortunately may also render it less colorful.
What kind of pants was I wearing?
-Olive green cargo-like hiking pants with lots of pockets and flappies.
Why was there a bra in my pocket?
- I have been known to put some pretty strange things in my pockets if I have them available - pockets, not things. Once for Halloween we were underway; and in anticipation of being unable to wear a costume, my friend Carol and I bought rubber animal noses that we planned on discreetly donning to be as festive as one may be permitted to be while in uniform on a ship. Mine was a wolf's snout. So Halloween came to USS CARL VINSON and she and I put our animal noses on when transiting the
p-ways or whenever we thought we could get away with it. The elastic kind of pinched the side of my face, though, so it wasn't super comfortable however hilarious looking. In life, most women find they are forced to choose between comfort and beauty or sophistication or sexiness in their attire. In this case, I had an entirely different dilemma, which should not be minimized: Comfort vs. Comic Relief. In most situations, as in this one, comic relief won the day.
For the record, except on special occasions, I opt for comfort over sophistication, beauty or sexiness hands down. Hmmmm. I guess that says something about the role
of comic relief in my life. Honestly, though, it usually finds me first.
Anyway, when I went down to the plant to stand watch, I didn't dare wear my snout; however I couldn't well leave it in the office sticking out of my inbox or something because someone would be liable to mess with it. So (I am sure you can see where this is going), I stored it safely in the pocket of my coveralls.
During the course of my watch, my watchteam and I eventually came around to talking about Halloween and how it sucked to be underway for Halloween. This is how most
conversations on watch go: Sailors stand around and bitch about how much this or that sucks because we are either underway, on watch, or on duty. I think we all suffer from the same paranoia that life elsewhere is just passing us by. Sometimes we may be right. Anyway, so in this most recent bitch session about missing Halloween, I offered up that I had some semblance of a Halloween costume: a wolf's snout; and that I had even been so bold as to wear it around the p-ways!
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yeah-huh!"
"Prove it!" My watchteam challenged me. "Where is it now?" they eagerly queried.
"In my pocket." I matteroffactly stated.
"You have a snout in your pocket?"
Feeling more than a little embarrassed, I sheepishly replied, "Yes, I do."
So, yeah, things in my pocket. I had the bra in my pocket because earlier I had changed it out in favor of a sports bra for my workout. My workout was over, though, and so as not to get cold, I layered my olive hiking-cargo pants over my running shorts for the trip to the coast.
During the course of the car ride with me shifting about, the back strap must have worked its way free from the confines of my pocket to cling to the upholstery of the only outside world it knew. I can't blame it really, that bra hook leads a very limited existence, monogamously clutching to one and only one hook, plastered to my back, day in and day out until it is freed only to be folded up in a drawer
or, worse yet, cast upon the floor with little hope of change, variety or adventure.
Being in that pocket and discovering some upholstery to latch on to was arguably the most interesting thing to ever happen to it. Poor thing.
But how strange it was for me, the human and master of the bra, to be trapped in my seat by a mere bra strap hook.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)