The irony being I don’t like ice cream

You guessed it: Another re-post of an old post. Editing can be fun!


No-ice-cream-sign

Maybe I don’t like ice cream because it’s cold. I mean, I’m one of those people who prefers tap water to ice water. I’ve never liked Slurpees, Slushees, shaved ice, or frozen margaritas. I haven’t tried it, but my guess is I would prefer beer the way the Brits like it: at room temperature.

As a kid, I would always ask—politely, because my mother did not raise a wild urchin, as she like to remind us from time to time—to not be served ice cream with birthday cake. If there was one thing I hate, it’s melting ice cream all over perfectly-wonderful-by-itself birthday cake. I always get astonished looks. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”

Well, me.

I’m also not a sweets-nut. I don’t hate sweets. No one really hates sweets. I’m just saying I can take dessert or leave it. I will eat the birthday cake, but not always the frosting. It used to crack my grandmother up to watch me eat around the frosting, mining out only the cake. One time when I was clearing out the fridge, I found a slice of cake way in the back. It had molded. I am not kidding. “Who lets a piece of cake mold?!” a friend of mine admonished (this is the same friend who asked the same question about ice cream). As I say, I can take it or leave sweet stuff, but I ought to make a more regular habit of cleaning out the fridge.

So, when I saw the prompt that asked to write about an ice cream flavor that is the essence of myself , I had to stop and think. Is it still “ice cream” if it’s not frozen and not sweet? What would that actually be? A bowl of Alfredo sauce? Perhaps. With lots of garlic. Sprinkled with roasted pine nuts and served over spinach fettuccine. Now, that I could eat a whole bowl of. Yum.


 

A slow news day

It’s fun to re-read posts from years ago. I had fun writing this one, so decided to repost:


newsLOCAL WOMAN MISSES ONE; POSSIBLY TWO CONNECTIONS

In a statement released to The WordPress Press early Saturday, a local woman woke on Friday with a feeling that it was going to be one of those days.

“I just had a feeling it was going to be one of those days,” she said.

A longtime resident of the North Neighborhood in Big Northwest City, the local woman stated she was already running late for a lunch appointment 10 miles south of Big Northwest City when she recieved a text from the lunch appointment asking to reschedule for a another day.

In the local woman’s released statement, the text read, “I SUCK! It’s a s*** storm over here today! Just noticed the time! Can’t break away! Pls reschedule ASAP! [angry emoticon/weeping out loud emoticon/sticking out tongue and squinting emoticon/flower/sunglasses/pink poodle emoji].”

WordPress Press contacted the local woman for further comment. She stated she replied in a text that a rescheduled lunch appointment would not be a problem, but that selecting a new day and time would have to wait until she returned to her place of employment.

“I left my calendar at work. It was very stressful. All I could do was reply with another pink poodle emoji.”

According to the local woman’s released statement, another connection was missed later that same day. Just as she parked her car on a street downtown at approximately 5:30 pm, she received a frantic cell phone call from the friend she was to meet. According to the local woman, her friend was stuck in traffic far away from Big Northwest City and would be running very late to meet her.

“He was very upset.”  She went on to say, “There might have been an accident, or stalled car that caused the backup, but the radio said something about three major high school/college graduations taking place in town, so maybe that was the reason.”

The WordPress Press could not independently verify her statement. Requests for an interview with the friend went unanswered.

In her closing statement, the woman said, “Ya know, some days are just like that. Whatever.”

###

Unhurt Amidst the Wars of Elements

kanji immortal rose

I’m enjoying reviewing old posts. Gave this one a little polish and am reposting…

The Daily Prompt reads: You’ve imbibed a special potion that makes you immortal. Now that you’ve got forever, what changes will you make in your life? How will you live life differently, knowing you’ll always be around to be accountable for your actions?

“The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.” – Joseph Addison

Part of the prompt’s premise seems to assume I have, to date, been living life recklessly, if I’m reading it correctly. I don’t believe there’s anything to date I’ve done for which I haven’t already been accountable, so I’m not sure what more the prompt is looking to discover.

But, to the bit about what I would do differently now that I know I cannot die: If it is to remain a secret that I am immortal, then I suppose, as several science fiction/fantasy authors have also supposed, I must move from one society of people to another, because at some point it will be obvious I’m not aging like the rest. I would have to be circumspect regarding the relationships I create, as a result. That would be a pretty lonely existence, which would not be a life to which I would aspire. But, I suppose I’d move around the globe a lot, which would be fun. If I’m going to be on the planet forever, I might as well explore all of it.

What fascinates me is the practical aspect. For example, immortality does not also come financial security. I assume I will have to work. How do you explain a résumé that goes back 150 years? 300 years? That’s a lot of great experience I’d want to brag about! In a day and age when background checks are routinely administered, I image the same would hold in the future. It would be a challenge to maintain verifiable college education and early job experience to fit a person of my seeming age, and not that of someone who is actually 150 or more years older. I bet I would become a very good con artist.

Another practical conundrum: If all the philosophers, prophets and prognosticators are correct, and there is an apocalypse, what the hell happens to us immortals? Do we just float out into space? Is it possible that, biologically speaking, a body that is designed to survive only under a certain set of circumstances, because of this one significant derivation, can survive without oxygen and all the rest of it? And who the hell wants to just go floating around in space for all eternity? Yikes.

Being frozen in time at age 50-something is not as compelling a notion as, say, age 40, let alone 30 or 20. Since my body would no longer evolve (devolve?), I assume it’s not going to change from what it is now. Therefore, I’d rather be frozen in time at 35 or 40. I looked pretty darn good  during those years. And, having a body that doesn’t change means I certainly wouldn’t give a damn what I ate, or if I was getting enough exercise, or concern myself with contracting a flu bug, let alone a disease. It’d be nice to never be fat or be sick a day in my life again.

Having a younger, fit body that couldn’t die would make taking up risky adventures more palatable. I might get injured, though. Because I’m immortal, does it necessarily conclude that I would recover from injury without medical assistance? Sci-fi/fantasy authors are always assuming magical regeneration; that the body must return to the state it was in when it became immortal. Before I took any unnecessary risks, I’d like to have this matter confirmed.

In the final analysis, what does immortality actually buy? I don’t know that dying is the issue, so much as aging is the concern. If, as they say, with youth comes the sense of immortality, then I’d much rather imbibe a potion from the Fountain of Youth. That is, if I could also keep the wisdom I’ve gained from the years I’ve already lived, because, as the other saying goes, “youth is wasted on the young.”


 

His Perrier Predicament

I’ve been rummaging through my father’s papers, notes and scribblings again for no other reason than a little spring cleaning. I came across the following bit he typed up on his Olympic typewriter on those sheets we called “onion paper.” (Best for making carbon copies. Remember those?)

This little essay is quintessentially Pops:

Perrier bottleStanding on my desk, amid the genteel clutter of various things I have accumulated over the years, and cannot bear to part with, is one object which should promptly have gone into the garbage can: It is an empty bottle of a popular seltzer water.

What prevented me from aimlessly casting it away is a admonition on its label, NO REFILL–PLEASE DISPOSE OF THOUGHTFULLY.

As instructed, I have earnestly been thinking about that for the past several days. That bottle has no place on my desk. But every time I reach to pluck it out of the midst of the pens and folders and boxes and dried bits of plants and small Mexican fertility gods and goddesses* that collectively provide me with solace at times when inspiration eludes me, I am forced to pause. Will what I am about to do be done Thoughtfully? It is at this point that frustration and fantasy conjoin.

I visualize myself naked, sitting on a rock, brooding like Rodin’s “Thinker.” Or as Hamlet contemplating “poor Yorick’s” skull. I wonder how to dispose of the bottle Thoughtfully. I think funereal thoughts. What if I was on my way to the cemetery with a tag attached to my toe which read, NO REFILL–PLEASE DISPOSE OF THOUGHTFULLY.

I know the author of that daunting legend on the label had no intention of causing me this kind of existential angst. But, if he did, why didn’t he instead admonish me to dispose of the bottle gently, or considerately, surreptitiously, cleverly, or, at least, quietly? Inconspicuously?

Maybe he was simply trying to instill imagination into the prosaic art of disposing of things (which is not, of course, an art, nor will it be, unless someone decides that there exists a state-of-the-art in the disposal of things, as in every endeavor these days, except maybe using the restroom, or putting on one’s trousers). Maybe–just maybe–what he had in mind was total avoidance of the ordinary. You know: open the garbage can, drop the bottle in, close the garbage can.

I’m sure what he was hoping for was that, stimulated by Thoughtfulness, I would wait until my bridge partner trumped my good ace, at which point I would shatter the bottle on his head. As I write this, I think that not only qualifies as a Thoughtful Disposal, it would also Thoughtfully rid myself of a bad bridge partner. Or, while driving through the verdant countryside, toss the bottle, full of gasoline and fixed with a lighted wick, onto the dry grass, thus saving the state the considerable cost of mowing along the verge.

Well, maybe not the latter, but disposing of the bottle could have a certain social value. For instance, one could invite friends and neighbors to a Bottle Burying Party, especially fun in the summer, amidst barbeques and pool parties. The fun part would be a contest, with the guests challenged to suggest the most unusual way to bury the bottle. Folks could bring their own bottle, giving a new meaning to “BYOB.” Undoubtedly, the whole party will discover that there is a state-of-the-art in the Thoughtfully disposed bottle. It would start a trend, written up in women’s magazines for the Thoughtful hostess looking for something special to make her party a real hit with the neighbors, to say nothing of the opportunity it would present for amateur composers of ceremonial music.

Leaving the Alice in Wonderland world of fantastic Thoughtfulness, I come to the ultimate conclusion that the only way I can get rid of the bottle is Whimsically.

As for the subject of disposal itself, I must Thoughtfully conclude this column, however un-artfully.

*My parents travelled often to Mexico. Over the years they collected quite the menagerie of clay figurines.

A Time and Place for Everything (or, Not the Time or Place for This Thing)

surpriseSo, there I was, enjoying dinner at one of my go-to neighborhood places. I was happily tucked in a corner reading a novel on my Kindle; a lovely early work of Michael Ondaatje. Lulled into a complacency as the novel’s story unfolded—in Ondaatje’s wonderfully lyrical way—I was mildly surprised when I found myself in the midst of an erotica scene.

Now, stumbling into an elegantly crafted erotica scene in a book you are reading is something you don’t want to do when you are in a public place. But, if you happen to stumble upon such a passage while reading in public, what you really don’t want, is someone to silently walk up behind you and gently touch you on the shoulder, as my waiter did.

“Everything OK? Need anything else?”

My skin ignited the instant he touched me. Every tiny hair bristled as the surprise of his skin on mine rolled all the way through my body, down to my toes. I could feel the otherwise still air move over me, as if a very soft breeze wafted through the dining room. I recoiled and shot him a surprised look.

“Sorry! I was trying not to startle you!”

I waved a dismissive hand and muttered, “No worries.”

“Anyway, do you need anything else?”

DO WE NEED ANYTHING?!, my mind screamed. AAACK!! ARE YOU KIDDING?! HE’S KIDDING, RIGHT?!

“Nope,” I said, “I’m good,” shyly shaking my head.

GOOD?! YOU’RE NOT GOOD! WE DEFINITELY NEED SOMETHING! WAIT! WAIT WAIT WAIT! HE’S WALKING AWAY! CUTE WAITER GUY IS WALKING AWAY! AAACK!

Stop it, I hissed in silence to my frantic hormones, as they continued to jump up and down on my reptilian brain stem. Not the time or place.

My brain and hormones fell silent, but kept buzzing about.

Anyway, I reasoned, desperate to calm my nerves, he’s actually not all that good looking. And way too young. Stop it!

The hormones cooled their tantrum. My skin desensitized. My brain, now cajoling, urged me to take a long draw off my glass of wine; take a deep breath.

(sigh)

I skipped to the next chapter.

 

My Trip to Florida

cheshire noirSomeone read this yesterday. It’s one of my favorites. So, I made a couple of revisions and am reposting.


My Trip to Florida (Or, I Seem to Keep Having the Same Dream)

The problem with doors in dreams, especially in nightmares, is that they usually aren’t doors. Or windows, garden arbors, tunnels, passageways or worm holes. They usually turn out to be baby buggies or dandelions. Or baby buggies filled with dandelions that get stomped on by a man in a fedora and trench coat, who then turns to you asking how you are going to get back to the tree-house if you don’t have a scooter. He smiles at you, a fist of crushed dandelions in his hand, and you wonder if falling in love is such a good idea. But, if this is a nightmare, you can’t get a hold of a door handle anyway, no matter how hard you try to scream. Instead, you try to stop the goldfish you had in college from drinking the water in its fish bowl, only to suddenly find yourself in a nail salon getting a pedicure with your mother who always used to say she hated getting pedicures. The man in the fedora and trench coat smiles again and turns to leave and you wonder if he meant to smile again, but you were too late to see it. You miss him. But your mother is smiling, so you are smiling, because you knew all along your mother was making that bit up about hating eating lemons. So, spooning lemon curd over your oatmeal, which you know is strange, but you can’t seem to stop yourself from doing it, you stand there with Peter Gabriel (who now looks like your cousin from when you were kids) admiring the view from on top of the ant hill when you remember you completely forgot to go to the beach. You panic and look for a way out. Your cousin gives you a pat on the head and the dogs go running ahead of you through the grocery store and onto the stage where those ladies you’ve seen walking in the park have taken up downhill skiing. It’s funny how one of them has an accordion. No one needs an accordion to ski. And here she is, thinking she is such a big deal which makes you feel and look small, especially since she is a skyscraper. Anyway, how they are ever going to pull off that wedding when they keep forgetting to plan it, you have no idea, that’s their problem, but if you can just get to the library to fix the leak in the toilet before the kids come in from recess, everything should be just fine on the flight to Florida. The cat won’t stop meowing. Quiet, kitty, I’m fixing a toilet on a flight to Florida. Quiet! Wait. The cat’s meowing? Oh…right. Morning. My bedroom. I’m conscience and the cat is meowing to be fed. Good. That means I’m not on a flight to Florida, because— as I sit a moment longer on the edge of my bed waiting for the last of the cobwebs to clear—I can’t figure out why I was on a flight to Florida in the first place (Meoooww! Meeeooooowww!) Right. Not going to Florida. Feed the cat. Go to work (sigh).


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Just a Dream.” and “Nightmares”

Friday Funny

i have questionsI was out to lunch the other day (literally, not figuratively) with co-workers at a nearby breakfast/lunch place.

“I’ve always wondered,” one co-worker said as we slid into our booth, “why a breakfast and lunch place has votive candles on the tables.”

We look at the candle holder she’s holding up.

“Is there a candle in there?”

“Yep. Burned wick, and covered in dust.”

That got me thinking about other things that don’t make much sense:

  • It’s a thing. We all talk about it. So, why, in an otherwise totally empty theater, bus, or open grassy field in a park, do people choose to pull up a seat right by where you are seated or situated?
  • If love is blind, why does lingerie sell so well?
  • Why are there Interstate Highways in Hawaii? (Actually, I know the answer to that, because the WA State Ferry system in the Puget Sound is considered part of the State Highway system. Who says highways are only made of asphalt? Why not water or air?)
  • Why is a team sport, in which only one player’s foot ever touches the ball, called Football? I mean, Baseball and Basketball and Handball make sense. What is the root, or genesis of the words Rugby, Soccer, or Cricket for that matter? Badminton? Hockey? Tennis? Luge? Ping Pong?
  • “Can I ask you a question?”
    “You just did, so why ask?”
  • Why is it called a free gift? Aren’t all gifts free of charge?
  • Why do people long for immortality when they can’t figure out what to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon?
  • Can you imagine a world without hypothetical situations?
  • If a train station is where a train stops, what is a work station? Exactly.
  • If the pen is mightier than a sword, and a picture is worth a thousand words, how dangerous is Twitter? Wait. Don’t answer that.
  • Why are there Braille signs on the drive-through ATMs?
  • Ironic, but I’m pretty sure “Do Not Walk on Grass” signs did not just sprout up in the middle of a lawn.
  • Why didn’t Noah just swat those two mosquitoes when he had the chance?!

Why, Words…Why?

  • Why isn’t phonetic spelled like it sounds? For that matter, why is monosyllabic a polysyllabic word?
  • If “21” is pronounced twenty-one, why isn’t “11” pronounced tenty-one?
  • If a lawyer can be disbarred, and clergy defrocked, then electricians should be delighted, musicians denoted, and cowboys deranged. Right?
  • Ever know someone who was combobulated, gruntled, ruly, peccable or whelmed? Yeah, me neither.
  • If “con” and “pro” are opposites, then it follows that Congress is the opposite of progress…right?