Guns & Gratitude

When I first came off Orcas Island in mid-December, following three months of relative seclusion, I found myself preoccupied by the various and sundry ways in which humans are hazardous to one's health.  To name but a few examples:

• They say dumb things.  I believe this requires no further explanation.
• They do terrible things.  The day before I left Orcas, a young man shot up a fucking elementary school.  As if that wasn't bad enough, we were then subjected to the media's ill-conceived response ("Who's to blame?  Could it be YOU?!?!?") and a painful descent into the world of American gun control debates (more on that later).
• They are contaminated.  For the three months I was alone on Orcas, I experienced perfect health.  About 15 minutes after my return to the human-saturated mainland, I started coughing like crazy.  People are walking germ factories.  They are snot monsters and flu-flingers, on an endless crusade to kill one another.

Yeah.  Quit breathing and touching things.

However, I soon realized that this way of thinking was not particularly helpful.  I need to coexist with other humans, so viewing them as cacophonous, evil Petri dishes of infection does not particularly serve me.  Therefore, several weeks ago I made the decision to focus on gratitude instead, and it's a good thing, because soon after leaving Orcas, I had to take a flight from Massachusetts to North Carolina with my sick sister, a sick one year-old, and two cats.  Such an experience can certainly test one's ability to be grateful.

For a situation so rife with disastrous potential, in truth it did not prove difficult to remain focused on gratitude.  When we arrived at Logan Airport, it wasn't crowded at all.  It was practically deserted.  Our lovely friend, who had graciously given us a ride, helped us carry our things inside, and no cops yelled at her for leaving her car parked on the curb.  The TSA guy was shockingly helpful.  He said my nephew reminded him of his grandson, and he did everything in his power to ease our passage through security (although he also suggested we alleviate our burdens by throwing the cats in the garbage).  I told the people behind us in the security line that they could go ahead, and they said it was okay - they weren't in any hurry.  They were all too busy cooing and making goo-goo eyes at my nephew.

People fucking love babies.  If you have one with you, they automatically like you better.  Their decorum and intelligence appear to fall by the wayside as soon as a baby comes into their line of sight, and they begin babbling, squealing, and giggling madly.  This took me by surprise during our airport experience, but I soon realized that most people feel about babies the way I feel about dogs.  When I see a baby, I tend to think, Oh, God, please don't make eye contact.  Just keep moving.  However, when I see a dog, I immediately become filled with happiness and begin making high-pitched noises in an attempt to attract its attention.

See, I would totally squeal if I saw this dog.  The kid?  Not so much.

The man sitting next to us on the plane, who was reading some pop psychology book about people's metaphorical "positive buckets," loved my nephew and told my sister and me that we had filled his positive bucket for the day.  This may be due to the fact that we kept plying him with chocolate truffles, which we'd brought along to pacify folks sitting around us in the event that my nephew started screaming his head off or the cats began yowling or released their bowels, which would have been catastrophic in that enclosed space.  Thankfully, none of those things happened.

My nephew did great.  He played for two hours and slept for one.  He smiled at all the people and warmed their baby-loving hearts.  The cats refrained from barfing or pooping and were blessedly silent, even when I tilted their crates vertically to get them under the seats and then kicked them repeatedly (gently, but still) to force them into place.  Days before the flight, my sister had read information about traveling with cats, and several folks had advised, "Make sure your cat has access to plenty of water throughout the trip."  Great idea.  I'm sure the cats would've loved getting crammed under the seats even more if they'd had water splashing all over and soaking them.

I.  Hate you.

All in all, the trip went swimmingly, and we landed in Charlotte with a happy baby, two dry cats, and smiles (not even fake ones) on our faces. 

The thing in my life for which I am currently most grateful is my nephew.  He is hilarious, mischievous, and has taught me several fascinating games, including Imaginary Vacuum, Imaginary Cooking, Crazy Dance Party, Torment the Cats, and Empty the Cabinets.  In return, I've taught him to say, "What the...?" and emit a prolonged, dramatic groan whenever he reaches for something.  His parents are very grateful for my influence.

Here we are together.  He has some growing to do.

Babies do gross things, like soak you with pee while they're sleeping on your lap, sneeze food in your face, and poop everywhere.  But none of those behaviors really bothers me.  The only thing my nephew does that I find completely revolting is when he grabs my shirt and starts rooting around at my boobs.  That makes me want to barf.  However, I know it's not his intention to disgust his auntie with that creepy, parasitic behavior.  One day he'll come to understand that some women's boobs are for recreational use only.

Okay, enough about gratitude and boobs.  Let's talk about guns.  The gun control debate was actually what inspired me to revive this blog in the first place, but then I decided I'd rather focus on gratitude and my nephew than on guns and idiots.  But here's what I think.  There's a reason civilians get to drive cars (even very large ones), but not tanks.  That reason is this:  if some rando gets particularly drunk, angry, and/or crazy, that person shouldn't have at his or her fingertips the ready option of blowing up a skyscraper and killing a thousand people.  Similarly, if you want a gun, fine.  Have a gun.  But the average person should not have access to the kind of firepower that was designed for fighting wars.  That weaponry should be solely in the hands of people who are fighting wars.  Just like tanks.

Well, I guess if you REALLY need a tank, you could have one like this.

I think the crux of the problem is Americans misunderstanding the concept of freedom.  American freedom is supposed to be about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, not just for each individual, but as a nation of people.  Unfortunately, many Americans seem to define freedom this way:  "I should be able to have whatever I want whenever I want it, without having to think about any other living thing on Earth, because thinking has nothing to do with freedom.  If I want it, I should be able to have it.  So there.  Nanny-nanny boo-boo."  And that's just stupid.  We've become a nation of spoiled, whiny, temper-tantrumming toddlers.  It's embarrassing.

Okay, enough about guns.  I'd like to reboard the gratitude train.  As I sit in Florida listening to palm fronds blowing in the wind, I feel endlessly grateful for my husband and his understanding that I could not possibly spend one more winter in Portland.  After three years in that waterlogged town, I have come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, made of sugar, and exposure to prolonged rains will indeed cause me to melt.  It's hard to focus on gratitude after one has melted.

Although this guy seems pretty happy