My Little Quack

I've had a 2003 Toyota Echo for the past eight years and driven it well over 100,000 miles.  Its name is Quack, because at the time I bought it, I believed the only sound in nature that didn't echo was a duck's quack.  I later found out that's an urban legend and was quite embarrassed that I'm so easily duped.  I mean, why the hell wouldn't a duck's quack echo?  But urban legends are funny like that.  Someone makes up something ridiculous, tells other people, and they tell other people, and soon enough it's common knowledge.

"Your silly beliefs fill us with shame."

However, by the time I found out that quacks echo, Quack had been Quack for years, so I decided to stick with the name.

Quack gets excellent gas mileage, fits in tiny parking spaces, and hardly ever gives me any trouble.  The only issue with my car is that it's so narrow, tall, and lightweight that it acts kind of like a sail in heavy winds.  In fact, a strong enough gust can blow it all the way over into the next lane of traffic.  But, hey - that just keeps things interesting.

Last weekend, some dumbass shithead rear ended my beloved Quack (injuring my poor husband in the process), then took the coward's route and drove off.  Since then, said dumbass shithead (I'll call him D.a.s.h. for short) has taken no responsibility for the accident, while I've had to deal with cops, insurance companies, mechanics, and the DMV.  Meanwhile, it appears that D.a.s.h. - utilizing the brilliant strategy of ignoring cops & insurance agents until they go away - is going to get off scot-free.

If the arms were ten million times longer, this would reflect my true feelings for D.a.s.h.

The problem with having this happen when I'm unemployed is that I have way too much time to feel enraged about the situation.  My thoughts are mired in the icky, gooey tar of righteous fury and helplessness, and I don't have the option of throwing all of my energy into work, which is usually a convenient distraction at times like this.  So instead I find myself drowning in crappy thoughts like:  D.a.s.h. thinks he can pull this bullshit and get away with it because he CAN!  He's fully supported by a culture of selfishness and unaccountability!  He's probably sitting at home laughing at me RIGHT NOW!  AAAAHHHHH!!!  Die, D.a.s.h.!  DIE!

And yes, that train of thought leads to some pretty unpleasant revenge fantasies that spew out liberally in all directions.  I want to go to D.a.s.h.'s house and smash his car to shit with a baseball bat.  I want to use my slingshot to peg the roofer next door with a rock because he's making too much noise.  I want to punch every white male I see in the head, because D.a.s.h. is a white male, and I'm convinced they're all in cahoots.  Even in my most benevolent fantasies, I imagine myself wandering around town, smacking these stickers on people's cars:

You know you're in a poor state of mind when you want to threaten families for no reason

To keep myself from dwelling endlessly in this draining and not-particularly-helpful mindset, I decided to shift my focus to my new pal, gratitude, and upon brief reflection, I realized I'm very grateful for these things:

1. I have a good car.
2. Quack escaped the accident relatively unscathed.
3. When purchasing a car, in no way did I factor in any need or desire to obtain a "status symbol" type vehicle.  If my car had cost a kabillion dollars, I'd probably be even more pissed off about this situation.  

In fact, there are lots of reasons I'm happy I don't have one of those "status symbol" type cars.  In stark contrast to Quack, those cars not only cost a shit ton, but they also tend to have terrible gas mileage, huge repair bills, and get stolen a lot.  So while their owners hope they exude the message:  "My owner totally rocks!" these cars are actually saying:  "My owner makes bad decisions!"

Hey, check out my ridiculous car!  It looks like a battleship!  I'm the King of Stupidville!

I generally don't take the status symbol factor into account when making purchases, not only because I can't afford to (which I can't), but primarily because I don't agree with all that crap.  If someone were to ask me to name something that truly signifies one's success as a human being, I would say this:  "Kids and dogs are happy to see you."  Because if kids and dogs get all squealy, wiggly and excited when you come around, you're doing something right.  Next to that, cars, clothes, jewelry, tech gear, home decor, and all that other crap are pretty damn meaningless.  And you know who I bet kids and dogs are NEVER happy to see?  Who causes them to cry, growl, tuck their tails and run away?  D.a.s.h.  That's who.  Rotten, good-for-nothing bastard.

Speaking of dogs and status symbols (and in the interest of concluding on a more positive note), I don't believe it's a sign of personal success to own a hamster-sized dog so you can carry it around in a gaudy, $20,000 handbag.  A good dog looks like this:

A good dog helps you do your homework and looks super cute doing it

The Key to Longevity

My grandfather passed away last week, just shy of his 92nd birthday.  Over the years, he taught me copious critical principles about life - how to treat others; the value of family; what it means to be a strong person; and many other lessons that aided the building of my foundation.  But I think the most important thing I learned from my grandfather is what I've come to understand is the key to longevity, and that is this: 
 

Learn to amuse yourself.  

Life is really funny if you choose to view it that way.  So whoop it up.  Here are a few suggestions on how to do so.

Baby elephants do it like this.  Humans have to improvise.

(1) Play with your food.   If you love soy sauce, go ahead and take a swig straight from the bottle.  At restaurants, throw back those little creamers like they're shots.  Have fun with pancakes.  My grandfather made them shaped like bunnies.  Several years ago, when my father was engaged in fierce warfare against squirrels (they wouldn't stay off our bird feeders) and the one-sided battle was causing him to descend slowly into madness, my grandfather alleviated his angst by making him a pancake in the shape of a squirrel.  

I think chopping the thing into pieces and devouring it made Dad feel much better.  He may have even stopped shooting the squirrels at that point.

My sister, having clearly internalized our grandfather's teachings, 
imitates the face on her beet.

(2) Decide that something pretty common, like farting, is hilarious.  That way, everyday life will offer plenty of opportunities for hysterical laughter.  This guy almost brought about my grandfather's demise years ago:

I've never seen anyone laugh so hard.  Whenever my grandfather had to pull out his handkerchief to mop the tears from his face, I think he rolled his life clock back two weeks.  And he did that an awful lot.

One of his favorite Christmas presents

Christmas morning story time with the grandkids

(3) Recognize that the human face can do really fun things, and take advantage of that fact.

Stick pinwheels in a lady's hat, make a silly face, and call it good

Or, in lieu of a lady's hat, go with a paper crown and put napkin rings in your eyes

Show your appreciation for the nose hair-frying power of bourbon balls

(4) When playing games, kick ass and take names.  Don't give the younger generations any false sense of entitlement by letting them achieve victory, as annihilating those several decades younger than you can be particularly entertaining.
  

Here he is slaughtering me in dominoes

...and again

It's true my grandfather did other things that allegedly promote a long life, like watching his diet and staying active.  But my grandmother, on the other hand, eats nothing but ice cream, Goldfish crackers, grilled cheese, and chocolate, hasn't exercised since 1943, and is healthy as a horse.

Here she is realizing she doesn't have to do anything doctors recommend

And that's how I know the true key to longevity.  My grandmother understands that life is funny, and I believe that's what keeps her heart and mind going.  Clearly the nutrition/exercise crap is purely secondary.

Dogs v. Fleas

As I prepare to leave the west coast and move back to the time zone of my youth, I've been thinking about the friendships I'd like to cultivate in my new environment.  I've had lots of different friends over the years, many of whom fall into the wonderful FRIENDS! group (as in:  HOORAY FOR FRIENDS!), and others that have landed squarely in a category I've come to know as "friends" (when referring to these folks, I tend to make those little quotey signs with my fingers).

In my formative years, I clung to friends as one adrift at sea clings to a flotation device.  I believe this was due to my introversion.  I feared that, if I let a friend go, I would need to make a new friend...which would have meant speaking to people, and that prospect was wholly unpleasant.  So I worked diligently to hold onto all of my friends, even the super crappy ones.

These days, I realize there are worse things than being friendless (e.g., having crappy friends), and that the universe has provided a healthy distraction for introverts who don't want to deal with bad friends.  That distraction is called books.  Even the crappiest book is better than a crappy friend. 

After years of friendships, I've come up with a simple way to distinguish between good friends and crap friends.  Let's start with good friends, because that will fill us with warm, squishy feelings of happiness.

Good friends are like dogs.  They've got your back.  They've seen you at your best and worst, and they love you for all of it.  They may growl when you do something wrong, but they'll soon forgive your misstep.  They don't hold grudges.  And they get excited every time they see you.  

Maintaining a relationship with a good friend, as with a dog, isn't complicated.  The rules are simple.  With a dog, it looks like this:

• You provide food
• Dog provides protection (and/or cool tricks, general adorableness, etc.)
• Both parties provide walks and snuggles
• All is right with the world

Similarly, rules for good friends look like this:

• Listen to each other
• Laugh together
• Give a shit about each other's lives
• :)

See?  Easy peasy.  It's not rocket science, or phlebotomy, or any of those other things I know nothing about (which = lots of things).  I love my dog friends (and my dogs).  They make everything in life better.
 

Good friendships look like this.  Let's assume the dog's getting at least a little airflow.

Then there are crap friends.

Crap friends are like fleas.  They bite, and they suck.  They offer nothing besides a slow, steady reduction of your energy.  And once they've infested your life, it can be really hard to get rid of them. 

Interestingly, even though they're feeding off of you, fleas don't actually care about you, and they don't need to, because once you've been sucked dry or (best case scenario) managed to dislodge them, they simply find another victim to drain.  That's why, when flicking them off, you may want to consider aiming for a toilet bowl or open flame, thereby sparing any future, unsuspecting victims.

Given the stark contrast between these two species, it should be of no surprise that dogs and fleas don't have much respect for one another.  Fleas just want to drain dogs, and dogs want to obliterate fleas.  A Valley Girl would explain this phenomenon as follows:  "Dogs are all, 'You suck, fleas,' and the fleas are all like, 'Whatever, losers.'"

I've had flea friends, and I never want another one.  They are worse than useless.  Even after you successfully remove them, they leave itchy sores behind.  Therefore, I'm looking forward to cultivating dog-like companions in my new town.  But just to be on the safe side, I'll make sure to get myself a library card soon after my arrival, as libraries contain thousands of those marvelous alternatives to fleas.

In fact, I believe this could very well be my new BFF

A Matter of Perspective

In a training I used to run, I gave participants a scenario about a young woman who'd had her kids taken away by the state.  I asked trainees to read the description of this woman, then get into two groups to discuss the situation.  One of the groups was charged with making a list of the mother's strengths, while the other was responsible for listing her weaknesses.  When the trainees were done, we came back together as a large group to compare the lists.

Every time I led this activity, the result was the same.  As I documented the groups' examples of the woman's strengths and weaknesses, group members soon realized the intention of the exercise, and hands shot into the air.  "The lists are basically the same," a trainee would inform us.  "Everything on the weaknesses lists is also on the strengths list.  They're just worded differently."  It was true.  The weakness "Mom's only been clean for 2 weeks" became a strength with the wording "Mom's managed to stay clean for 2 weeks."  "She didn't go to college" turned into "She successfully earned her high school diploma."  Same facts.  Different perspective.  Strengths became weaknesses and vice versa depending on the viewer's chosen lens.

I do realize this isn't a new idea, and that most folks know that our chosen perspective defines our experience.  If we choose to see things in a positive light, we do.  If we choose to see everything through a lens covered in crap, then everything looks crappy.  One man's beautiful ocean is another man's toilet bowl.  To a great extent, our world doesn't define us.  We define our world.

Presently, for instance, a 65-pound dog is strewn across my lap, making it very difficult to type.  I could be thinking: 

A.  This dog is crushing me
or... 
B.  The way he's making me type, my arms are falling asleep
thus concluding that...
C.  This sucks.
 
But instead I'm thinking: 

A.  Wow, my lap is really warm
and...
B.  This dog is ridiculously adorable
therefore...
C.  This rocks.
 
These days, my favorite example of perspective-choosing is FTW (Fuck the World) vs. FTW (For the Win).  I'm getting ready to move across the county in a few months, and as I wander around rainy Portland, contemplating the fact that my little family will soon be without income, housing, insurance, or any other traditionally stabilizing factors, I find myself thinking: FTW?  

Or...FTW!

Hooray!  The blue dog with glasses is the winner!

I think I'll go with the latter.  It's sure to be more motivating, and less likely to drive me to drink.

Surprisingly, in writing this post, the internet totally supported my perspective-shifting efforts.  When I did a Google Images search for "FTW fuck the world," this is one of the images that came up:

There was absolutely no explanation for it, either.  The caption was simply:  "The cutest dog in the world."  It's as if the internet was saying, "Aw, why are you searching for that?  You clearly need to see a picture of a poof ball puppy." 

And the internet was right.  Thanks for the puppy, Al Gore...or whoever's in charge of this thing these days. 

Golden Sleep Doth Reign...Where?

Yesterday marked the one-month anniversary of my current bout of insomnia.  After a month of not sleeping, I've gotta admit I'm pretty damn tired.  I think my body is gradually collapsing from the inside out.  And I'm starting to hallucinate. 

This prolonged sleep disturbance has led me to the following list of helpful observations.

Signs You Could Use Some Sleep:

(1) You begin questioning your right to exist.
As you lie awake in bed for the third, twelfth, or twenty-fifth night in a row, you find yourself wondering:  How is this evolutionarily possible?  How, after thousands of years of mutation and development, am I one of the fittest of my species, worthy of survival? I can't even perform a basic life function.  You decide that you only exist because of some flaw that slipped through the cracks of human adaptation and feel even better about your decision to abstain from breeding, as the evolutionary error will die with you.

(2) Your perception of the world becomes far too interesting.

My new friends

Lots of things start happening, particularly in your peripheral vision, that are not actually happening.  You may be found waving imaginary bugs out of your face or having an extreme startle reflex for no reason.  Driving a car at this point is probably not such a good idea.

(3) Your motor functioning goes to shit.
You don't know if it's because your brain and body are no longer on speaking terms or your spatial abilities have just gone on vacation.  What you do know is that you drop half the things you try to pick up and knock over the other half.

(4) You start saying bizarre things.  
The pathway between your brain and your mouth apparently has been severed, so you think certain words, but then you say other words.  For example, a couple of weeks ago I started saying suicide instead of insomnia (e.g., "My suicide is really starting to piss me off").  

If you have an upcoming court date, try to get a continuance to sometime in the future, after you and sleep have reunited.  With your inability to control what comes out of your mouth, you could go in to fight a parking ticket and end up getting 30 days for contempt. 

"WHAT did you just say?!"

Yup, suicide is a trip.  I mean insomnia!  Insomnia is a trip.  Not a happy trip, mind you, like a springtime jaunt to the Netherlands to see tulips.  No, it's more like a journey to Bangladesh during monsoon season.  

What's beginning to concern me is the fact that the effects of staying up all night, night after night, are bothering me less and less as each waking day passes seamlessly into the next.  It's just expected.  I fear that crazy is slowly becoming my new normal. 

As my sleepless nights give way to new days full of existential crises, visual hallucinations, ludicrous slips of the tongue, and multiple spacial mishaps, I give praise and thanks to whoever invented coffee.  Without it, I think I'd already be committed.

Recognizing Tailwinds

Because they are a long stretch of islands with one huge body of water (the Atlantic Ocean) on one side and another huge body of water (the Gulf of Mexico) on the other, the Florida Keys are really windy.  The wind comes from all around, blowing palm fronds madly, sending birds hurtling through the air, and thrusting intoxicated vacationers off piers and into the ocean.  As I'm sure you can imagine, this level of windiness makes for some very interesting bike riding.

Over the past several weeks, I've realized something interesting about the way I experience biking.  When I'm riding with a tailwind, I don't even notice that I'm being assisted.  I just bike along like, "Tra la la!" without thinking of the benevolent force that's giving me a boost.  Helpful as it is, a tailwind feels like nothing.

A headwind, on the other hand, is quite noticeable, in that it is horribly torturous and evil.  When I turn into a headwind, I immediately transform into Boo-Hoo Biker.  I sweat profusely, gasp for air, and jut out my lower lip like a two year-old.  As the wind does its best to blow me backwards, I curse air and everything it stands for.

Here I am utilizing a green plane to represent Boo-Hoo Biker

My aunt once said that she wished people could experience a lack of pain as acutely as we experience pain.  If you sprain your ankle or tweak your back, you know it.  It bugs you constantly, and with each movement you lament your injury and feel like crap.  However, if your ankle or back doesn't hurt, you don't notice.  You simply go about your day, like Al riding with a tailwind, not thinking, You know what?  My ankle and back feel just fine!  How delightful!


This manner of experiencing pain, or no pain, creates a mode of existence in which we feel grumpy when things go wrong, but don't recognize or appreciate when things go right.  This is a problem, because it leads to one honing the ability to feel sorry for herself while ignoring opportunities to be grateful.  And that's bad.  Self-pity coupled with complacency is a combination destined for disaster.

In that same vein, it's problematic that things that are bad for us can cause no pain, while things that are good for us sometimes do.  Take, for example, smoking meth vs. climbing a mountain (or, say, riding into a headwind).  What kind of flaw in evolution creates beings who feel perfectly fine (or even absolutely fabulous) while poisoning their bodies and destroying their brains, but feel exhausted and miserable while they're building muscle and strengthening their hearts?

I've decided to stop trusting my pain receptors so much.  Sometimes they're just not very smart.  Therefore, I plan to stop whining in the face of pain.  Recognizing that some pain is good for me, I will appreciate challenges, even if they're painful.  Instead of thinking, Fuck you, headwind!  Die!  Die!  I'll try to think, This headwind is helping me get killer legs, and I'm fighting heart disease!  Woo hoo!

Seriously, this is awesome.

I also want to make a point each day to acknowledge my lack of pain, and how miraculous it is that, with all of its complex circuitry and opportunities for failure, my body is managing to function quite well. 

It's time to start recognizing tailwinds.  When I'm biking along merrily, not getting slammed in the face by an unrelenting wall of air, I need to take a moment to think, A tailwind is pushing me along right now.  That's cool.  Similarly, I should take time to appreciate the more abstract tailwinds in my life - the cast of characters (friends and family) who make me laugh and check in with me to make sure I'm doing okay; the air, food, and water quality I have the privilege to enjoy; the comfy, warm bed I get to sleep in each night...the list goes on and on.  I have a shit ton of tailwinds, and they tend to go unnoticed despite their awesomeness.

I know it's not New Year's, but it is Pi Day, so here is my Pi Day resolution:  I will work to recognize tailwinds and appreciate headwinds 3.14 times more exuberantly than I have in the past.

:)  Happy Pi Day, folks.

Clowns Are Mofos

For several years, I have proudly displayed the above sticker on the bumper of my car.  Most people who see it probably think, "Ah, yes - another one of those town/region stickers," and then merrily go about their days.  I'm certain the majority of them don't bother straining their eyes to see that CAM actually stands for CLOWNS ARE MOFOS.  Which they totally are.  Fuck clowns.

No one likes clowns.  I firmly believe this.  I don't think clowns even like themselves.  How could they?  What's to like?  The gaudy, oversized clothes and shoes?  The horribly terrifying "I'll-giggle-while-killing-you" makeup?  The completely unfunny acts of crushing themselves into tiny cars or fake tripping & falling?  No.  The only positive thing clowns do is get mauled by bulls.  Now THAT is funny.  Everything else they do is inexcusably revolting.

I realize it's a little ridiculous to be 37 years old and afraid of clowns.  In fact, lately I've been hearing from various peers that their school-aged children share my fear.  "My six year-old told me today that he's afraid of clowns, too!" I guess I should be embarrassed, but I'm not.  I just think those kids are incredibly intuitive.  They understand that clowns are only pretending to be fun-loving and innocent, when what they truly want is to squirt us with acid stored in the fake flowers on their lapels, or pull machetes out of their baggy pants and chop our heads off, or simply grab us & eat our faces.  You know what would've made Hannibal Lecter even scarier?  A goddamn red, rubber nose.

"Can't sleep.  Clown'll eat me."

Recently, I was texting with my friend's nine year-old about our mutual fear of those wretched clown creatures, and we had the following exchange:

Her:  "The biggest fear I have is a boat filled with spiders driven by a clown with NO CANDY."

Me:  "My biggest fear is a shark who is also a doctor, and he's wearing clown makeup!"

Her:  "I would be so scared if he was on the spider clown boat with no candy.  I would definitely not go there for vacation."

I'm glad we could share such legitimate concerns.  It reminded me of a conversation I had with my sister several years ago regarding my husband's fear of bridges.  It went like this:

Sister:  "How will he deal with living in Portland?  Aren't there a million bridges?"

Me:  "Well, he's gonna have to get over that.  It's silly, anyway.  He thinks he's going to drive off the side or something."

Sister:  "Why would he do that?  Besides, even if he tried, there are barriers to prevent it."

Me:  "I know.  It's completely irrational.  Now a fear of clowns, on the other hand, is totally justified, because clowns kill people all the time."

Sister:  "Yes.  Excellent point."    

The lesser-known conclusion to FDR's famous statement

Clowns are evil.  They should be illegal.  At best, they galumph around like hideous simpletons in floppy shoes and are wholly unfunny.  At worst, they want to cannibalize us.  It's true.  Ask anyone, except for a clown.  Never trust a clown.  They only want to kill you.

And so, in conclusion:

Because the only good clown...

Seriously, though, I really hate those mofos.